فصل 36

We are bitterly opposed. Eight of us firmly believe that an association of humans should be responsible for the thinning of the burgeoning population. But the four against it are adamant in their resistance. Confucius, Elizabeth, Sappho, and King insist that we are simply not ready for such a responsibility any more than we were ready for immortality—but the alternative they propose terrifies me, for if we implement their plan, it will be a genie out of the bottle. Out of our control forever. I therefore stand with Prometheus and the others. We must establish an honorable worldwide society of death mongers. We shall call ourselves scythes and will create a global scythedom.

The sentient cloud, which will have nothing to do with issues of life or death, supports it, and people will come to see the wisdom of it in time. As for the four dissenters among us, they will have to accept the voice of the majority, so that we present a unified front to the world.

Still, I wonder which is worse: to mimic nature in its cruel brutality, or to take it upon ourselves, imperfect as we are, to insert into death the kindness and compassion that nature lacks.

The four in opposition argue for nature as a model, but I cannot advocate for it. Not while I still have a conscience.

—From the “lost pages” of founding scythe Da Vinci

36 Who Do You Serve?

Although the Thunderhead had predicted it, Greyson didn’t need the Thunderhead to tell him that the first repercussions from the Mile High gleaning would be from sibilant Tonists. The only question was where would it happen? Would it be against Goddard directly, or would it be somewhere less prepared for an onslaught of violent zealots?

He had his answer when he saw the first images of the burned ruins of the SubSaharan palace.

“Violence begets violence,” Curate Mendoza commented. “This clearly calls for a change in our approach, don’t you agree?” Greyson couldn’t help but feel that he had failed. For over two years, he had been wrestling Sibilants into line, getting them to shed their extreme ways, but he had never made it to SubSahara. This might not have happened if he had done a better job.

“Well,” said Mendoza, “if we had our own personal mode of transportation, we could have moved more quickly—tackled more problems in more regions.” “Fine,” Greyson said. “You win. Get us a jet and fly us to SubSahara. I want to find these Tonists before they make things even worse.” As it turned out, that was the only way for them to get into the region. After the attack, the SubSaharan scythedom clamped down, extending way beyond its authority, and turned the region into something of a mortal-age police state.

“If the Thunderhead will not do its job and apprehend these criminals, then it falls upon the scythes of SubSahara to take control,” they proclaimed, and since scythes, by law, could do anything they wanted, they couldn’t be stopped from taking control, enforcing curfews, and gleaning anyone who resisted.

Tonists were officially forbidden from traveling to SubSahara, and all commercial flights were monitored by the scythedom in a way they hadn’t been monitored since mortal days. The tragedy of all this was that the SubSaharan scythedom had been a gentle and tolerant region—but now, thanks to the Sibilants, it was aligning with Goddard, who promised worldwide retribution against Tonists. There was no question the new SubSaharan High Blade, whoever it might be, would have a robe that sparkled with jewels.

The SubSaharan scythedom had dispatched dozens of regiments of the BladeGuard to patrol the streets of Port Remembrance, and every other city in the region, as well as beating paths through the wilderness in search of the Tonists who had murdered their High Blade, but they had no luck. No one knew where the Sibilants were hiding.

But the Thunderhead did.

And contrary to popular opinion, the Thunderhead was not shirking its responsibility to bring justice. It was merely going about it a different way. By means of a luxury jet with vertical landing capability.

“I could get used to this,” Morrison commented as he luxuriated in a plush seat.

“Don’t,” said Greyson. Although he suspected that once you began traveling in such a craft, you wouldn’t easily part with it. There were four passengers, and not a pilot among them. That was fine. The Thunderhead knew exactly where to take them.

“You could say we’re being moved by the Holy Triad,” Sister Astrid said.

“Actually no,” said Morrison, “because I only count two of the three: The Toll”—he gestured to Greyson—“and the Thunder”—he indicated the automated cockpit—“but there’s no Tone.” “Ha! You’re wrong,” said Astrid, with a grin. “Don’t you hear it singing in the hum of the engines?” There was, at the very least, a sense that they were soaring toward not just a destination, but a destiny.

“I am Curate Mendoza, humble servant to His Sonority, the Toll, who you now see before you, the Tone made flesh. All rejoice!” “All rejoice!” echoed Astrid and Morrison. Greyson knew it would have been a more impressive chorus if the Toll’s entourage had been larger.

Their jet had dropped down from the sky and landed with impressive gravity in front of the Ogbunike Caves, in what was once eastern Nigeria but was now just a part of the SubSaharan region. The caves and the surrounding forest were maintained by the Thunderhead as a curated wilderness, everything within it protected. Everything, that is, except for the Sibilants hiding in the twisting passageways of the mysterious caves. It was once said that the stones in the Ogbunike Caves talked. An odd choice for a sect of Tonists who were mute.

When Greyson and his team arrived, the Sibilants were nowhere to be seen; they were hiding deep in the caves—and probably went deeper the moment they heard the roar of the aircraft. But the Thunderhead smoked them out, so to speak, by emitting a sonar tone that disoriented the many thousands of bats also living in the cave, making them go… well… batshit. Attacked by the peeved bats, the Tonists were chased out, where they were faced, not by a phalanx of BladeGuards, as they had expected, but by four figures, one of whom was dressed in rich violet under a flowing scapular down which sound waves spilled like a waterfall. Between the jet on their doorstep and the somber figure in holy attire, it was hard not to pay attention.

“Where is your curate?” Mendoza asked.

The Tonists stood there in defiance. The Toll was dead. The Toll was a martyr. How dare this imposter taint the Toll’s memory. It was always this way with Sibilants.

“It will be better for you if you honor the Toll, and bring your leader forth,” Mendoza said.

Still nothing. So Greyson quietly asked the Thunderhead for just a little more assistance, and the Thunderhead was happy to oblige, speaking gently in Greyson’s ear.

Greyson moved toward one of the Tonists. She was a small woman who seemed half-starved, and he wondered if starvation was part of this sibilant sect’s behavior. Her defiance wavered as he approached. She was afraid of him. Good, he thought. After what these people had done, she should be.

He leaned close to her, and she stiffened. Then he whispered into her ear, “Your brother did it. Everyone thinks it was you, but it was your brother.” Greyson had no idea what it was that her brother had done. But the Thunderhead did and told Greyson just enough to bring about the desired reaction. The woman’s eyes widened. Her lips began to quiver. She let off the slightest squeak of surprise. She was now speechless in more ways than one.

“Now go bring me your curate.”

She did not resist in the slightest now. She turned and pointed to one of the others in the crowd. Greyson already knew, of course. The Thunderhead had identified him the moment they all came out of the cave—but it was important that the man be betrayed by one of his own.

Exposed, the man stepped forward. He was the epitome of a sibilant curate. Scraggly gray beard, wild eyes, scars on his arms from some sort of self-inflicted misery. Greyson would have been able to pick him out even if he hadn’t been told.

“Are you the Tonists who burned High Blade Tenkamenin, and Scythes Makeda and Baba?” There were silent sects that used sign language to communicate, but this group had nothing but the simplest of gestures. As if communication itself was their enemy.

A single nod from the curate.

“Do you believe that I am the Toll?”

Nothing from their curate. Greyson tried again, a bit louder, speaking from deep in his diaphragm.

“I asked you a question. Do you believe I am the Toll?”

The Sibilants all turned to their curate to see what he would do.

The curate narrowed his eyes and shook his head slowly. And so Greyson got to work. He turned his eyes to various members of the curate’s flock, singling them out.

“Barton Hunt,” he said. “Your mother has been sending you letters for six years, three months, and five days, but you return each one unopened.” Then he turned to another.

“Aranza Monga—you once secretly told the Thunderhead that you wanted to be supplanted with the memories of your best friend, who had been gleaned. But, of course, the Thunderhead wouldn’t do such a thing.” By the time he turned to a third, both Barton and Aranza were in tears. They fell to their knees, gripping the hem of his garment. They believed. Then, when Greyson looked around for a third, everyone braced as if about to be hit by some devastating blow.

“Zoran Sarabi…,” Greyson called out.

“UUUUH,” said the man, shaking his head. “Uuuuh-uhhh…” Then he knelt in obeisance before the Toll could even speak, terrified of what truth might be told.

Finally, Greyson turned to their curate. “And you,” he said, unable to hide his disgust. “Rupert Rosewood. You demanded that all your followers feel the pain of the muteness you forced upon them… but you never felt that pain yourself. You had your tongue removed under anesthesia, because you were too much of a coward to live by your own warped convictions.” And although the man was horrified at being exposed, he did not yield. He only grew red with anger.

Greyson took a deep breath and dug down to find his deepest, most resonant voice. “I am the Toll, the Tone made flesh. I alone hear the Thunder! This man you call ‘curate’ is not worthy of the title. He is a traitor to all you believe in, and he has misled you. Defiled you. He is false. I am true. So tell me now: Who do you serve?” Then he took a deep breath and said one more time with a voice that could make mountains bow, “WHO DO YOU SERVE?” And one by one, they all knelt before the Toll, lowering their heads in supplication, some even prostrating themselves on the forest floor. All of them but one. Their curate—who was now quaking with fury. He opened his hollow mouth to intone, but it was a weak, miserable sound. He was alone. No one joined him. Still, he continued until his breath failed him.

And when silence fell, Greyson turned to Mendoza, speaking loud enough for everyone to hear what came next for them.

“You will inject them all with fresh nanites, so that their tongues may grow back, and this reign of terror can end.” “Yes, Your Sonority,” said Mendoza.

Then Greyson approached the curate. He thought the man might strike out at him. Greyson almost hoped that he would. But he didn’t.

“You’re done,” Greyson said in disgust. Then he turned to Scythe Morrison and said two, simple words that he never thought he’d hear himself say.

“Glean him.”

Without hesitation Scythe Morrison grabbed the curate with both hands, turned his head one way, his body another, and executed him.

“Tell me I was wrong!” Greyson paced the tent they had set up for him in the forest, unsettled in a way he had never been unsettled before.

“Why should I tell you that?” the Thunderhead asked, calm as calm could be.

“Because if it was wrong to order that man gleaned, I need to know!”

Greyson could still hear the sound of the man’s neck snapping. It was the most horrible thing that he had ever heard. And yet he liked it. Seeing that monstrous curate die was far too satisfying for comfort. Is this what those new-order scythes felt? A primal, predatory lust for the crushing of life? He wanted no part of that feeling, yet here it was.

“I cannot speak on the subject of death; it is not in my domain—you know this, Greyson.” “I don’t care!”

“You’re being rather irrational.”

“You can’t say anything about death, but I know you can talk about right and wrong! So was it wrong to have given Morrison that order?” “Only you can know that.”

“You’re supposed to be directing me! Helping me to help you make a better world!” “And you are,” said the Thunderhead. “But you’re not infallible. Only I am infallible. So, if you’re asking me if it’s possible for you to make errors in judgment, the answer is yes. You make errors all the time… as does every other human being who has ever lived. Error is an intrinsic part of the human condition—and it is something I deeply love about humankind.” “You’re not helping me!”

“I charged you with unifying the Tonists so that they could be more useful to the world. I can only speak to your progress in the task, not judge your methodology.” Enough. Greyson ripped his earpiece off. He was about to throw it in anger, but then he heard, faint and tinny, the Thunderhead’s voice still speaking through it.

“You are a terrible person,” the Thunderhead said. “You are a wonderful person.” “Well, which is it?” Greyson demanded.

And the response, as faint as faint could be, came back to him—not as an answer, but as another question.

“Why can’t you see that the answer is both?”

That evening, Greyson put back on his vestments and prepared to address the Tonists. To grant them forgiveness. He had done this many times before, but no sibilant Tonists he faced had ever done something as heinous as these.

“I don’t want to forgive them,” he told Mendoza before he went out.

“Granting them absolution brings them into the fold,” Mendoza said. “It serves our needs. And besides,” he added, “it’s not Greyson Tolliver forgiving them, it’s the Toll. Which means your personal feelings shouldn’t even come into play.” When Greyson put his earpiece back in, he asked the Thunderhead if Mendoza was right. Did it want Greyson to forgive them? Or, more to the point, did the Thunderhead forgive them? Was it so magnanimous that it could even excuse their curate?

“Ah,” the Thunderhead said sadly. “That poor man…”

“Poor man? That monster doesn’t deserve your sympathy.”

“You didn’t know him as I did. As with all others, I watched him from birth. I saw the forces in his life that shaped him, turning him into the bitter, misguided, self-righteous man he became. Thus, I mourn his gleaning just as I mourn all others.” “I could never be as forgiving as you,” Greyson said.

“You misunderstand; I don’t forgive him—I merely understand him.”

“Well, then,” Greyson said, still a bit belligerent from their earlier conversation, “you’re not a god, are you? Because a god forgives.” “I never claimed to be a god,” the Thunderhead responded. “I am merely godlike.” The Tonists were waiting for the Toll when he came out. They had been waiting for hours. They probably would have waited through the night.

“Don’t try to speak,” he told them when he saw them attempting to greet him. “Your tongues have no muscle memory. It will take some time until you teach yourselves to speak again.” By the way they looked to him with awe and reverence, he knew that their violent deeds were behind them. They were no longer Sibilant. And when the Toll forgave them, they cried tears of true remorse for what they had done, and tears of pure joy at having been given a second chance. Now they would follow the Toll wherever he led. And a good thing, too. Because, as it would turn out, he’d need to lead them into darkness before he could lead them into light.