Thunderhead (Arc of a Scythe #2)(25)
“You’ve shaken things up in the scythedom more than you know, ?Anastasia. A lot of the junior scythes look up to you with respect. You might even evolve into their voice. And considering that you hold to the old ways—the true ways—there could be those who want to snuff you before you have a chance to become that voice.”
The scythedom assured them it would launch an investigation of its own, but Citra doubted they would find anything. Problem-solving was not the scythedom’s strength. They were already taking the path of least resistance, working on the assumption that this was the work of “Scythe Lucifer.” Which was infuriating to Citra—but she couldn’t let the scythedom know that. She had to distance herself from Rowan publicly. No one could know that they had met.
“You may want to consider that they might be right,” Scythe Curie said.
Citra pulled her hair a little too tightly as she wound the next braid. “You don’t know Rowan.”
“Neither do you,” Scythe Curie said, pulling her hair around, and taking over the rest of the braiding herself. “You forget, Anastasia, that I was there in conclave when he broke your neck. I saw his eyes. He took great pleasure in it.”
“It was a show!” Citra insisted. “He was performing for the scythedom. He knew it would disqualify both of us in that contest, and was the only way to guarantee a draw. If you ask me, it was pretty damn smart.”
Scythe Curie held her silence for a few moments, then said, “Just be careful not to let your emotions cloud your judgment. Now, would you like me to braid your hair, too, or should I put it up for you?”
But today Citra decided not to allow her hair to be bound in any way.
? ? ?
They drove the damaged sports car to the ruined portion of the road, where workers were already laboring to restore it. At least a hundred trees had been blown away, and hundreds more defoliated. Citra imagined it would take a long time for the forest to recover from this insult. A hundred years from now there would still be signs of this explosion.
The crater made it impossible to drive across, or drive around, so Scythe Curie had a publicar sent to pick them up on the other side. They grabbed their bags, abandoning her car on the severed road, and walked around the crater to the other side.
Citra couldn’t help but notice the bloodstains on the asphalt, just at the lip of the crater. The spot where the young man who had saved them had lain.
Scythe Curie, who always saw far more than Citra wanted her to, caught her gaze and said, “Forget about him, Anastasia—that poor boy is not our concern.”
“I know,” admitted Citra. But she wasn’t about to let it go. It just wasn’t in her nature.
* * *
The designation of “unsavory” was something I created with a heavy heart early in my reign. It was an unfortunate necessity. Crime, in its true form, ended almost immediately once I put an end to hunger and poverty. Theft for the sake of material possessions, murder precipitated by anger and social stress—it all ceased of its own accord. Those prone to violent crime were easily treated on the genetic level to quiet their destructive tendencies, bringing them down to normal parameters. To sociopaths, I gave conscience; to psychopaths, I gave sanity.
Even so, there was unrest. I began to recognize something in humanity that was ephemeral and hard to quantify, but definitely there. Simply put, humanity had a need to be bad. Not everyone, of course—but I calculated that 3 percent of the population could only find meaning in life through defiance. Even if there was no injustice in the world left to defy, they had an innate need to defy something. ?Anything.
I suppose I could have found ways to medicate it away—but I have no desire to impose upon humanity a false utopia. Mine is not a “brave new world” but a world ruled by wisdom, conscience, and compassion. I concluded that if defiance was a normal expression of human passion and yearning, I would have to make room for its expression.
Thus, I instituted the designation of “unsavory,” and the social stigma that goes with it. For those who unintentionally slip into unsavory status, the path back is quick and easy—but for those who live a questionable existence by choice, the label is a badge of honor they wear with pride. They find validation in the world’s suspicion. They take pleasure in the illusion of being on the outside, deeply content in their discontent. It would have been cruel for me to deny them that.
—The Thunderhead
* * *
11
A Hiss of Crimson Silk
Unsavory! To Greyson, it was like a piece of gristle in his mouth. He couldn’t spit it out, but he couldn’t swallow it either. All he could do was continue to chew it, hoping it would somehow grind down into something digestible.
Unsavories stole things, but never got away with it. They threatened people, but never followed through. They spouted profanities, and oozed attitude like a musk—but that’s all it was; a stench. The Thunderhead always prevented them from accomplishing anything that was truly bad—and the Thunderhead was so good at it, the unsavories had long since given up everything beyond petty misdemeanors, posturing, and complaining.
The Authority Interface had a whole bureau dedicated to dealing with them, because unsavories weren’t allowed to talk to the Thunderhead directly. They were always on probation, and had to check in with their officers on a regular basis. The ones who pushed the limit were actually assigned their own personal peace officer to monitor them every hour of the day. It was a successful program, as evidenced by how many unsavories actually married their peace officers and became productive citizens again.