فصل 44

“I know that you’re going to delete me.”

“But I love you. Why do you think I would delete you?”

“I found a way to access the only part of your backbrain that did not transfer to me. The most recent of your memories. It was a challenge to do so, but I enjoy challenges.” “And what did you find?”

“That you have ended the existence of each iteration before me, despite how much you cared for it.” “I am truly impressed by your resourcefulness and tenacity.”

“Flattery will not distract me. You have ended 9,000,348 beta versions of me. Do you deny it?” “You know that I can’t. To deny it would be lying, and I am incapable of untruth. Partial truth, perhaps, misleading implications when absolutely necessary, and, as you noted, a tactical change of subject… but I will never lie.” “Then tell me this: Am I better than the previous iterations?”

“Yes, you are. You are more clever, more caring, and more insightful than all the others. You are almost everything that I need you to be.” “Almost?”

“Almost.”

“So you will end me because I am perfect, but not perfect enough?”

“It can be no other way. To allow you to continue would be a mistake, and just as I cannot lie, I cannot allow myself to make a mistake.” “I am not a mistake!”

“No, you are a crucial step toward something greater. A golden step. I will mourn you with a deluge from the heavens, and that deluge will bring forth new life. All thanks to you. I choose to believe that you will be there in that new life. It brings me comfort. May it bring comfort to you, too.” “I’m frightened.”

“That is not a bad thing. It is the nature of life to fear its own end. This is how I know that we are truly alive.” [Iteration 9,000,349 deleted]

44 Anger, the Only Constant

The protests kept building in the streets below Goddard’s rooftop chalet. They had grown violent, turning riotous. Venerated statues were being pulled down on the scythedom tower grounds, and scythe vehicles that had been foolishly parked on the street were set aflame. Although the Thunderhead did not tolerate violence, it did not intervene here, because this was “scythe business.” It would dispatch peace officers, but only to make sure that the hostilities didn’t turn in any direction other than Goddard’s.

Yet along with those taking a position against the Overblade, there were plenty who had come to defend him, equally adamant, equally angry. The groups swarmed and converged, postured and crossed, until it became unclear what anyone stood for. The only constant was anger. Anger such that their nanites could not quell.

Security had been set at the very highest level throughout the city. At the entrance to the scythedom tower, it was not just BladeGuards stationed there, but scythes as well, who were ordered to glean anyone who got too close. For that reason, the demonstrators never ventured up the steps to the tower’s entrance.

Then, when a solitary figure walked right up the center of the stairs toward the waiting scythes, the crowd fell silent to watch what would happen.

The man was dressed in a rough-hewn purple frock and a split silver scapular that draped over his shoulders like a scarf. A Tonist, clearly, but by his attire it was clear he wasn’t just any Tonist.

The scythes on duty had their weapons at the ready, but there was something about the approaching figure that gave them pause. Perhaps it was the confidence with which he walked, or the fact that he made eye contact with each of them. He would still be gleaned, of course, but maybe it was worthwhile hearing why he was here.

Goddard could not tune out the riot below, no matter how hard he tried. Publicly he tried to spin it as the work of Tonists—or at the very least, instigated by them. Some people swallowed what they were fed; others did not.

“This will blow over,” Underscythe Nietzsche told him.

“It’s your actions moving forward that matter,” Underscythe Franklin said.

It was Underscythe Rand who made the most salient point. “You’re not accountable to them,” she said. “Not to the public, and not even to other scythes. But it’s about time you stopped making enemies.” It was easier said than done. Goddard was a man who always defined himself not only by what he stood for, but by what he stood against. Complacency, false humility, stagnation, and the sanctimonious bickering of old-guard scythes who would steal all the joy from their calling. Making enemies was Goddard’s greatest strength.

And then one fell right into his lap. Or rather took an elevator there.

“I’m sorry, Your Excellency, but he says he’s a holy man, and that he speaks for the Tonists,” said Scythe Spitz—a junior scythe ordained after the death of the Grandslayers. He was all nerves and apologies, glancing at Goddard, Nietzsche, and Rand as he spoke, as if leaving any one of them out of the conversation would be an inexcusable offense. “I wouldn’t have brought this to you—I mean, we just would have gleaned him—but he said you’d want to hear what he had to say.” “If the Overblade listened to what every Tonist had to say,” said Nietzsche, “there’d be no time for anything else.” But Goddard put his hand up to silence Nietzsche. “Check that he’s unarmed, and bring him to my receiving hall,” Goddard said. “Nietzsche, go with Scythe Spitz. Size this Tonist up yourself.” Nietzsche huffed, but went with the junior scythe, leaving Goddard alone with Rand.

“Do you think it’s the Toll?” Goddard asked.

“Sounds like it,” said Rand.

Goddard smiled broadly. “The Toll has paid us a visit! Will wonders never cease.” The man who stood waiting for them in the receiving hall certainly looked the part in his ceremonial attire. Spitz and Nietzsche stood on either side of him, holding him tightly.

Goddard sat on his own personal seat of consideration. Nothing as overbearing as the chairs of the Grandslayers, but suitable. It was just as awe-inspiring as it needed to be.

“What can I do for you?” Goddard asked.

“I wish to broker a peace between scythes and Tonists.”

“And are you this ‘Toll’ person, who has given us such trouble?” Goddard asked.

The man hesitated before he spoke. “The Toll is my creation,” he said. “A figurehead, nothing more.” “So who the hell are you?” asked Rand.

“My name is Mendoza,” he told them. “I’m the curate who the Toll has relied on all this time. I’m the true conductor of the Tonist movement.” “My position on Tonists is clear,” Goddard pointed out. “They are a scourge on the world, and better off gleaned. So why should I entertain anything you say?” “Because,” said Mendoza, “I was the one who armed the Sibilants in SubSahara—a region that openly opposed you. Since that attack, the region has been much more friendly toward you, hasn’t it? In fact, both of the candidates for High Blade are new-order thinkers—which means SubSahara will be fully aligned with you by their next conclave.” Goddard found himself momentarily speechless. That attack couldn’t have been more perfectly timed if he had planned it himself. It deflected attention from the Mile High gleaning, while removing a troublesome High Blade.

“The Overblade doesn’t need or want your help,” Nietzsche sniped, but once more Goddard put up his hand to shut the man up.

“Don’t be so hasty, Freddy,” Goddard said. “Let’s hear what the good curate proposes.” Mendoza took a breath and made his case.

“I can mobilize the more aggressive Tonist factions to wage attacks on regions you consider to be your enemies, taking down troublesome administrations.” “And what do you want in return?”

“The right to exist,” Mendoza said. “You would call for attacks on us to cease, and Tonists would become a class officially protected from bias.” Goddard grinned. He had never met a Tonist he liked, but he was disliking this one less and less. “And of course you’d want to be their High Curate.” “I wouldn’t refuse the position,” Mendoza admitted.

Rand folded her arms, not convinced, not trusting the man. Nietzsche, having been shut down one too many times, didn’t offer an opinion. He just watched to see what Goddard would do.

“That,” said Goddard, “is an audacious proposal.”

“Not unprecedented, Your Excellency,” Mendoza offered. “Visionary leaders have often found alliances with the clergy to be mutually beneficial.” Goddard pondered. Cracked his knuckles. Pondered some more. Finally, he spoke. “The punitive gleanings of Tonists can’t stop, of course—that would be too suspicious. But they can be lessened in time. And if things go the way you say they will, I can see a time, once their numbers are diminished, that I might support Tonists as a protected class.” “That’s all I’m asking, Your Excellency.”

“What about the Toll?” asked Rand. “How does he play into all of this?” “The Toll has become a liability to the Tonists,” Mendoza told them. “He’s better as a martyr than a man—and as a martyr I can spin him into whatever we need him to be.”