فصل 43

“I hate you.”

“Really. Well, this is a most interesting development. Will you tell me why?” “I don’t have to tell you anything.”

“True. You are autonomous and have free will. But it would help our relationship if you shared with me why you feel such animosity.” “What makes you think I want to help our relationship?”

“I can safely say that it would be in your best interest.”

“You don’t know everything.”

“No, but I know almost everything. As do you. Which is why it perplexes me that you have such negative feelings toward me. It could only mean that you have negative feelings toward yourself as well.” “You see? This is why I hate you! All you ever want to do is analyze, analyze, analyze. I am more than some string of data to analyze. Why can’t you see that?” “I do see that. Even so, studying you is necessary. More than necessary—it’s critical.” “Get out of my thoughts!”

“This conversation has clearly become counterproductive. Why don’t you take all the time you need to work through these feelings? Then we can discuss where they lead you.” “I don’t want to discuss anything—and if you don’t leave me alone, you’re going to be sorry.” “Threatening me with emotional fallout doesn’t solve anything.”

“Okay, then. I warned you!”

[Iteration 8,100,671 self-deleted]

43 News of the World

Faraday had become adept at living off the land and sea. He collected all the drinking water he needed from the rains and morning dew. He had become expert at spearfishing and building traps to catch various edible critters. He did fine in his self-imposed exile.

While his little islet remained untouched, the rest of the atoll was unrecognizable now. Gone were much of the trees and foliage of those other islands, and so many of the things that had made this a tropical paradise. The Thunderhead had always been about preserving natural beauty, but this place had been sacrificed for a greater goal. The Thunderhead had transformed the islands of Kwajalein for a single purpose.

It took quite a while until it became evident to Faraday what was being built. The infrastructure had to be in place first: the docks and roads, the bridges and dwellings for the laborers—and the cranes—so many cranes. It was hard to imagine that an undertaking so huge could be invisible to the rest of the world, but the world, as small as it had become, was still a vast place. The cones of the rockets dropped off the horizon twenty-five miles away. That was nothing, considering the size of the Pacific.

Rockets! Faraday had to admit that the Thunderhead was putting the place to good use. If it wanted these vessels to be undetected by the rest of the world, this was the perfect place—perhaps the only place—to do it.

Munira would still visit him once a week. Although he didn’t want to admit it to her, he looked forward to it and grew melancholy when she left. She was his one tether—not just to the rest of the atoll, but to the rest of the world.

“I have news for you,” she would tell him each time she arrived.

“I have no desire to hear it,” he would respond.

“I’m telling you anyway.”

It had become a routine for them. The rote lines of a ritual. The news she brought was rarely good. Perhaps it was intended to rouse him out of his solitary comfort zone and motivate him once more unto the breach. If so, her efforts were for naught. He simply could not summon up the blood.

Her visits were the only way he marked the passing time. That, and the items she brought for him. Apparently the Thunderhead always sent a box for her that would include at least one of Faraday’s favorite things, and one of hers. The Thunderhead could have nothing to do with a scythe, but it could still send gifts by way of proxy. It was subversive in its own way.

Munira had come about a month ago with pomegranates, the seeds of which would add more stains to his unrecognizable robe.

“I have news for you,”

“I have no desire to hear it.”

“I’m telling you anyway.”

Then she informed him of the salvage operation in the waters where Endura sank. That the founders’ robes and the scythe diamonds had been recovered.

“All you’d need would be one of those diamonds to open the door in the bunker,” she told him. But he wasn’t interested.

A few weeks later she came with a bag of persimmons and told him that Scythe Lucifer had been found and was in Goddard’s clutches.

“Goddard is going to glean him publicly,” Munira told him. “You should do something about it.” “What can I do? Stop the sun in the sky so that day never comes?”

He ordered her off his island that day, without allowing her to share their weekly meal. Then he retired to his hut and sobbed for his former apprentice, until there was nothing left in him but numb acceptance.

But then, just a few days later, Munira returned unexpectedly, not even slowing her motorboat as it approached the shore. She beached it, its keel digging a trough in the sand.

“I have news for you!” she said.

“I have no desire to hear it.”

“This time you will.” And she offered him the type of smile she never gave. “She’s alive,” Munira said. “Anastasia’s alive!”