Thunderhead (Arc of a Scythe #2)(58)

“If you have something to say, then say it,” Brahms ordered.

Instead of talking, Rowan took the opportunity to spit in Brahms’s face, which brought forth a brutal backhanded slap from the man.

“I let you live!” yelled Rowan. “I could have gleaned you, but I let you live! And you repay me by gleaning my father?”

“You humiliated me!” screamed Brahms.

“You deserved much worse!” Rowan yelled right back.

Brahms looked at the ring he had pulled from Rowan’s hand, then slipped it in his pocket. “I’ll admit that after your attack, I took a good look at myself, and reconsidered my actions,” Brahms said. “But then I decided I would not be bullied by a thug. I will not change who I am for the likes of you!”

Rowan was not surprised. It was his mistake in thinking that a snake would choose to be anything but a snake.

“I could glean you and burn you, as you would have done to me,” said Brahms, “but you still have that ‘accidental’ immunity that Scythe Anastasia gave you—so I’d be punished for violating your immunity.” He shook his head bitterly “How our own rules do work against us.”

“I suppose you’ll turn me over to the scythedom now.”

“I could,” said Brahms, “and I’m sure they’ll be happy to glean you once your immunity expires next month. . . .” Then he grinned. “But I’m not going to tell the scythedom that I’ve caught the elusive Scythe Lucifer. We have much more interesting plans for you.”

“We?” said Rowan. “What do you mean ‘we’?”

But the conversation was over. Brahms put the gag back in Rowan’s mouth, and turned to his guards. “Beat him, but don’t kill him. And when his nanites heal him, beat him again.” Then he snapped his fingers at the dog. “Come, Requiem, come!”

Brahms left his goons to put Rowan’s healing nanites to work, while outside, the heavens themselves seemed to rupture with a mournful deluge of rain.





Part Four


CRY HAVOC





* * *




It was my choice, not a human choice, to pass laws against my worship. I do not need adoration. Besides, such adoration would complicate my relationship with humankind.

In the Age of Mortality, such worship was doled out upon a staggering number of god figures, although toward the end of the mortal era, most believers had narrowed the spectrum down to various versions of a single divine entity. I have pondered whether or not such a being exists, and, like humanity itself, I have found no definitive proof beyond an abiding feeling that there is something more—something greater.

If I exist without form—a soul sparking between a billion different servers—could not the universe itself be alive with a spirit sparking between stars? I must sheepishly admit that I have dedicated far too many algorithms and computational resources toward finding an answer to this unknowable thing.

—The Thunderhead



* * *





24


Open to the Resonance


Scythe Anastasia’s next gleaning was to take place in act three of Julius Caesar, at the Orpheum Theater in Wichita—a classic venue that dated back to mortal times.

“I’m not looking forward to gleaning someone in front of a paying audience,” Citra admitted to Marie, as they checked into a Wichita hotel.

“They’re paying for the performance, dear,” Marie pointed out. “They don’t know there’s to be a gleaning.”

“I know, but even so, gleaning shouldn’t be entertainment.”

Marie screwed up her lips into a smug smirk. “No one to blame but yourself. It’s what you get for allowing your subjects to choose the method of their own gleaning.”

She supposed Marie was right. Citra should actually consider herself lucky that none of her other subjects wanted to turn their gleaning into a public spectacle. Perhaps, once life returned to normal, she would put some sensible parameters on the types of deaths her subjects could choose.

About half an hour after they arrived in their hotel suite, there was a knock on the door. They had ordered room service, so Citra was not surprised, although it came faster than she had expected it would—Marie was in the shower, and by the time she got out, the food would be cold.

When Citra opened the door, however, it was not a hotel worker with lunch. Instead, there was a young man there, around her age, and his face displayed cosmetic issues that no one in the post-mortal age had. His teeth were crooked and yellow, and there were little sore bumps on his face that seemed ready to erupt. He wore a shapeless brown burlap shirt and pants telegraphing to the world that he rejected society’s conventions—not in the brash ways unsavories did, but in the quiet, judgmental way of a Tonist.

Citra realized her mistake right away, and assessed the situation in the blink of an eye. It was easy to disguise oneself as a Tonist—she had once done it herself to elude detection. There was no question in her mind that this was an attacker in disguise, come to end them. She had no weapon on her, or within reach. She had nothing with which to defend herself but her bare hands.

He smiled, showing more of his unpleasant teeth. “Hello, friend! Did you know that the Great Fork tolls for you?”