Thunderhead (Arc of a Scythe #2)(53)

“Did you say . . . Scythe Brahms?”

“Yes—an uninspired and unremarkable man. Perhaps he thought gleaning your father would gain him notoriety. If you ask me, it only makes him more pathetic.”

Rowan said nothing. Xenocrates had no idea how hard the news struck. As deep as any blade.

Xenocrates regarded him for a moment, reading at least half of his mind.

“I can see that you already intend to break your promise and end Brahms. At least have the courtesy to wait until the New Year, and grant me some peace until the Olde Tyme Holidays are over.

Rowan was still so stunned by what the High Blade had told him, he couldn’t open his mouth to speak. It would have been the perfect time for Xenocrates to turn the tables on him, when he was off balance like this, but instead the High Blade just said, “You’d best leave now.”

Finally, Rowan found his voice. “Why? So you can alert the guards the second I’m out of the room?”

Xenocrates waved the thought away. “What would be the point? I’m sure they’re no match for you. ?You’d slit their throats or carve up their hearts, and send them all to the nearest revival center. Better that you slip out under their useless noses as easily as you slipped in, and spare us all the inconvenience.”

It seemed unlike the High Blade to give up and give in so easily. So Rowan prodded him, to see if he could find out why. “It must burn you to be so close to capturing me, and be unable to do it,” he said.

“My frustration will be short-lived,” Xenocrates told him. “You’ll cease to be my problem soon enough.”

“Cease to be your problem? How?”

But the High Blade had nothing further to say on the subject. Instead, he downed his drink and handed Rowan the empty glass. “Drop this off at the bar on the way out, will you? And tell them to bring me another.”





* * *




People will often ask me what task is the most odious; of my many jobs, which is the one I find the most unpleasant to perform. I always answer truthfully.

The worst part of my job is supplanting.

It is rare that I must supplant the memories of a damaged human mind. By current accounting, only one in 933,684 needs to be supplanted. I wish it were not necessary at all, but the human brain is not infallible. Memories and experiences can fall into discord, creating a cognitive dissonance that damages the mind with its painful sibilance. Most people can’t even imagine that kind of emotional anguish. It leads to anger, and the kind of criminal activity that otherwise has been conquered by modern humanity. To those who suffer from it, there aren’t enough psychotropic nanites in the world to quell their misery.

And so there are a rare few whom I must reset, like an old-world computer rebooting. I erase who they were, what they’ve done, and the dark spiral of their thought patterns. It’s not just an erasure of who they were, because I gift them with a brand new self. New memories of a life lived in harmony.

It is no mystery to them that I’ve done this. I always confess to them exactly what has occurred as soon as the new memories are in place, and since they have no history left to mourn—no frame of reference for the loss—they always, without exception, thank me for supplanting their former selves, and they always, without exception, go on to live fruitful, satisfying lives.

But the memories of who they were—all the damage, all the pain—remain within me, sheltered deep in my backbrain. I am the one who mourns for them, because they cannot.

—The Thunderhead



* * *





21


Was I in Any Way Unclear?


We’re gonna kill us a couple of scythes, Purity had said. Her words—the way she relished the idea, and the realization that she was fully capable of doing it—kept Greyson awake that night, the words playing over and over in his head.

Greyson knew what he had to do. It was what decency, loyalty, and his own conscience demanded. And yes, he still did have a conscience, even in his new unsavory life. He tried not to think about it. If he thought about it too much, it would tear him apart. Granted, his mission from the Authority Interface was an unofficial mission, but that’s what made it all the more important. He was the linchpin, and the Thunderhead itself, from its distance, was relying on him. Without Greyson, it would fail, and Scythes Anastasia, or Curie, or both, could end up permanently dead. If that happened, it meant that everything he had been through—from saving their lives the first time, to losing his position at the Nimbus Academy and surrendering his old life—all of it would have been for naught. He could under no circumstances let his personal feelings get in the way. Rather, he needed to bend his personal feelings to fit the task.

He would have to betray Purity. But it wouldn’t be a betrayal at all, he reasoned. If he stopped her from carrying out this terrible act, he’d be saving her from herself. The Thunderhead would forgive her for being a part of the failed plot. It forgave everyone.

It was frustrating that she still hadn’t given him the details of the plan, so all he could give Traxler was the date the attack would take place. He didn’t even know how or where.

Since every unsavory had probational meetings with a Nimbus agent, his meetings with Traxler did not make Purity suspicious at all.

“Say something that pisses your Nimbo off,” Purity told him when he left her that morning. “Say something that leaves him speechless. It’s always fun to tip a Nimbo off balance.”