Thunderhead (Arc of a Scythe #2)(26)
Greyson couldn’t imagine himself being among people like that. He had never stolen anything. There had been kids at schools who played at being unsavory, but it was never serious—it was just a thing that kids did, and grew out of.
Greyson was inoculated with a dose of his new life even before arriving home. The publicar he took read him the riot act even before it left the Nimbus Academy.
“Please be aware,” it told him, “that any attempt at vandalism will result in the immediate suspension of this journey, and expulsion to the roadside.”
Greyson pictured an ejector seat launching him skyward. He would have laughed at the thought, if there wasn’t a small part of him that believed it might actually be like that.
“Don’t worry,” he told the car. “I’ve been expelled once today, and once is enough.”
“All right, then,” said the car. “Tell me your destination, avoiding the use of abusive language, please.”
On the way home, he stopped at the market, realizing that his refrigerator had been empty for two months. In the checkout line, the checker eyed him suspiciously, as if he were going to pocket a pack of gum. Even the people in line felt cold to him. The aura of prejudice was palpable. Why would people choose this? he wondered. And yet people did. He had a cousin who was unsavory by choice.
“It’s freeing not to care about anyone or anything,” his cousin had told him. Ironic, because he’d had iron chains surgically implanted into his wrists—a body modification trendy among unsavories these days. So much for being free.
And it wasn’t just strangers who treated him differently.
Once he got home and unpacked what little belongings he had taken with him to the academy, he sat down and messaged a few friends, to let them know that he was back and things hadn’t gone the way he had hoped. Greyson had never been the kind to cultivate deep friendships. There was no one to whom he had ever bared his soul, or explored his deepest vulnerabilities. He had the Thunderhead for that, after all. Which meant that he now had nothing. His friends were fair-weather at best. Cohorts of convenience.
He got no responses, and he marveled at how easily the veneer of friendship could be stripped to the raw. Eventually, he called a few of them. Most just let the call go to voice mail. The ones who picked up clearly had done so accidentally, not realizing it was him calling. Their screens showed that he was now marked unsavory, so they quickly, and as politely as they could, ended the call. Although no one went so far as to block him, he doubted they’d take a communication from him again in any form. At least not until the big red U was removed from his profile.
What he did get were messages from people he didn’t know.
“Dude,” one girl wrote, “welcome to the pack! Let’s get drunk and break something.” Her pic showed a shaved head and a penis tattooed on her cheek.
Greyson shut his computer and hurled it against the wall. “How’s that for breaking something?” he said to the empty room. This perfect world might have a place for everyone, but Greyson’s place was not in the same universe as the girl with the penis tattoo.
He retrieved his computer, which, indeed, had cracked but was still functional. No doubt a new one was being dispatched to him by drone—unless unsavories didn’t get their broken hardware automatically replaced.
He got online again, deleted all incoming messages, because they were all from other unsavory welcome-waggoneers, and in his frustration wrote a message to the Thunderhead.
“How could you do this to me?”
The response was immediate. It said “ACCESS TO THE THUNDERHEAD’S CONSCIOUS CORTEX IS DENIED.”
He thought this day couldn’t possibly get any worse. And then the scythedom showed up at his door.
? ? ?
Scythes Curie and Anastasia had no reservation at the Louisville Grand Mericana Hotel. They just walked up to the registration desk and were given a room. This was the way of things; scythes never needed reservations, or tickets, or appointments. At hotels, they were usually given the best room available, and if there were none, a room would magically appear in their inventory. Scythe Curie was not interested in the best. She requested their most modest two-bedroom suite.
“How long will you be staying with us?” asked the Clerk. He had been nervous and fidgety from the moment they approached. Now his eyes darted back and forth between them, as if taking his eyes off of one of them for any length of time would prove lethal.
“We will stay until we choose to leave,” Scythe Curie told him, taking the key. Citra offered him a smile to set him a bit more at ease as they left.
They refused the bellhop, and chose to carry their own bags. No sooner had they put them down in the suite than Scythe Curie was ready to go out. “Regardless of our personal concerns, we have a responsibility to uphold. There are people who must die,” she told Citra. “Will you glean with me today?”
It was amazing to Citra that Marie could already put the attack behind her and get on with business as usual.
“Actually,” said Citra, “I have to follow up on a gleaning I set last month.”
Scythe Curie sighed. “Your method makes so much more work for you. Is it far?”
“Just an hour by train. I’ll be back before dark.”
Scythe Curie stroked her long braid, contemplating her junior scythe. “I could go with you, if you like” she offered. “I could glean just as easily there as here.”