Thunderhead (Arc of a Scythe #2)(88)

? ? ?

The weapons salesmen were told that there would be no time to pitch their wares at this conclave, and were sent packing. The afternoon belonged to Scythes Nietzsche and Curie, as each would try to convince the scythedom to cast votes for them.

“I know you don’t want this,” Anastasia said to Marie, “but you have to act like you do.”

Scythe Curie looked at her, a bit bemused. “Are you presuming to instruct me on how to present myself to the scythedom?”

“No . . . ,” said Anastasia, but then thought back to how Scythe Morrison approached the scythedom. “Actually, yes. This whole thing seems like a high school popularity contest—and I’m much closer to that than you are.”

Scythe Curie gave a rueful guffaw. “You’ve hit the nail on the head, Anastasia. That’s exactly what the scythedom is: high school with murder.”

The High Blade, as one of his last acts as such, called the afternoon session to order. The two nominees would each deliver an impromptu oration, followed by a debate moderated by the Parliamentarian, who sat to the High Blade’s right. Then, after a session of questions, the scythedom Clerk, to the High Blade’s left, would tally the votes in a secret ballot.

The two nominees would use a highly modern and technologically sophisticated method to decide who went first: the flip of a coin. Unfortunately, since physical money was no longer a common thing in the world, one of the apprentices was sent up to the scythedom offices to find one.

Then, as they waited for the coin, things took an extremely surreal turn.

“Excuse me, Your Excellency,” said a shaky voice. And then again, a little bit firmer, “Your Excellency, excuse me!” It was Scythe Brahms. And something seemed different about him, but Anastasia couldn’t make out what it was.

“The conclave recognizes Honorable Scythe Brahms,” said Xenocrates. “But whatever you have to say, please make it quick, so we can get on with this.”

“I have another nomination.”

“I’m sorry, Brahms, but you can’t nominate yourself—someone else has to do it.” A few scythes laughed derisively.

“It’s not myself that I’m nominating, Your Excellency.” He cleared his throat, and that was the moment that Anastasia realized what was different about him. He had changed his robe! It was still a peach velvet robe with light blue trim, but this one had opals embedded in it, glistening like stars.

“I wish to nominate Honorable Scythe Robert Goddard for High Blade of MidMerica.”

Silence for a moment . . . then a few more chuckles, but they weren’t derisive. They were nervous.

“Brahms,” said Xenocrates slowly, “in case you’ve forgotten, Scythe Goddard has been dead for over a year now.”

And then the heavy bronze doors of the conclave chamber slowly began to open.





* * *




I understand pain. Perhaps not physical pain, but the pain of knowing something terrible is on the horizon, yet being unable to prevent it. With all my intellect, with all the power vested in me by humankind, there are some things I am completely powerless to change.

I cannot act on anything I am told in confidence.

I cannot act on anything my cameras see in private places.

And above all, I cannot act on anything that even remotely relates to the scythedom.

The best I can ever do is hint at what must be done in the vaguest of ways, and leave action in the hands of citizens. ?And even then, there’s no guarantee that, of the millions of actions they could possibly take, they will choose the right ones to avert disaster.

And the pain . . . the pain of my awareness is unbearable. Because my eyes do not close. Ever. And so all I can do is watch unblinkingly as my beloved humankind slowly weaves the rope it will use to hang itself.

—The Thunderhead



* * *





34


The Worst of All Possible Worlds


The bronze doors slowly swung open, and in strode the incinerated scythe. The room filled with gasps of shock and the squeaks of chairs as all those gathered rose to take a closer look.

“Is it really him?”

“No, it can’t be.”

“It’s some kind of trick!”

“It must be an imposter!”

He moved down the center aisle with a gait that was not his. Looser than before. Younger. And somehow, he seemed slightly shorter than he had been.

“Yes, it’s Goddard!”

“Risen from the ashes!”

“The timing couldn’t be better!”

“The timing couldn’t be worse!”

Entering the chamber in his wake was a familiar figure in bright green. Scythe Rand was alive, too? Eyes now looked to the open bronze doors, expecting that Scythes Chomsky and Volta might also return from the dead today, but no one else entered the chamber.

At the rostrum, Xenocrates blanched. “Wh . . . wh . . . what is the meaning of this?”

“Forgive my absence these past few conclaves, Your Excellency,” said Goddard in a voice that sounded markedly different, “but I was severely incapacitated, and thus unable to attend, as Scythe Rand will attest to.”

“B . . . but your body was identified! It was burned down to the bone!”