فصل 2

We of the SubSaharan region take extreme umbrage with High Blade Goddard’s removal of gleaning quotas. The quotas have stood since time immemorial as a way to regulate the taking of life—and, while not officially one of the scythe commandments, quotas have kept us on track. They have prevented us from being either too bloodthirsty, or too lax.

While several other regions have now abolished quotas as well, SubSahara stands with Amazonia, Israebia, and numerous other regions in resisting this ill-advised change.

Further, any and all MidMerican scythes are banned from gleaning on our soil—and we urge other regions to join us in resisting Goddard’s so-called new order from establishing a chokehold on the world.

—Official proclamation from His Excellency, High Blade Tenkamenin of SubSahara 2 Late to the Party

“How much longer?”

“I’ve never known a scythe to be so impatient.”

“Then you do not know many scythes. We are an impatient and irascible lot.” Honorable Scythe Sydney Possuelo of Amazonia was already present when Captain Jerico Soberanis arrived on the bridge, just after dawn. Jerico wondered if the man ever slept. Maybe scythes hired people to sleep for them.

“Half a day at full speed,” Jerico answered. “We’ll be there by 18:00, just as I said yesterday, Your Honor.” Possuelo sighed. “Your ship is too slow.”

Jerico grinned. “All this time, and now you’re in a hurry?”

“Time is never of the essence until someone decides that it is.”

Jerico couldn’t argue the logic. “In the best of worlds, this operation would have happened a long time ago.” To which Possuelo responded, “In case you haven’t noticed, this is no longer the best of worlds.” There was truth in that. At the very least, it was not the world that Jerico had grown up in. In that world, the Thunderhead was a part of most everyone’s life. It could be asked anything, it always answered, and its answers were precise, informative, and just as wise as they needed to be.

But that world was gone. The Thunderhead’s voice had gone silent now that human beings were all unsavory.

Jerico had been marked unsavory once before. As a teenager. It wasn’t hard to accomplish—just three instances of shoplifting from a local grocery. Jerico was smug about it for less than a day. Then the consequences began to set in. Being denied communication with the Thunderhead wasn’t a big deal for Jerico—but there were other things about the experience that were irksome. Unsavories were last in line for food in the school cafeteria and were always left with the dishes no one else wanted. Unsavories were moved to the front of the classroom, where the teachers could keep a watchful eye on them. And while Jerico wasn’t cut from the soccer team, probational meetings were always scheduled in direct conflict with games. It was clearly intentional.

Jerico used to think the Thunderhead was being spitefully passive-aggressive, but in time Jerico came to realize that the Thunderhead was merely making a point. Unsavorism was a choice, and one must decide if the things lost were worth the things gained.

Lesson learned. A taste of being unsavory was enough. It took three months of toeing the line for the big red U to be removed from Jerico’s ID, and once it was gone, there was no desire to repeat the experience.

“I’m pleased your status has been lifted,” the Thunderhead had said, once it was free to speak again. In response, Jerico had told the Thunderhead to turn on the bedroom lights—because giving it an order put the Thunderhead back in its place. It was a servant. It was everyone’s servant. It had to do as Jerico commanded. There was comfort in that.

And then came the schism between humanity and its greatest creation. Endura sank into the sea, and the Thunderhead declared the entirety of humankind unsavory all in the same moment. At the time, no one exactly knew what the loss of the World Scythe Council would mean for people, but the Thunderhead’s silence hurled the world into a collective panic. Unsavorism was no longer a choice—it was now a judgment. And silence was all it took to turn servitude into superiority. The servant became the master, and the world became all about pleasing the Thunderhead.

What can I do to lift this judgment? people cried. What can I do so that the Thunderhead finds favor in me once more? The Thunderhead never asked for adoration, yet people now gave it, creating elaborate hoops to jump though, hoping that the Thunderhead would take notice. Of course the Thunderhead did hear the cries of humanity. It still saw everything, but now it kept its opinions to itself.

Meanwhile, planes still flew, ambudrones were still dispatched for people who went deadish, food was still grown and distributed—the Thunderhead kept the world functioning in the same fine-tuned precision as before; it did what it saw fit for the human race as a whole. But if you wanted your desk lamp turned on, you had to do it yourself.

Scythe Possuelo stayed on the bridge, monitoring their progress for a bit longer. It was smooth sailing—but smooth sailing was a monotonous endeavor, especially to one not accustomed to it. He left to take breakfast in his quarters, his forest-green robe billowing behind him as he went down the narrow stairs toward the lower decks.

Jerico wondered what sort of things went through the scythe’s mind. Did he worry about tripping over his robe? Did he relive past gleanings? Or was he merely thinking about what he’d have for breakfast?

“He’s not a bad sort,” said Wharton, the ship’s deck watch officer, who had been in the position much longer than Jerico had had command of the ship.

“I actually like him,” said Jerico. “He’s a lot more honorable than some of the other ‘honorable scythes’ I’ve come across.” “The fact that he chose us for this salvage says a lot.”

“Yes, I’m just not sure what it says.”

“I believe it says you chose your career path wisely.”

That was quite a compliment coming from Wharton—who was not a man given over to flattery. But Jerico couldn’t take full credit for the decision.

“I just took the Thunderhead’s advice.”

A few years earlier, when the Thunderhead had suggested Jerico might be happy pursuing a life at sea, it had annoyed Jerico no end. Because the Thunderhead was right. It had made a perfect assessment. Jerico had already been thinking along those lines, but to hear the Thunderhead make the suggestion was like a spoiler to the story. Jerico knew there were many seafaring lives to choose from. There were people who traveled the globe in search of the perfect wave to surf. Others spent their time racing sailboats or traversing oceans in tall ships modeled after vessels from bygone eras. But these were pastimes that served no practical purpose beyond the sheer joy of it. Jerico wanted a pursuit of happiness that was also functional. A career that added something tangible to the world.

Marine salvage was the perfect ticket—and not just dredging up things the Thunderhead intentionally sank to provide work for the salvage industry. That was no better than children digging up plastic dinosaur bones in a sandbox. Jerico wanted to recover things that had truly been lost, and that meant developing a relationship with the scythedoms of the world—because while ships under the Thunderhead’s jurisdiction never met with untimely ends, scythe vessels were prone to mechanical failure and subject to human error.

Shortly out of secondary school, Jerico took a position as a junior apprentice with a second-rate salvage team in the western Mediterranean—then, when Scythe Dali’s yacht sank in shallow waters off the coast of Gibraltar, it gave Jerico an unexpected opportunity for advancement.

Using standard diving gear, Jerico was one of the first to the wreck, and while the others were still surveying the scene, Jerico—against captain’s orders—went inside, found the body of the deadish scythe in his cabin, and brought him to the surface.

Jerico was fired on the spot. No surprise—after all, it was mutinous to disobey a direct order—but it was part of a calculated move. Because when Scythe Dali and his entourage were revived, the first thing the man wanted to know was who had pulled him from the sea.

In the end, the scythe was not only grateful, but exceptionally generous. He granted the entire salvage team a year of immunity from gleaning, but wanted to bestow something special on the one who had sacrificed everything to retrieve the body of the deadish scythe—for, clearly, that individual had their priorities in order. Scythe Dali asked what Jerico hoped to achieve in life.

“I’d like to run my own salvage operation someday,” Jerico told the scythe, thinking Dali might put in a good word. Instead the scythe brought Jerico to the E. L. Spence—a spectacular hundred-meter AGOR ship converted for marine salvage.

“You shall be this vessel’s captain,” Dali proclaimed. And since the Spence already had a captain, the scythe gleaned him on the spot, then instructed the crew to be obedient to their new captain or be gleaned themselves. It was, to say the least, very surreal.

It was not the way Jerico had wanted to achieve command, but had no more choice in the matter than the gleaned captain. Realizing that a crew would not easily take orders from a twenty-year-old, Jerico lied, professing to be fortysomething, but having recently turned the corner, setting back to a more youthful self. Whether or not they believed it was their business.

It took a long time for the crew to warm to their new captain. Some acted out in secret ways. The bout of food poisoning that first week, for instance, could likely be traced back to the cook. And although genetic testing would have determined precisely whose feces had found its way into Jerico’s shoes, pursuing it wasn’t worth the trouble.

The Spence and its crew traveled the world. Even before Jerico’s command, the salvage team had made a name for itself, but their new captain had the sense to hire a team of Tasmanian divers with gillform breathers. Having a dive team that could breathe underwater, combined with a first-rate retrieval crew, made them sought after by scythes around the world. And the fact that Jerico made retrieval of the deadish first priority over salvage of lost property gained them even greater respect.

Jerico had raised Scythe Akhenaten’s barge from the bottom of the Nile; retrieved Scythe Earhart’s deadish body from an ill-fated flight; and when Grandslayer Amundsen’s pleasure sub sank in icy waters off the RossShelf region of Antarctica, the Spence was summoned to retrieve him.

And then, toward the end of Jerico’s first year of command, Endura sank in the middle of the Atlantic, setting the stage for the greatest salvage operation in history.

Yet the curtains of that stage remained resolutely closed.

Without the Grandslayers of the World Scythe Council, there was no one in the world who could authorize a salvage. And with Goddard raving in North Merica that the Perimeter of Reverence not be breached, Endura’s ruins remained in limbo. Meanwhile, various regional scythedoms that had aligned with Goddard patrolled the perimeter, gleaning anyone caught there. Endura sank in water two miles deep, but it might as well have been lost in the space between stars.

With all that intrigue, it had taken quite a while for any regional scythedom to dredge up the nerve to attempt a salvage, and as soon as Amazonia declared its intention, others joined in—but since Amazonia was the first to stick its neck out, it insisted on being in charge. Other scythedoms squawked, but no one denied Amazonia. Mainly because it meant the region would bear the brunt of Goddard’s anger.

“You do realize that our current heading is more than a few degrees off course,” Chief Wharton pointed out to the captain, now that Possuelo was no longer on the bridge.

“We’ll correct course at noon,” Jerico told him. “It will delay our arrival by a few hours. Nothing more awkward than arriving too late in the day to begin operations, but too early to call it a night.” “Good thinking, sir,” Wharton said, then took a quick glance outside and corrected himself, a bit abashedly. “I’m sorry, ma’am, my mistake. It was cloudy just a moment ago.” “No need to apologize, Wharton,” Jerico said. “I don’t care either way—especially on a day when there’s as much sunshine as cloud cover.” “Yes, Captain,” Wharton said. “No disrespect intended.”

Jerico would have smirked, but that would have been disrespectful to Wharton, whose apology, although unnecessary, was genuine. While it was a mariner’s job to mark the position of the sun and stars, they were simply not accustomed to meteorological fluidity.

Jerico was from Madagascar—one of the world’s seven Charter Regions, where the Thunderhead employed different social structures to better the human experience—and people flocked to Madagascar because of the popular uniqueness of its mandate.

All children in Madagascar were raised genderless and forbidden to choose a gender until reaching adulthood. Even then, many didn’t choose a single state of being. Some, like Jerico, found fluidity to be their nature.

“I feel like a woman beneath the sun and the stars. I feel like a man under the cover of clouds,” Jerico had explained to the crew when assuming command. “A simple glance at the skies will let you know how to address me at any given time.” It wasn’t the fluidity that stymied the crew—that was common enough—but they had trouble getting used to the meteorological aspect of Jerico’s personal system. Having been raised in a place where such things were the norm rather than the exception, it never even occurred to Jerico that it could be an issue, until leaving home. Some things simply made a person feel feminine; other things made a person feel masculine. Wasn’t that true of everyone regardless of gender? Or did binaries deny themselves the things that didn’t fit the mold? Well, regardless, Jerico found the faux pas and overcompensations more humorous than anything else.

“How many other salvage teams do you think will be there?” Jerico asked Wharton.

“Dozens,” said Wharton. “And more on the way. We’re already late to the party.” Jerico dismissed the notion. “Not at all. We’re carrying the scythe in charge, which means we’re the flagship of the operation. The party can’t start until we get there—and I intend to make a grand entrance.” “I have no doubt of that, sir,” said Wharton, because the sun had slipped behind a cloud.

At sunset, the Spence neared the spot where the Island of the Enduring Heart had sunk.

“There are seventy-three ships of various classes waiting just outside the Perimeter of Reverence,” Chief Wharton informed Captain Soberanis.

Scythe Possuelo couldn’t hide his distaste. “They’re no better than the sharks that devoured the Grandslayers.” As they began to pass the outermost vessels, Jerico noted a ship much larger than the Spence directly in their path.

“We’ll plot a course around her,” said Wharton.

“No,” said Jerico. “Maintain our current heading.”

Wharton looked worried. “We’ll ram her.”

Jerico gave him a wicked grin. “Then she’ll have to move.”

Possuelo smiled. “And this will make clear from the beginning who is in charge of this operation,” he said. “I like your instincts, Jeri.” Wharton darted a glance at Jerico. Out of respect, no one on the crew called their captain Jeri—that was reserved for friends and family. But Jerico allowed it.

The Spence surged forward at full speed, and the other ship did move, but only when it became clear that the Spence would truly ram her if it didn’t. It was a game of chicken handily won.

“Position us dead center,” Jerico instructed as they crossed into the Perimeter of Reverence. “Then notify the other ships that they can join us. At 06:00 tomorrow, salvage crews can begin sending drones down to survey the wreckage. Tell them that all information is to be shared, and anyone caught withholding information is subject to gleaning.” Possuelo raised an eyebrow. “Are you speaking for the scythedom now, Captain?” “Just trying to ensure compliance,” Jerico said. “After all, everyone’s subject to gleaning, so I’m not telling them something they don’t already know—I’m just putting it into a new perspective.” Possuelo laughed out loud. “Your audacity reminds me of a junior scythe I used to know.” “Used to?”

Possuelo sighed. “Scythe Anastasia. She perished along with her mentor, Scythe Curie, when Endura sank.” “You knew Scythe Anastasia?” asked Jerico, duly impressed.

“Yes,” said Possuelo, “but all too briefly.”

“Well,” said Jerico, “perhaps whatever we raise from the depths can bring her some peace.”