Thunderhead (Arc of a Scythe #2)(18)

He sat across from Greyson and made obligatory small talk. “I trust you found your way here easily, blah blah, blah,” “Have a tea cake, they’re very good, blah blah blah.” Greyson was sure the man said the same exact things to everyone he had an audience with. Finally, he got down to business.

“Do you have any idea why you were called here?” he asked.

“No,” Greyson told him.

“Yes, I suppose you wouldn’t.”

Then why even ask? Greyson thought, but didn’t dare say it aloud.

“You were called here because the Thunderhead wished for me to remind you of the rules of our agency with regards to the scythehood.”

Greyson was insulted, and didn’t even try to hide it. “I know the rules.”

“Yes, but the Thunderhead wished for me to remind you.”

“Why didn’t the Thunderhead remind me itself?”

Agent Traxler released an exasperated sigh. One that he probably practiced often. “As I said, the Thunderhead wished for me to remind you.”

This was going nowhere. “All right, then,” said Greyson. Realizing that his own frustration had slipped over the line into disrespect, he backpedaled. “I appreciate the fact that you’ve taken a personal interest in this, Agent Traxler. You can consider me fully reminded.”

He reached for his tablet. “Shall we go over the rules?”

Greyson took in a slow breath and held it, because he imagined if he didn’t it might come out as a scream. What was the Thunderhead thinking? When he got back to his dorm room, he’d have to have a nice long conversation with it. He was not above arguing with the Thunderhead. In fact, they argued regularly. Of course, the Thunderhead always won—even when it lost, because Greyson knew it lost those arguments on purpose.

“Clause one of the Separation of Scythe and State . . . ,” Traxler began, and continued reading for the better part of an hour, occasionally checking in with Greyson with, “Are you still with me?” and “Did you get that?” Greyson would either nod, say “yes,” or when he felt it was called for, repeat back word for word what Traxler had said.

When Traxler was finally done, rather than putting down his tablet, he pulled up two images. “Now for a quiz.” He showed the images to Greyson. The first he recognized immediately as Scythe Curie—her long silver hair and lavender robe a giveaway. The second was a girl his age. Her turquoise robe testified to her being a scythe as well.

“If the Thunderhead were legally allowed to do so,” Agent Traxler said, “it would warn Scythe Curie and Scythe Anastasia that there is a credible threat to their lives. The kind of threat from which there would be no possibility of revival. If the Thunderhead, or one of its agents warned them, which clause of the Separation of Scythe and State would be violated?”

“Uh . . . clause fifteen, paragraph two.”

“Actually clause fifteen, paragraph three, but close enough.” He put down the tablet. “What are the consequences for a Nimbus Academy student warning the two scythes of this threat?”

Greyson said nothing for a moment; the thought of the consequences was enough to chill his blood. “Expulsion from the academy.”

“Permanent expulsion,” Traxler said. “The student may never apply to that Nimbus Academy, or any other, ever again.”

Greyson glanced down at the little green tea cakes. He was glad he hadn’t eaten any because he might just have hurled them back into Agent Traxler’s face. Then again, he might have felt much better if he had. He imagined Agent Traxler’s pinched face dripping with puke. It was almost enough to make him smile. Almost.

“Then we are clear that you are, under no circumstances, to warn Scythe Anastasia and Scythe Curie of the threat?”

Greyson heaved a false shrug. “How could I warn them? I don’t even know where they live.”

“They live in a rather famous landmark residence called Fallingwater, the address of which is very easy to find,” Agent Traxler told him, then said, as if Greyson hadn’t heard him the first time, “If you warn them of the threat, which you now know about, you will face the consequences we discussed.”

Then Agent Traxler promptly left to prepare for another audience without as much as a goodbye.

? ? ?

It was dark by the time Greyson got back to his dorm room at the academy. His roommate, a boy who was almost as enthusiastic as the hand-shaking junior Nimbus agent, wouldn’t shut up. Greyson just wanted to slap him.

“My ethics teacher just assigned us an analysis of mortal-age court cases. I got something called Brown versus the Board of Education, whatever that is. And my digital theory teacher wants me to write a paper on Bill Gates—not the scythe, but the actual guy. ?And don’t even ask me about philosophy.”

Greyson let him drone on, but stopped listening. Instead he ran everything that happened at the AI through his mind one more time, as if reevaluating it might somehow change it. He knew what was expected of him. The Thunderhead could not break the law. But he could. Of course, as Agent Traxler had pointed out, there would be severe consequences if he did. He cursed his own conscience, because being the person that he was, how could he not warn Scythes Anastasia and Curie, no matter what the consequences?

“Did you get any assignments today?” his blabbermouth roommate asked.