Thunderhead (Arc of a Scythe #2)(98)
A Trilogy of Critical Encounters
At any given time, I am either participating in or monitoring more than 1.3 billion human interactions. On March 27th, Year of the Raptor, I tag three as the most important.
? ? ?
The first is a conversation I am not privy to. ?All I can do is make oblique inferences as to its subject matter. It takes place in the town of San Antonio, in the Texas region. The apartment building has sixty-three floors, the highest of which is a penthouse that has been commandeered by Scythe Ayn Rand.
I have no cameras in the building, as per my rules unique to this region. However, street cameras capture the arrival of several skilled men and women of science: engineers, programmers, even one noted marine biologist. My assumption is that they have been summoned here by Scythe Goddard under some pretense so that he might glean them. He has a propensity for removing those who serve me through their work in the sciences—particularly individuals whose work relates to aerospace. Just last year he gleaned hundreds at Magnetic Propulsion Laboratories, where some of my most skilled engineers were developing methods for deep space travel. And before that, he took the life of a genius in the field of long-term hibernation, but camouflaged it as part of a mass airplane gleaning.
I can make no accusations there, because I have no facts, only educated guesses as to Goddard’s motivation in those gleanings. Just as I have no facts to prove any wrongdoing on the ill-fated moon and Mars colonies, or the doomed orbital habitat. Suffice it to say that Goddard is the most recent in a long line of scythes who look up into the night sky and see not the stars, but the darkness between them.
For several hours, I wait to hear of gleanings within the building, but there are none. Instead, shortly after dark, the visitors emerge. They do not speak to one another of what transpired in that penthouse. But from the strained looks on their faces, I know none will sleep well tonight.
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The second conversation of note takes place in the EastMerican city of Savannah—a municipality that I have meticulously maintained to reflect its mortal age charm.
A quiet coffee shop. A back booth. Three scythes and a scythe’s assistant. Coffee, coffee, latte, hot chocolate. The scythes are disguised in ordinary clothes, allowing for a clandestine meeting in plain sight.
My cameras within this coffee shop have just been disabled by Scythe Michael Faraday, whom most of the world believes self-gleaned over a year ago. It is no matter; I am far from blinded here, because I have a camera-bot sipping tea several tables over. It has no mind. No consciousness. No computational capabilities beyond what is needed to mimic human movement. It is a simple machine designed for a specific purpose: to minimize blind spots so that I may better serve humanity. And today, serving humanity means hearing this conversation.
“It’s good to see you, Michael,” says Scythe Marie Curie. I have observed the rise and the fall of the romantic relationship between the two scythes, as well as the many years of devoted friendship that has followed.
“And you, Marie.”
The cam-bot is faced away from the foursome. This is of no consequence, because its cameras are not in its eyes. Instead, pinpoint cameras circle the bot’s neck, behind a sheer veil of artificial skin, providing a three-hundred-sixty-degree view at all times. Its multidirectional microphones are in its torso. Its head is merely a prosthetic decoration, filled with polystyrene foam to prevent it from becoming infested with insects that are so prevalent in this part of the world.
Faraday turns to Scythe Anastasia. His smile is warm. Paternal. “I understand our apprentice is growing into quite a scythe.”
“She makes us proud.”
The capillaries in Scythe Anastasia’s face expand. Her cheeks turn slightly pink from their praise.
“Oh, but I’m being rude,” says Faraday. “Let me introduce you to my assistant.”
The young woman has sat patiently and politely for two minutes, nineteen seconds, allowing the scythes their little reunion. Now she puts her hand forward to shake Scythe Curie’s. “Hi, I’m Munira Atrushi.” She shakes Scythe Anastasia’s hand as well, but it almost seems like an afterthought.
“Munira hails from Israebia, and the Great Library. She has been invaluable to my research.”
“What kind of research?” Anastasia asks.
Faraday and Munira hesitate. Then Faraday says, “Historical and geographical,” but then quickly changes the subject, clearly not ready to discuss it yet. “So, does the scythedom suspect that I am still alive?”
“Not that I can see,” responds Scythe Curie. “Although I’m sure quite a few fantasize how things would be if you were still there.” She takes a sip of her latte, which I measure to be at one hundred seventy-six degrees Fahrenheit. I worry that she may burn her lips, but she is careful. “You would have taken conclave by storm if you had made a magical appearance the way Goddard did. I have no doubt you’d be High Blade now.”
“You will make a fine High Blade,” Faraday says, with a measure of admiration.
“Well,” says Curie, “there is a hurdle to overcome.”
“You’ll do it, Marie,” Anastasia reassures.
“And,” says Faraday, “I imagine you will be her first underscythe.”
Munira raises her eyebrows, obviously a bit dubious about it. Her gesture does not escape Anastasia.
“Third underscythe,” Anastasia corrects. “Cervantes and Mandela will take first and second position. After all, I’m still just a junior scythe.”