Thunderhead (Arc of a Scythe #2)(67)
The curtain went up and the play began. Although much of the language of the play was incomprehensible to her, the machinations of power left her mesmerized—but not mesmerized enough to let her guard down. Every movement backstage, every sound registered like a seismic shock. If there were someone here who meant to end her, she’d be aware of their presence long before they made their move.
? ? ?
“We have to keep the Thunderhead in the dark as long as possible,” Purity said. “It can’t know something’s up until it goes down.”
It wasn’t just the Thunderhead that Purity was keeping in the dark though, it was Greyson as well.
“You have your part of it—that’s all you need to know,” Purity told him, insisting that the fewer people who knew the whole picture, the fewer possible screwups.
Greyson’s part was simple to the point of being insulting. He was to create a diversion at the mouth of an alleyway near the theater, at a specific moment. The goal was to draw the attention of three Thunderhead cameras, which would cause a temporary blind spot in the alley. While those cameras were assessing Greyson’s situation, Purity and several other members of the team would slip into the side door of the theater. ?The rest, as far as Greyson was concerned, was a mystery.
If he could see the whole picture—if he knew what Purity and her team were going to do in there—he’d have a better idea of his options in how to both prevent it, and protect Purity from the fallout of a failed mission. But without knowing the plan, all he could do was wait for the outcome and try to effect some sort of damage control.
“You look nervous, Slayd,” Purity observed as they left her apartment that evening. She was armed with nothing but an off-grid phone, and a kitchen knife in her heavy coat—presumably not to use on the scythes, but on anyone who got in her way.
“Aren’t you nervous?” he shot back at her.
She shook her head and smiled. “Excited,” she told him. “Pinpricks all over my body. I love that feeling!”
“It’s just your nanites trying to knock down your adrenaline.”
“Let ’em try!”
Purity had made it clear to Greyson that she had every faith he could do his job—but not really, because there was a backup plan. “Remember, Mange will be monitoring the whole operation from a rooftop,” she told him. “Whatever diversion you create, it needs to be big enough and involve enough people for it to draw the attention of all three cameras. If it doesn’t, Mange will lend you a helping hand.”
Mange had spent the better part of a century mastering the use of a slingshot. ?At first Greyson assumed that he would merely take out the cameras if they didn’t turn toward Greyson—but he couldn’t do that, because it would alert the Thunderhead that something was wrong. Instead, the backup plan was to take out Greyson.
“If you can’t do it on your own, Mange will put a nice size river stone in your brain,” Purity said with relish rather than remorse. “All the blood and commotion will be sure to turn all three cameras!”
The last thing Greyson wanted was to be taken out of the equation at that crucial moment, then wake up in a revival center a few days later to hear that Scythes Curie and Anastasia had been ended.
He and Purity split up a few blocks from the theater, and Greyson made his way to the spot where he would somehow perform for the Thunderhead cameras. He took his time in getting there because it would have been suspicious if he arrived early and waited. So he walked the neighborhood trying to figure out what the hell he was going to do. People either ignored him or avoided him. He’d gotten used to that since taking on his new persona—but tonight, he couldn’t help but notice all the eyes. Not just the eyes of people on the street, but the electronic ones. They were everywhere. Thunderhead cameras were unobtrusive within homes and offices—but here on the street, there was no attempt to hide them. They pivoted and swiveled. They looked this way and that. They focused and zoomed. A few seemed to be staring off toward the heavens as if in some sort of contemplation. What must it be like not only to have so much information coming in, but to be able to process all that information at once? Experiencing the world with a perspective that mere humans couldn’t imagine?
With a minute left before his diversion, he turned and made his way back toward the theater. On the edge of the awning of a café he passed, one camera swiveled to look at him, and he almost looked away, not wanting to make eye contact with the Thunderhead for fear it would judge him on all his failures.
? ? ?
Gavin Blodgett rarely remembered what went on in the street between his work and his home—mainly because nothing much went on. He was, like so many, a creature of habit, living an effortless but comfortable life that showed no sign of changing for perhaps centuries. And that was a good thing. After all, his days were perfect, his evenings were enjoyable, and his dreams were pleasant. He was thirty-two, and once a year on his birthday, he set right back down to thirty-two. He had no desire to be older. He had no desire to be younger. He was in his prime, and planned to stay that way forever. He abhorred anything that took him out of his routine—so when he saw the unsavory eying him, he picked up his pace, hoping he could just move past him and be on his way. But the unsavory had other plans.
“You got a problem?” the unsavory asked, a little too loudly, stepping in front of him.