Thunderhead (Arc of a Scythe #2)(17)
His experience with those kids was not what he expected. He found them remarkably boring.
“Is that how people see me?” he had asked the Thunderhead. “Am I as dull as they are?”
“I don’t believe you are,” the Thunderhead told him. “You see, many come to work for the Authority Interface because they lack the creativity to find a truly stimulating profession. Others feel powerless and have a need to experience power vicariously. These are the lackluster ones, the boring ones, who ultimately become the least effective Nimbus agents. Rare are those such as yourself whose longing to serve is a mark of character.”
The Thunderhead was right: Greyson did want to serve, and wanted to do so with no ulterior motive. He didn’t want power or prestige. Granted, he did like the idea of the crisp gray suits and sky-blue ties that all Nimbus agents wore, but that was far from his motivation. The Thunderhead had simply done so much for him, he wanted to give something back. He could not imagine a higher calling than being its representative, maintaining the planet, and working for the betterment of humankind.
While scythes were made or broken in a one-year apprenticeship, becoming a Nimbus agent was a five-year process. Four years of study, followed by a year out in the field as a journeyman agent.
Greyson was prepared to devote his five years of preparation—but barely two months into his studies at the MidMerican Nimbus Academy, he found that his path was barred. His schedule, which consisted of classes in history, philosophy, digital theory, and law, suddenly appeared blank. For reasons unknown, he had been dropped from all of his classes. Was this a mistake? How could it be? The Thunderhead did not make mistakes. Perhaps, he reasoned, class schedules were left to human hands, and were subject to human error. So he went to the school’s registrar, hoping to get to the bottom of it.
“Nope,” said the registrar, with neither surprise nor compassion. “No error. It says here you’re not enrolled in any classes. There’s a message in your file, though.”
The message was simple and unambiguous. Greyson Tolliver was to report to the local Authority Interface headquarters immediately.
“What for?” he asked, but the registrar had nothing for him but a shrug and a glance over Greyson’s shoulder to the next person in line.
? ? ?
Although the Thunderhead itself did not require a place of business, its human counterparts did. In every city, in every region, there was an Office of the Authority Interface, where thousands of Nimbus agents worked to maintain the world—and did the job well. The Thunderhead had managed to achieve something unique in the history of humanity: a bureaucracy that actually worked.
The offices of the Authority Interface, or AI, as it was commonly called, were not ornate, nor were they conspicuously austere. Every city had a building that harmonized with its architectural surroundings. In fact, one could often pick out the local AI headquarters by simply looking for the building that appeared to most belong.
In Fulcrum City, the capital of MidMerica, it was a solid building of white granite and dark blue glass. At sixty-seven stories, it hit the average height for the downtown area. Once, the MidMerican Nimbus agents attempted to convince the Thunderhead to build a taller tower that might impress the population, and even the world.
“I do not need to impress,” the Thunderhead had responded to the disappointed Nimbus agents. “And if you feel the need for the Authority Interface to stand out in the world, perhaps you need to reevaluate your priorities.”
Suitably chastised, the MidMerican Nimbus agents returned to work with their proverbial tails between their legs. The Thunderhead was power without hubris. Even in their disappointment, the Nimbus agents were heartened by its incorruptible nature.
Greyson felt out of place when he pushed his way through the revolving door into the polished marble vestibule—light gray marble the same color as all the suits around him. He had no suit to wear. The closest he could come was a mildly wrinkled pair of slacks, a white shirt, and a green tie that was a bit lopsided no matter how many times he tried to adjust it.
The Thunderhead had given him that tie as a gift a few months before. He wondered if it knew, even then, that he would be called in for this meeting.
A junior agent who had been waiting for him greeted him at reception. She was pleasant and perky, and shook his hand a little too vigorously. “I’ve just begun my year of fieldwork,” she said. “I have to say, I’ve never heard of a freshman called in to headquarters.” She wouldn’t stop shaking his hand as she spoke. It began to feel awkward, and he wondered which would be worse, allowing her to continue pumping his hand up and down, or withdrawing it from her grasp. Finally Greyson rescued his hand from her grip, feigning a need to scratch his nose.
“Either you’ve done something very good, or very bad,” she said.
“I haven’t done anything,” he told her, but clearly she didn’t believe him.
She led him to a comfortable salon with two tall-backed leather chairs, a bookshelf of classic volumes and generic knickknacks, and in the middle, a coffee table with a silver platter of tea cakes and a matching pitcher of ice water. It was a standard “audience room,” designed for the times that a human touch was needed when relating to the Thunderhead. It troubled Greyson, because he always spoke to the Thunderhead directly. He couldn’t begin to guess what this was all about.
A few minutes later, a slim Nimbus agent, who already seemed tired even though the day had barely begun, came in and introduced himself as Agent Traxler. This man was of that first category that the Thunderhead had spoken of. The uninspired.