Thunderhead (Arc of a Scythe #2)(122)

Through all of this, the council doors remained closed. Now the corridor leading to them was under three feet of water. “We should wait for the Grandslayers,” the Australian scythe said to the page.

“The Grandslayers can take care of themselves,” he said, and abandoned the council complex, racing across one of the bridges that arced to the rest of the island.

The Australian scythe hesitated. He was a strong swimmer, and if necessary, could swim the quarter mile across the eye to land, so he waited, knowing that when those doors opened, the Grandslayers would need all the help they could get.

But then the air filled with the most awful grinding, wrenching sound, and he turned to see the bridge he had just guided dozens of people onto give way, tearing in half and plunging all those people into the sea.

He thought he was a man of great honor and bravery. He had been willing to stay and risk himself to save the Grandslayers. He saw himself as the hero of the moment. But when that bridge collapsed, his courage collapsed with it. He looked to the survivors floundering in the water. He looked to the council doors, where the guard still struggled to open them, even though the water was now at his chest. And the scythe decided that enough was enough. He climbed on a ledge just above the water level, and scurried to the second of the three bridges, then raced across it to safety as quickly as his legs would carry him.

? ? ?

The small Buoyancy Control room was now packed with technicians and engineers talking over one another, arguing, disagreeing, and no one was closer to solving the problem. Every screen was screaming a different panicked message. When the first bridge collapsed, everyone realized how dire the situation was.

“We have to alleviate the strain on the other two bridges!” the city engineer said.

“And how do you propose we do that?” snapped the buoyancy chief.

The engineer thought for a moment, then she went to the technician, who was still sitting at the center console, staring at his screens in disbelief.

“Depress the rest of the island!” the city engineer said.

“How far should we drop it?” he asked a bit dreamily, feeling eerily detached from the reality before him.

“Enough to take the strain off the two remaining bridges. Let’s buy the Grandslayers some time to get the hell out of there!” She paused to do some mental calculations. “Depress the island three feet past high tide.”

The tech shook his head. “The system won’t allow me to do that.”

“It will if I authorize it.” And she scanned her handprint to do just that.

“You realize,” said the buoyancy chief in abject despair, “that the lower gardens will all be flooded.”

“Which would you rather save?” the engineer asked. “The lower gardens, or the Grandslayers?”

When it was put to him that way, the buoyancy chief had no further objection.

? ? ?

At that same moment, in another office in the lowest subsurface level of the same city works building, the biotechnicians there had no knowledge of the crisis at the council complex. Instead, they were scratching their heads over another glitch—the oddest one they’d ever had to face. This was the office of wildlife control, which monitored the living lifescape that made the subsurface views so spectacular. Lately, they had faced schools of fish locked in M?bius-like feedback loops, entire species suddenly deciding to swim upside down, and predators attacking windows so hard they bashed their own brains out. But what their sonar showed them now was a whole new level of crazy.

The two lifescape specialists on duty could only stare. On screen was what appeared to be a circular cloud around the island—like an underwater smoke ring around Endura—but rather than expanding, it was pulling tighter.

“What are we looking at?” one asked the other.

“Well, if these readings are right,” the other said, “it’s a swarm of our nanite-infused sealife.”

“Which ones?”

The second tech took his eyes away from the screen to look at his colleague.

“All of them.”

? ? ?

In the council chamber, the Grandslayers were listening to a rather inane argument from a scythe who wanted the council to rule that a scythe could not self-glean without first completing his or her gleaning quota. Supreme Blade Kahlo knew the motion would fail—removing oneself from service was a very personal decision, and should not be contingent upon externals such as quotas. Nevertheless, the council was obliged to hear the full argument and try to keep an open mind.

Throughout the scythe’s torturous discourse, Kahlo thought she heard some dull, far-off banging, but figured it must be some construction on the island. They were always building or repairing somewhere.

It wasn’t until they heard the screams and the sound of the bridge collapsing that they knew something was terribly wrong.

“What on earth was that?” asked Grandslayer Cromwell.

Then a sense of vertigo overcame them, and the scythe who had been in the midst of his argument stumbled like a man drunk. It took a few moments for the Supreme Blade to realize that the floor was no longer level. And now she could clearly see water spilling in underneath the chamber doors.

“I think we need to suspend these proceedings,” said Kahlo. “I’m not sure what’s going on out there, but I think it’s best we get out. Now.”