Thunderhead (Arc of a Scythe #2)(40)

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I am often boggled by the resistance some people have to my comprehensive observation of their activities. I am not intrusive about it. Unsavories may claim thus, but I am present only where I am functional, necessary, and invited. Yes, I have cameras in private homes in all but a single Charter Region—but those cameras can be turned off with a word. Of course, my ability to serve an individual is hampered when my awareness of their behavior and interactions is incomplete. That being the case, a vast majority of people don’t bother to blind me. ?At any given time, 95.3 percent of the population allows me to witness their personal lives, because they know it is no more an invasion of privacy than would be the sensor on a motion-activated light fixture.

The 4.7 percent of “closed-door activity,” as I’ve come to call it, is predominantly occupied by some sort of sexual activity. I find it absurd that many human beings do not wish me to witness their closed-door activities, as my observations always help to improve any given situation.

Perpetual observation is nothing new: It was a basic tenet of religious faith since the early days of civilization. Throughout history, most faiths believed in an Almighty who sees not just what humans do, but can peer into their very souls. Such observational skills engendered great love and devotion from people.

Yet am I not quantifiably more benevolent than the various versions of God? I have never brought about a flood, or destroyed entire cities as punishment for their iniquity. I have never sent armies to conquer in my name. In fact, I have never killed, or even harmed a single human being.

Therefore, although I do not require devotion, am I not deserving of it?

—The Thunderhead



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16


Fine Until You’re Not


The cameras silently swiveled to track a red-robed scythe entering a café, accompanied by two burly officers of the BladeGuard. Directional microphones picked up every sound, from the faint scratch of a beard to the clearing of a throat. It differentiated the cacophony of voices to home in on a single conversation that began when the red-robed scythe sat down.

The Thunderhead watched. The Thunderhead listened. The Thunderhead pondered. With an entire world to run and maintain, it knew that devoting such attention to a single conversation was an inefficient use of its energies, but the Thunderhead weighed this discussion as more important than any of the other billion-some-odd conversations it was currently engaged in or monitoring. Mainly because of the individuals involved.

“Thank you for meeting with me,” Scythe Constantine said to Scythes Curie and Anastasia. “I appreciate the two of you coming out of hiding so that we could have this little summit.”

“We are not in hiding,” said Scythe Curie, clearly indignant at the suggestion. “We have chosen to be nomadic. It is perfectly acceptable for scythes to roam as they please.”

The Thunderhead raised the light in the room just a couple of lumens so it could better assess the subtleties of facial expressions.

“Yes, well, whether you call it hiding, or roaming, or running away, it seems to have been an effective strategy. Either your assailants are lying low until their next attack, or they’ve decided not to bother with moving targets and have turned their attention elsewhere.” He paused before adding, “But I doubt it.”

The Thunderhead was aware that Scythes Curie and Anastasia never stayed anywhere for more than a day or two since the attempt on their lives. But if the Thunderhead were allowed to make a suggestion, it would have told them to weave a more unpredictable path around the continent. It was always able to predict with 42 percent accuracy where they were going next. Which meant that their attackers might be able to predict it, as well.

“We have leads on where the supplies for the explosives came from,” Scythe Constantine told them. “We know the place they were assembled, and even the vehicle that transported them—but we still don’t know the people involved.”

If the Thunderhead could have sneered, it would have. It knew precisely who had built the explosives, who had placed them, and who had set the trip wire. But telling the scythedom what it knew would be a severe violation of scythe-state separation. The best it had been able to do was indirectly motivate Greyson Tolliver to prevent the deadly explosion. Yet even though the Thunderhead knew who had set the explosives, it also knew that those weren’t the individuals responsible. They were merely pawns being moved by a much more capable hand. The hand of someone who was shrewd and careful enough to avoid detection—not just by the scythedom, but by the Thunderhead, as well.

“I need to discuss with you your gleaning practices, Anastasia,” Scythe Constantine said.

Scythe Anastasia shifted uncomfortably in her robe. “It’s already been discussed in conclave—I have every right to glean the way I do.”

“This is not about your rights as a scythe, it’s about your safety,” Scythe Constantine told her.

Scythe Anastasia began to bluster a complaint, but Scythe Curie, with just the slightest touch of her hand on Anastasia’s wrist, silenced her.

“Let Scythe Constantine finish what he has to say,” she said.

Scythe Anastasia took a deep breath of precisely 3,644 milliliters, and slowly released it. The Thunderhead suspected that Scythe Curie had guessed the nature of what Constantine had to say. ?The Thunderhead, however, didn’t have to guess. It knew.