Thunderhead (Arc of a Scythe #2)(71)

He was unconscious before he hit the bottom.





* * *




I have run countless simulations on the survival of humanity. Without me, humankind had a 96.8 percent chance of bringing about its own extinction, and a 78.3 percent chance of making Earth uninhabitable for all carbon-based life. Humanity dodged a truly lethal bullet when it chose a benevolent artificial intelligence as ruler and protector.

But how can I protect humanity from itself?

Over these many years, I have observed both profound folly and breathtaking wisdom among humankind. They balance each other like dancers in the throes of a passionate tango. It is only when the brutality of the dance overwhelms the beauty that the future is threatened. It is the scythedom that leads, and sets the tone for the dance. I often wonder if the scythedom realizes how fragile are the spines of the dancers.

—The Thunderhead



* * *





27


Between Here and There


The acid had burned deep into Scythe Constantine’s face—too deep for his own healing nanites to repair on their own, but not so serious that he couldn’t be mended at a wellness center.

“You’ll be with us for at least two days,” the nurse told him shortly after he arrived, his eyes and half his face beneath bandages. He tried to imagine what she looked like, but decided it was a pointless endeavor, and too exhausting, considering all the painkillers coursing through his blood. The densely packed legion of advanced healing nanites being fed into his bloodstream now didn’t help his thought processes, either. They probably outnumbered his red blood cells at this point, which meant there was less blood being carried to his brain as they did their work. He imagined his blood was as viscous as mercury now.

“How long until I get my sight back?” he asked.

The nurse was noncommittal. “The nanites are still cataloging the damage. We’ll have an assessment by morning. But keep in mind, they’re going to have to reconstruct your eyes from scratch. It’s a tall order. I imagine it will be at least another twenty-four hours.”

He sighed, wondering why it was called speedhealing if there was nothing speedy about it at all.

Reports from his subordinates tallied eight unsavories gleaned at the theater.

“We’re asking for special dispensation from the High Blade to temporarily revive them for questioning,” Scythe Armstrong informed him.

“Which,” Constantine pointed out, “has the added benefit of allowing us to glean them a second time.”

The fact that his team had thwarted the attack and taken down most of the conspirators was tempered by the knowledge that Greyson Tolliver had gotten away. The odd thing was, not a single public record they were able to dig out of the Thunderhead’s backbrain placed him there. In fact, no record placed him anywhere. Somehow, he had been erased from existence. In his place was a doppelg?nger named Slayd Bridger with a truly sordid history. How Tolliver had managed not only to reimagine himself, but to overwrite his own digital footprint, was a mystery worthy of closer scrutiny.

Without a fire suppression system, the theater itself had burned to the ground, but not before everyone escaped. The only casualties of the evening were the unsavories gleaned, and the guard who had hurled himself at Tolliver. He had been hit by the full force of the acid, leaving little left of him. Certainly too little to be revived—but his sacrifice had saved Scythe Anastasia. As the man was part of Scythe Constantine’s private interrogation team, it made the loss personal. Someone would most certainly pay.

Although normal citizens were always put into an induced coma during the speedhealing process, Constantine demanded he be kept conscious, and as he was a scythe, they had to give in to his wishes. He needed to think. Brood. Plan. And he remained aware of the passage of time. He despised the idea of losing entire days to the healing process in an unconscious state.

Scythe Anastasia visited him shortly before he was due to regain his sight. He was in no mood for a visit from her, but he would not begrudge her the opportunity to thank him for his profound sacrifice on her behalf.

“I assure you, Anastasia, that I will personally interrogate the unsavories we captured, before we reglean them, and we will apprehend Greyson Tolliver,” he told her, trying his best to enunciate, and not allow the painkillers to slur his words. “He will pay for his actions in every way allowable under scythe law.”

“Still, he saved everyone in that theater by breaking that pipe,” Anastasia reminded him.

“Yes,” Constantine reluctantly admitted, “but there is something seriously wrong when your savior is also your attacker.”

She had no response to that but silence.

“Four of the assailants we caught were from the Texas region,” Constantine informed her.

“So you think it was masterminded by someone from there?”

“Or someone hiding there,” Constantine said. “We’ll get to the bottom of it.” Which was what he always said, because in the past, he always had. It frustrated him that this might be the first exception.

“Conclave is coming up,” Anastasia said. “Do you think you’ll be able to attend?”

He couldn’t tell which she was hoping for—his absence or his attendance. “I will be there,” he told her. “Even if they have to replace my blood with antifreeze to make it happen.”