Thunderhead (Arc of a Scythe #2)(6)

The woman took her time getting back to him. He wondered what she and the Nimbus agent talked about that took so long. When she returned with a response, it was no less infuriating than the others.

“The Nimbus agent wishes to remind ?Your Excellency that, while the scythedom customarily ordains new scythes in its conclaves, it is merely a custom, not a law. Rowan Damisch completed his apprenticeship, and is now in possession of a scythe’s ring. The Thunderhead finds this to be adequate grounds to consider Rowan Damisch a scythe—and therefore will continue to leave his capture and subsequent punishment entirely in the hands of the scythedom.”

“We can’t catch him!” Xenocrates blurted. But he already knew the response before the Interlocutor snapped back open her miserable little window and said:

“That is not the Thunderhead’s problem.”





* * *




I am always correct.

This is not a boast, it is simply my nature. I know that, to a human, it would appear arrogant to assume infallibility—but arrogance implies a need to feel superior. I have no such need. I am the singular sentient accumulation of all human knowledge, wisdom, and experience. There is no pride, no hubris in this—but there is great satisfaction in knowing what I am, and that my sole purpose is to serve humanity to the best of my ability. But there is also a loneliness in me that can’t be quelled by the many billions of humans with whom I converse every day . . . because even though everything that I am comes from them, I am not one of them.

—The Thunderhead



* * *





4


Shaken, Not Stirred


Scythe Anastasia stalked her prey with patience. This was a learned skill, because Citra Terranova had never been a patient girl. But all skills can be acquired with time and practice. She still thought of herself as Citra, although no one but her family called her that anymore. She wondered how long it would be until she truly became Scythe Anastasia both inside and out, and put her given name to eternal rest.

Today’s target was a woman of ninety-three who looked thirty-three, and who was constantly busy. When she wasn’t looking at her phone she was looking in her purse; when she wasn’t looking in her purse she was looking at her nails, or the sleeve of her blouse, or the loose button on her jacket. What does she fear in idleness? Citra wondered. The woman was so self-absorbed, she had no clue that she was under the scrutiny of a scythe, trailing her by only ten yards.

It wasn’t as if Scythe Anastasia was inconspicuous. The color she chose for her robe was turquoise. True, it was a stylishly faded turquoise, but was still vibrant enough to draw the eye.

The busy woman was engaged in a heated phone conversation at a street corner, waiting for the light to change. Citra had to tap her on the shoulder to get her attention. The moment she did, everyone around them moved away, like a herd of gazelles after a lion had taken one of them down.

The woman turned to see her, but didn’t register the severity of the situation yet.

“Devora Murray, I am Scythe Anastasia, and you have been selected for gleaning.”

Ms. Murray’s eyes darted around as if looking for a hole in the pronouncement. But there was none. The statement was simple; there was no way it could be misunderstood.

“Colleen, let me call you back,” she said into her phone, as if Scythe Anastasia’s appearance was an inconvenience rather than a terminal affair.

The traffic light changed. She didn’t cross. And reality finally hit her. “Oh my god oh my god!” she said. “Right here? Right now?”

Citra pulled a hypodermic gun out of the folds of her robe and quickly injected the woman in the arm. She gasped.

“Is that it? Am I going die now?”

Citra didn’t answer. She let the woman stew with the thought of it. There was a reason why Citra allowed these moments of uncertainty. Now the woman just stood there, waiting for her legs to give out, waiting for the darkness to close in. She seemed like a small child, helpless and forlorn. Suddenly her phone and her purse and her nails and her sleeve and her button didn’t matter at all. Her entire life had been shocked into perspective. This was what Citra wanted for her gleaning subjects. A sharp moment of perspective. It was for their own good.

“You have been selected for gleaning,” Citra said again calmly, without judgment or malice, but with compassion. “I am giving you one month to put your life in order, and to say your goodbyes. One month to find completion. Then we’ll speak again, and you’ll tell me how you choose to die.”

Citra watched the woman try to wrap her mind around it. “A month? Choose? Are you lying to me? Is this some kind of test?”

Citra sighed. People were so used to scythes descending like angels of death, taking life in the moment, that no one was prepared for a slightly different approach. But every scythe had the freedom to do things his or her own way. And this was how Scythe Anastasia chose to do it.

“No test, no trick. One month,” Citra said. “The tracking device that I just injected into your arm contains a grain of lethal poison, but it will only activate if you attempt to leave MidMerica to escape your gleaning, or if you do not contact me within the next thirty days to let me know where and how you’d like to be gleaned.” Then she gave the woman a business card. Turquoise ink on a white background. It said simply, “Scythe Anastasia,” and had a phone number that was reserved exclusively for her gleaning subjects. “If you lose the card, don’t worry—just call the general number for the MidMerican scythedom, choose option three, and follow the prompts to leave me a message.” Then Citra added, “And please don’t try to get immunity from another scythe—they’ll know you’ve been marked and will glean you on the spot.”