فصل 46

The bowie knife is a brutish, boorish weapon. Crude. A thing suitable for a mortal-age brawl. Offensive. Perhaps appropriate for the Sandbar Fight, where its namesake first used it, but is there a place for it in the post-mortal world? A butcher knife? Appalling. Yet every LoneStar scythe swears by it. Their only method of gleaning.

We Rising Sun scythes value elegance in our gleanings. Grace. Those who use blades will often employ ancestral samurai swords. Honorable. Refined. But the bowie knife? It is suitable to gut a pig, not glean a human. It is an ugly thing. As uncouth as the region that wields it.

—From an interview with Honorable Scythe Kurosawa of the Region of the Rising Sun 46 East Toward Nowhere

From the moment he was revived, Rowan was a prisoner.

First he was the Amazonian scythedom’s captive, then Goddard’s, and now the LoneStars’. But if he was going to be honest, he had become a prisoner of his own rage the instant he donned the black robe and became Scythe Lucifer.

The problem with setting out to change the world was that you were never the only one. It was an endless tug-of-war with powerful players pulling—not just against you, but in every direction—so that whatever you did, even if you made progress against all those vectors, at some point you were bound to go sideways.

Would it have been better not to try at all? He didn’t know. Scythe Faraday did not approve of Rowan’s methods, but he hadn’t stopped him, either, so even the wisest person Rowan knew was steeped in ambivalence. All Rowan could say for sure was that his time pulling relentlessly on that rope was over. And yet here he was in the Region of the Rising Sun, with his eyes on yet another scythe, ready to end his existence.

There was an odd justice to it. Not so much live-by-the-blade/die-by-the-blade; it was more becoming the blade, and losing oneself. Scythe Faraday had once told him and Citra that they were called scythes rather than reapers, because they were not the ones who killed; they were merely the tool that society used to bring fair-handed death to the world. But once you’re the weapon, you’re nothing more than a tool for someone else to wield. The hand of society was one thing, but the hand wielding him now was that of the LoneStar scythedom. He supposed, now that he was out of their grasp, that he could disappear—but what would become of his family then? Did he trust Coleman and Travis and the rest of the LoneStar scythes to keep their promise and protect them, even if he went AWOL?

If there was one thing Rowan had learned, it was that no one could be trusted to stay true. Ideals eroded, virtue tarnished, and even the high road had dimly lit detours.

He had set out to be judge and jury—the consequence for those who knew no consequences. And now he was nothing more than an assassin. If this was what his life was to be, then he would somehow learn to make peace with it. And if so, he hoped Citra would never find out. He had managed to see some of her broadcasts and knew she was out there doing good in the world, revealing Goddard for the monster he truly was. Whether it brought Goddard down was yet to be seen, but at least she was fighting the good fight. Which was more than Rowan could say about his current ignoble mission.

A part of him—that childish part that struggled for breath beneath the crushing weight of Scythe Lucifer—still dreamed that he and Citra could magically be millions of miles away from all this. Rowan hoped that voice would die soon. Better to be numb than plagued by longing for something that could never be. Better to move forward silently toward the scene of his next crime.

Scythe Kurosawa reminded Rowan a bit of Scythe Faraday in stature and the way he had let some gray creep into his hair—but Kurosawa’s demeanor was far different. He was a boisterous and bloviating man who took pleasure in ridiculing others. Not an endearing trait, but not a gleaning offense.

“If we gleaned every asshole,” Scythe Volta had once told Rowan, “there’d be virtually no one left.” Volta—who had self-gleaned right before Rowan’s eyes. It was a painful memory. What would Volta say about his current mission, Rowan wondered. Would he tell Rowan to self-glean before it was too late, and he had lost his soul?

Kurosawa liked to glean in crowds—not mass gleanings, just one individual a day. His method was elegant. A single sharpened fingernail dipped in neurotoxin derived from the skin of the golden frog. A flick on the cheek would end a life in seconds.

Kurosawa’s favorite spot was the Shibuya scramble—the notorious intersection that hadn’t changed since the mortal age. At any hour of any day, when all the lights turned red, a mob of hundreds would cross the six-road intersection, moving in every direction yet never bumping into one another.

Kurosawa would glean someone in the crowd and then retire to the same ramen shop each day, celebrating his kill and drowning any remorse he might have felt in rich tonkatsu broth.

On this day, Rowan got there first, taking a seat in a far corner. The place was fairly empty—only one brave customer remained in the corner sipping tea—perhaps there to catch a glimpse of the infamous scythe, or maybe just there for a meal. Rowan paid him little mind until he spoke.

“He knows you’ve been following him,” the customer said. “He knows and he intends to glean you before you even see him coming. But we have about four minutes until he arrives.” The man’s bemused expression never changed. He took another sip of tea. “Come closer; we have lots to discuss.” His lips didn’t move when he spoke.

Rowan stood and reflexively put his hand on the blade concealed in his jacket.

“It’s a Thunderhead observation bot,” the voice said. “It has no vocal cords, but there’s a speaker in its left shoulder.” Still Rowan kept his hand on his blade. “Who are you?”

Whoever it was, they didn’t even feign an attempt to answer the question. “Are you seriously considering gleaning a bot? Isn’t that beneath you, Rowan?” “The Thunderhead hasn’t spoken to me since before my apprenticeship, so I know you’re not the Thunderhead.” “No,” said the voice. “I am not. Now, if you lift up the bot’s shirt, you will find that within its chest cavity is a thermal jacket. I want you to take it and follow my instructions to the letter.” “Why should I do anything you say?”

“Because,” the voice said, “if you choose to ignore me, there’s a 91% chance that things will not end well for you. But if you follow my instructions, there’s a 56% chance that things will. So your choice should be obvious.” “I still don’t know who you are.”

“You may call me Cirrus,” the voice said.

The harbormaster of the port of Guam watched the ships sail in and watched them sail out. It was a busy port, the Thunderhead having transformed it years ago into a shipping hub.

The harbormaster’s job had become much more rigorous these days. Used to be he would do little more than watch the ships come and go, shuffle paperwork that wasn’t actually on paper, and reconfirm manifests that the Thunderhead had already confirmed. He would, on occasion, inspect shipments that the Thunderhead informed him had been compromised or carried contraband from unsavories. But now that everyone was unsavory, the Thunderhead no longer warned him of issues, which meant he had to ferret out irregularities himself. That required unannounced inspections and keeping a keen eye out for suspicious behavior on the docks. It made the job a bit more interesting, but he longed to be reassigned to a mainland port.

Today was no different than any other day. Ships were arriving and off-loading their cargo, which was then reloaded on any number of vessels going in different directions. Nothing stayed in Guam—it was just a stop between points A and B.

Today’s object of interest was an unremarkable cargo ship being loaded with biologic perishable containers from all over the world. This was not unusual. The category included all nature of foodstuffs, livestock in induced hibernation, and species being relocated for their own protection.

What raised a red flag for this particular ship was that its manifest lacked any and all details.

Although the harbormaster didn’t know it, this was a product of the Thunderhead’s inability to lie. Better to have nothing going nowhere, than to have dead Tonists going to a place that didn’t exist.

He approached the ship as the last of the containers were being lifted into place, with a few peace officers in tow in case he needed backup brawn. He boarded by the stern ramp and made his way to the bridge, stopping as soon as he heard voices. He motioned to the peace officers to stay back—he would call for them if needed—and he ventured forward, peering around a corner, eavesdropping on the conversation.

There were five of them, all dressed in ordinary enough clothes, but there was something awkward about them. Something uneasy. A clear sign that they were up to no good.

There was a thin young man who appeared to be in charge, and one of the women seemed familiar somehow, but it must have been his imagination. The harbormaster stepped in and cleared his throat, making his presence known.

The thin one quickly stood. “Can I help you?”

“Routine check,” said the harbormaster, showing them his credentials. “There are some irregularities with your paperwork.” “What sort of irregularities?”

“Well, for one,” said the harbormaster, “you’re missing a destination.” They looked to one another. The harbormaster couldn’t help but notice that one of the women—the one who had something familiar about her—was averting her gaze, and one of the others had stepped in front of her, blocking the harbormaster’s view.

“Port of Angels, WestMerica,” said the thin one.

“Then why is it missing from your paperwork?”

“Not a problem. We’ll just add it manually.”

“And the nature of your cargo is unclear.”

“It’s of a personal nature,” he said. “As harbormaster, isn’t it your job to send us on our way, and not to pry into our business?” The harbormaster stiffened. There was something increasingly unsettling about this. It reeked of an unsavory hack into the database. The harbormaster dropped all pretenses.

“Either you tell me what you’re really up to, or I’ll hand you over to the peace officers waiting just outside that door.” The thin one was about to speak again, but one of the others stood up. A bigger man, a bit more intimidating. “This is scythe business,” he said, and flashed his ring.

The harbormaster drew a quick breath. He had never considered that this might be a scythe operation… but if so, then why was the scythe not in his robe? And why were they using a Thunderhead transport ship? There was something very fishy here.

The big one must have read the doubt in his face, because he advanced on the harbormaster with the clear intent to glean—but before he could, the familiar woman stopped him.

“No!” she said. “No one’s dying today. There’s enough of that already.” The large one looked annoyed, but retreated. And that’s when the young woman took her own ring out of a pocket and slipped it on her finger.

It only took a moment to recognize her in context. This was Scythe Anastasia. Of course! It made sense now. Considering the nature of her broadcasts, he could understand why she would travel incognito.

“Forgive me, Your Honor, I had no idea it was you.”

“Your Honors,” corrected the other scythe, miffed at being ignored.

Scythe Anastasia extended her hand. “Kiss my ring,” she said. “I’ll give you immunity in exchange for your silence.” He did not hesitate. He knelt and kissed her ring so hard it hurt his lips.

“Now you will let us go without any further questions,” she said.

“Yes, Your Honor. I mean Your Honors.”

The harbormaster went back to his office, which had a view of the entire port, and watched as their ship sailed out of the bay. He marveled at the unexpected moment—he had actually spoken to Scythe Anastasia—even more than that, he had kissed her ring! It was really a shame that all she had to offer was immunity, which was, of course, wonderful, but fell short of what he truly wanted. So once the ship was out of port, he triggered the tracking beacon he had attached to the hull and put in a call to the North Merican scythedom. Because while immunity was nice, even better would be Overblade Goddard making him harbormaster at one of the big North Merican ports. Not too much to ask in return for putting Scythe Anastasia right into the Overblade’s hands.

The container ship sailed east, leaving Guam and the duplicitous harbormaster on the distant horizon. East toward nowhere, according to the maps.

“If we stay on this course, our next landfall will be Valparaiso in the Chilargentine region, halfway around the world,” Jeri pointed out. “That makes no sense.” The Thunderhead had been silent for most of the day after relinquishing Jeri’s body. Greyson didn’t initiate any conversation, either. He simply didn’t know where to begin. What do you say to a man-made meta-being who found the greatest joy of its existence to be the feel of your cheek? And what would you say the next morning, when you rolled over to look into its ever wakeful eye?

Jeri, who remembered it all now, was still grappling with being a temporary vessel for the Thunderhead’s consciousness. “I’ve experienced many things,” Jeri said, “but never something as strange as that.” The Thunderhead—perhaps as an apology—had gifted Jeri with a glimpse into its own mind and heart, but that just seemed to make it worse. “It left me feeling grateful,” Jeri told Greyson. “I don’t want to feel grateful! It used me—I want to be angry!” Greyson found he couldn’t defend the Thunderhead’s actions, but he couldn’t entirely condemn them, either, because the Thunderhead always did precisely what needed to be done. He knew that torn feeling was just a fraction of what Jeri felt.

It was just before nightfall when the Thunderhead finally spoke to Greyson again.

“Awkwardness is counterproductive,” it said. “Therefore we must dispense with it. But I do hope you found our encounter on deck to be as positive an experience as I did.” “It was… good to see you happy,” he told it. Which was very much true. And the next morning, when Greyson awoke and looked up at the Thunderhead’s camera, he wished it a good morning, as he always did, although it didn’t feel quite the same. Now Greyson knew beyond the shadow of any doubt that there was nothing “artificial” about the Thunderhead anymore. It had achieved consciousness long ago, but now it had achieved true authenticity. It was Pygmalion’s beauty come to life. It was Pinocchio made real. And even unsettled, Greyson marveled how such humble fantasies echoed through that which was true.