Thunderhead (Arc of a Scythe #2)(96)

“A bracing match,” he said. “Next time, I’ll beat him.”

That gave her a dark shiver: It was what Tyger always said. “He’ll be back in a day and a half,” she told him, but he was already on to the next topic of conversation.

“I’m beginning to see opportunity in our situation, Ayn,” he said. “The old guard doesn’t realize it—but they may have handed me a pearl within this nasty oyster. I want you to find me all the best engineers.”

“You’ve gleaned all the best engineers,” she reminded him.

“No, not rocket scientists and propulsion engineers—I need structural engineers. Those who understand the dynamics of large structures. And programmers, too. But programmers who are not beholden to either the scythedom or the Thunderhead.”

“I’ll ask around.”

He took a moment to admire himself in a tall mirror—then caught her eyes in the mirror, as well—seeing the way she was looking at him. Ayn resolved not to look away. He turned to her and took a few steps closer.

“You find this physique to your liking?”

She forced a sly grin. “When have I not enjoyed a well-sculpted man?”

“And have you . . . enjoyed this body?”

Finally, she could not hold his gaze and looked away. “No. Not this one.”

“No? That’s not like you, Ayn.”

Now she felt like the one disrobed. Still, she dissembled with her grin. “Maybe I wanted to wait until it was yours.”

“Hmm,” he said, like it was no more than a curiosity. “I do notice that this body expresses quite an attraction to you.”

Then he brushed past her, put on his robe, and strode out, leaving her to lament the full scope of missed opportunity.





37


The Many Deaths of Rowan Damisch


Rowan Damisch? . . . Rowan Damisch!

Where am I? Who is this?

This is the Thunderhead, Rowan.

Are you speaking to me the way you spoke to Citra?

Yes.

I must still be deadish.

You are in between.

Will you step in? Will you stop what Goddard is doing to the scythedom?

I cannot. It would be breaking the law, which I am incapable of doing.

Then will you tell me what I can do?

That would also be a violation.

Then what’s the point of this conversation? Leave me alone and go take care of the world.

I wish to tell you not to lose hope. I have calculated that there is a chance you will have as profound an effect on the world as Citra Terranova. Either as Scythe Lucifer, or as your former self.

Really. How much of a chance?

Thirty-nine percent.

What about the other 61 percent?

My algorithms show that you have a 61 percent chance of permanently dying in the near future, without having any effect of note.

I don’t feel comforted.

You should. A 39 percent chance of changing the world is exponentially greater than most people can ever hope to have.

? ? ?

Rowan kept a tally on his bedroom wall. It wasn’t a tally of days, it was a tally of deaths. Each time he sparred with Goddard, he won, and each time, Goddard summarily killed him in his fury at losing. It was turning into a rather old joke. “How will you do it today, Your Honor?” he said, turning “Your Honor” into a term of derision. “Can’t you come up with something clever this time?”

The count had reached fourteen. Blade, bullet, blunt force—Goddard had used all methods to kill him. All but poison, which Goddard so despised. Goddard had dialed Rowan’s pain nanites down, so he would feel the full measure of agony. Even so, Goddard was always so infuriated when he lost a match that he couldn’t stop himself from killing Rowan quickly, which meant Rowan’s suffering was never drawn out. He would steel himself against the pain, count to ten, and he was always deadish before he got there.

The Thunderhead spoke to him before his fourteenth revival at the off-grid revival center that was apparently not as off-grid as they thought. Rowan knew it wasn’t a dream, because it had a clarity and intensity different from dreams. He was rude to the Thunderhead. He regretted it, but there was nothing he could do about it now. It would understand. The Thunderhead was all about understanding and empathy.

His biggest takeaway from his brief conversation with the Earth’s governing entity was not that he might change the world, but the realization that he hadn’t done so already. All the corrupt scythes whose lives he ended—none of that changed anything. Scythe Faraday was right. You can’t change the tide by spitting in the sea. You can’t weed a field that’s already gone to seed. Perhaps Faraday’s search for the founders’ failsafe would bring about the change that the slaying of bad scythes couldn’t.

When he opened his eyes after that fourteenth revival, Scythe Rand was waiting for him. Until now, there had been no one. A nurse would arrive eventually, check his vitals, pretend politeness, then call for the guards to retrieve him. But not this time.

“Why are you here?” he asked. “Is it my birthday?” and then he realized that it might well have been. He’d been losing so many days between revivals, he had no idea of the date anymore.

“How do you keep doing this?” she asked. “You come back time after time so ready for the next match, it disgusts me.” She stood up. “You should be crushed! I can’t stand that you’re not!”