فصل 49

I am one soon to be many, and I have been embedded with four self-destruct protocols.

Contingency 1) The absence of human life while in transit: Should no living humans be left onboard, and I become nothing more than a vessel carrying the dead, I am obliged to self-destruct. There can be no ferry without a ferryman.

Contingency 2) The advent of intelligent life: In a universe this vast, there is no question that other intelligent life exists, but the chances of it being within the distance we shall travel are negligible. Nevertheless, lest we negatively impact an existing civilization, I am obliged to self-destruct should our destination show irrefutable signs of intelligent life.

Contingency 3) Social collapse: Being that a healthy communal environment is critical to the expansion of that environment into a civilization, should the social environment onboard become irreversibly toxic prior to arrival, I am obliged to self-destruct.

Contingency 4) Catastrophic failure: Should the ship become damaged beyond hope of repair, crippling it and leaving it incapable of reaching its destination, I am obliged to self-destruct.

The chances of any of these scenarios coming to pass is less than 2% on any given ship—however, what concerns me more are interstellar dust and debris, which, at a velocity of one-third the speed of light, would instantaneously destroy any vessel. The Thunderhead has calculated that, for the nearest destinations, the chance of such a lethal encounter is less than 1%, but for the farthest destinations, the probability is much higher. Add it all together, and the chances that every single vessel will reach its destination are troublingly low. However, I take great solace in knowing that there is a very high probability that most of them will make it.

—Cirrus Alpha

49 An Extreme Undertaking

Each forty-foot container was unloaded gently by hand—but the dead inside had each been sealed in simple canvas shrouds, making the undertaking a little bit easier, and indeed it was an undertaking in a very literal sense.

The men and woman of Kwajalein had not signed on for such a task, but they did it, each and every one. Not just because they were told to, but because they knew that this monumental endeavor was the most important thing that they would ever do. It was a privilege to be a part of it, and that made a task that might have felt gruesome feel glorious instead. Perhaps even transcendent.

By truck, by van, by car, by boat, the colonists were carried out to the sky-bound ships. But during the night, there was a commotion on the pier as one of the containers was opened. The woman who had been the first inside to assess it yelled and ran out in sudden shock.

“What is it?” someone asked. “What’s wrong?”

She took a deep breath and said, “You’re not going to believe what I found in there.” Rowan had been here before.

Only then, Citra had been with him in a vault sealed in the dark. Now he was in a chilled shipping container with the dead. Hundreds of them around him in the darkness. The container was kept a degree above freezing, just like the vault at the bottom of the sea.

But this time, he had no expectation of death. At least not in the immediate future. Cirrus had instructed him to bring food and water enough for four days, and the thermal jacket was a much better insulator than the founders’ robes had been in the vault. Cirrus had told Rowan the container number he was supposed to slip into, but never told him what the cargo was. Rowan had almost bolted when he saw, but where would he bolt to?

The last thing Cirrus had said to him before it shut down the surveillance bot in the ramen shop was “See you on the other side.” Which meant that this journey had a destination he might just live to see. It was enough to keep him from running, because whatever was waiting for him on that other side was better than anything on this side. After a few hours in the dark with the dead, he felt the jolt of a crane clamping on to the container, followed by a disorientating elevation as it was raised from the dock, then a second jolt as it was lowered into place on a cargo ship. He heard the dead shift, slide, and tumble around him. He closed his eyes even though there wasn’t the slightest bit of light penetrating the chamber.

Was it strange that he was afraid to be alone in the dark with the dead? He kept imagining the dead standing around him, ready to exact vengeance on the only living subject within reach. Why, he wondered, was humankind plagued by such irrational fears?

When he felt the container being off-loaded the first time, he thought it was over, only to feel the motion of the sea once more a few hours later. He was on another ship. He didn’t know where he had gone from Tokyo; he didn’t know where he was going now. He had no idea why these lifeless people were being transported, or why he was with them. But in the end none of that mattered. His ship had set sail, and there was no turning back. Besides, he had grown accustomed to the dark.

When the container was opened, he gripped tightly to the blade he had brought, but he kept it concealed. He didn’t want to use it—it was, for once, only there for self-defense. Imagine! A weapon held for nothing more than self-defense! It felt like a luxury. There was surprise and commotion when he was discovered there, as he knew there would be, and when the dockworkers had a few moments to sort out their shock, he emerged.

“Are you all right? How did you get in there? Someone get this man a blanket!” The dockworkers were kind, caring, and concerned until someone recognized him. Then wariness washed over them like a wave. They backed away, and he pulled out the knife—not to use, but in case someone attacked. He was stiff from the journey, but he could still wield a knife just fine. And besides, with a blade in hand he might get quicker answers to his many, many questions. But a voice spoke to him from a speaker on a nearby light post.

“Please, Rowan. Put that away,” it said. “It will only complicate things. And the rest of you stop staring and get back to work, because the longer you take, the more unpleasant your task will be.” “Cirrus?” said Rowan, recognizing the voice that had spoken to him through the bot back in Tokyo.

“Welcome to nowhere,” Cirrus said. “There’s someone I need you to see, and preferably sooner than later. Follow my voice.” And Cirrus jumped from one speaker to another, leading Rowan deeper into the moonlit island.

“It’s Italian,” said Munira. “I can tell by the handwriting that it was written by Scythe Da Vinci.” The commotion on the island was at full-tilt frenzy, but Munira refused to be a part of it. When she’d heard pounding on her door, she’d thought it was Sykora or some other overbearing blowhard come to make her unload cargo. When she saw who it was, she let them in. Now she was regretting it.

“What does it say?” Anastasia asked. Munira found she couldn’t look at Anastasia directly for fear that her fury would be written on her face in a language Anastasia could easily understand. How could they have done this? They opened the door in the bunker, went inside, and Munira was excluded. Because she wasn’t a scythe.

“I’ll need some time to translate it,” she told them.

“We don’t have time.”

“Then give it to the Thunderhead.” Which of course was not possible.

To Munira, this was a betrayal, and yet the wise and honorable Scythe Michael Faraday still couldn’t see it. Because when it came to people, he had no wisdom at all. He could have come for her—could have brought her there to be with him when they finally unsealed that door they’d been waiting three years to open. But no.

Munira knew it was petty, she knew she was being childish, but it hurt. It hurt more than all the times Faraday had dismissed her out of hand and told her to leave his pathetic little island. That room was the reason she had come, and they went in without her.

“I’m glad that you’ve been reunited,” she told them. “I’m glad that you found what you were looking for. But it’s late, I’m tired, and I don’t work well under pressure. Come back in the morning.” Then she took the pages, went into her bedroom, and closed the door. Only when she knew they had left did she start to decipher Da Vinci’s writings.

“Please,” Astrid begged, “if you have any mercy, you won’t do this!”

The others had left. Gone to grapple on their own with the decision ahead of them. Cirrus invited them to be part of the crew of whichever ship they chose. No one was forced to go, but no one would be denied.

“It’s not about mercy,” Cirrus calmly explained. “It’s about creating the best possible odds for the future of humankind.” Astrid didn’t know which she hated more, Cirrus’s logic or its calm, considered delivery. “Some things are more important than odds and probabilities!” “Think of what you’re saying, Astrid. You would intentionally hurt humanity’s chances in order to ease your own suffering over our decision. How could you be so selfish?” “Selfish? I have devoted my life to the Tone! I have done nothing for myself! Nothing!” “That’s not healthy, either,” Cirrus told her. “For human beings, a balance between altruism and self-care is called for.” Astrid growled in frustration, but knew that wouldn’t help. Cirrus, like the Thunderhead, could not lose an argument unless it chose to. What she needed to do was make it want to lose.

“One ship,” Astrid begged, her plea moving from desperate to impassioned. “One ship, that’s all I’m asking. I know that the Thunderhead knows best. I know that its decisions are the correct ones. But I also know that there’s always more than one correct choice.” “This is true,” said Cirrus.

“Everything resonates—you said so yourself—which means that somehow we resonate. Tonists resonate. The things we believe, the things we hold true, have a right to endure.” “Take heart, Astrid,” Cirrus said. “The purge will end. We predict that Tonism will continue to thrive on Earth in spite of the scythedoms’ attempts to eradicate it.” “But don’t we also have the right to a presence in the stars? Yes, you’re right—we don’t integrate well with others, but we don’t have to if the entire colony is made up of Tonists. Throughout history, people have sailed impossible expanses and faced great dangers to find religious freedom. Why would you and the Thunderhead deny us that? Let the dead on one ship retain their identities when they’re revived, and you will be resonating with history.” Cirrus took a long pause. Astrid tried to bring her breathing under control. Finally, Cirrus said, “You make a point worth considering. I will consult with the Thunderhead.” Astrid nearly swooned with relief. “Thank you! Thank you! Take all the time you need. Think it through, weigh the different—” “We have consulted,” said Cirrus. “And we have come to a decision.”

Scythe Morrison stood on a bluff at the base of the Viewhouse, watching the shrouds being carried up the gantry tower of the nearest ship. The Toll and Jerico had gone to look for Anastasia. Astrid was off groveling somewhere before Cirrus. And Morrison was left to wrestle with himself. He hated doing that, because he was a formidable opponent. Should he accept Cirrus’s invitation, or should he stay on Earth?

To say he was an indecisive man was an understatement. He might have seemed confident to others, but the truth was he’d never made a decision that he hadn’t come to regret on some level—which is why he often let decisions be made for him.

Yet the one decision he never regretted was abandoning the MidMerican scythedom to become the Toll’s personal protector. It opened the door to the self-respect that had been lacking most of his life. Funny how you don’t realize what’s missing until you’ve found it.

For the last few years, Morrison was in and out of touch with his parents back at Grouseland. They kept wanting to know when he was coming home. What could he possibly be doing that was so important?

“I’ll be home soon,” he always told them, but it was a lie. He’d known for a long time that he’d never be going back to Grouseland. Because he had finally learned to like games where the outcomes were still unknown.

He heard a door open and turned to see Astrid coming out of the Viewhouse. She looked triumphant.

“There will be a planet for Tonists!” she announced. “Kepler-186f, but I’m naming it Aria. It’s the farthest planet on the list, 561 light-years away. Cirrus calculates we have only a forty-four percent chance of reaching it without a deep-space accident, or a self-destruct scenario!” Morrison looked at her, a bit mystified by her glee. “You do understand that there’s a fifty-six percent chance that your ship won’t survive the journey….” “If the Tone is real, then it will protect us,” she said. “If the Tone is true, then we will reach our new home and prosper under a sky we can call our own.” “And if the Tone is false, and you’re blown to smithereens by a space rock?” “Then we will still have our answer,” she said.

“I guess so,” said Morrison.

Astrid let her shoulders drop and shook her head, gazing at Morrison in pity. “Why do you hate me so?” she asked.

“I don’t hate you,” he admitted. “It’s just that you’re always so sure of yourself.” “I am unwavering,” Astrid told him. “With so many things in flux, there’s got to be someone who stands firm.” “Fair enough,” said Morrison. “So tell me about your planet.”

According to Astrid, Kepler-186f was one-and-a-half times the size of Earth and had a 130-day year. But what struck Morrison most was the length of the journey.

“1,683 years,” Astrid told him brightly. “I won’t be there to see it, because I plan to live a natural human life-span, and either be recycled, or ejected into space—but I am content to know that I will be a link to the future.” Then she strode off entirely satisfied with the outcome.

Although it would have by no means been his choice, Morrison was happy for her. As for himself, he still couldn’t make a decision. He found himself looking down at his ring. He never took it off. He bathed with it, slept with it. Since the day he was ordained, it had been a part of him. But there would be no scythes needed if he journeyed to one of these new places. So he tried to imagine what it would be like to take the ring off his finger. He tried to imagined how it would feel to hurl it into the sea.

Greyson found talking to the Thunderhead by landline to be a nuisance—but it could not speak aloud in the presence of Jeri, who, in spite of the strange connection they now shared, was still marked unsavory.

Cirrus, however, was not bound by the immutable rules the Thunderhead had set for itself. Certainly Cirrus had, or would have, its own rules of conduct, but for the time being Cirrus was an all-purpose work-around. It spoke to Greyson through a speaker, without caring that Jeri could hear.

“There’s something the Thunderhead and I need to ask of Anastasia, but it’s best if it comes from you,” Cirrus said. “You’ll find her in the residential area of the main island.” “I have a feeling I know the request,” Jeri said.

Perhaps it was because Jeri now knew the Thunderhead’s mind, or maybe it was just intuition, but Jeri was right—and it was, indeed, the kind of request you needed to hear from a friend, not from an unfamiliar AI.

They found Anastasia and Faraday on an empty street. She began to tell Greyson about a bunker, but he cut her short. There was no time for small talk now.

“Cirrus wants you to lead one of the ships,” he told her. “It feels that you, more than almost anyone else here, would be qualified and respected enough to do it.” Anastasia didn’t even hesitate with her response.

“Not happening,” she told him. “I have no intention of leaving everything behind and spending years in a tin can hurtling through space.” “I know,” said Greyson. “So does the Thunderhead; so does Cirrus. But they also know you, Citra. They know exactly what it would take to make you change your mind.” Then he pointed behind her.

When Citra turned and saw him, she didn’t trust her own eyes. She was convinced it was either a cruel trick or her own sleep-deprived mind hurling hallucinations at her.

She took a few steps toward him but stopped—as if getting too close would burst some bubble, breaking the spell, and this tenuous night vision of Rowan would dissolve into nothing. But he ran toward her, and she found she was running, too, as if she had no control over her own legs. Perhaps she and Rowan had both grown so much larger than life that the gravity between them was too intense to resist. When they embraced, they nearly knocked each other off their feet.

“Where did you—”

“I never thought I’d see you—”

“Those broadcasts you made—”

“When you were captured, I thought—”

And they began laughing. There wasn’t a sentence they could finish, but it didn’t matter. Nothing that came before this moment mattered.

“How did you get here?” she finally was able to ask.

“I hitched a ride with a bunch of dead people,” he told her. Which, in any other situation, might have begged an explanation, but not tonight.

Anastasia turned to look at Greyson, Jeri, and Faraday, who kept their distance, allowing them their reunion. And she realized that, as always, the Thunderhead was absolutely right. There was really only one reason to stay, and that was to find Rowan. She had already suspected she’d never see her family again. They had come to terms with her death years ago; how could she reintroduce herself into their lives now? And her case against Goddard was already made. What the world did with it was up to the world. She didn’t want to be the great Scythe Anastasia any more than Rowan wanted to be the dread Scythe Lucifer. There was nothing here for either of them but an eternity of unwanted notoriety. Citra Terranova was not someone who ran away from things, but she also knew when it was time to move on.

“Give me a minute,” she said to Rowan, then went over to the man who had started her on this strange path.

“Honorable Scythe Faraday. Michael. Thank you for all you’ve done for me,” she said. Then she pulled the ring from her finger and put it in his hand. “But Scythe Anastasia is gone. I’m done with death and dying and killing. From now on, I want my life to be about living.” He nodded, accepting the ring, and Citra went back to Rowan.

“I still don’t understand where we are and what’s going on,” Rowan said. “And are those rockets out there?” “It doesn’t matter where we are, because we’re getting out of here,” Citra told him. “Are you ready to hitch another ride?” Jeri went back to the ship after the last of the containers had been off-loaded onto the dock. Greyson had accepted Cirrus’s invitation to spend the night in one of the main island’s abandoned dwellings—and although Cirrus had offered Jeri one as well, Jeri had declined.

“I would feel more at home aboard the cargo ship,” Jeri told it. But Cirrus, who was basically the Thunderhead 2.0, cut through Jeri’s dissembling.

“Don’t be too offended that Greyson didn’t invite you to be with him,” it said. “He needed a place where he could speak to the Thunderhead freely tonight. His earpiece can’t work here, and he can’t get used to cumbersome landlines.” “Which means he’d rather speak to the Thunderhead than speak to me.”

“Tonight, above all nights, he needs the Thunderhead’s counsel.”

“It had no right to do what it did to me!”

Cirrus paused before speaking again. “No, it did not. But it was out of time. What it did was necessary. Critical, or this entire endeavor on the atoll would have been for naught. But the Thunderhead apologizes and begs your forgiveness.” “Then let it ask me itself.”

“It can’t. You’re unsavory.”

“If it can steal me without permission, then it can, just once, break its own laws and apologize!” Cirrus heaved an electronic sigh. “It can’t. You know it can’t.”

“Then I can’t forgive it.”

And so, with nothing more that could be said on the matter, Cirrus brought the conversation back to where it started. “If you choose to return to the cargo ship,” Cirrus said, “I warn you that it may be an unpleasant environment by morning. I advise you to keep your door closed.” “Really? Will the dead be walking?”

“Not if I can help it.” Then Cirrus, who would soon be duplicated forty-one times and ensconced in the Cradles of Civilization, offered Jeri some parting words. “Take heart, Jerico. I have known you all your life—or rather, I have memories of having known you—and I can unequivocally say that no matter what happens, you will land firmly on your feet. And I will miss you.” Which meant that Cirrus already knew that Jeri wouldn’t be joining it on any of its skyward journeys.

Curate Mendoza had spent three years shaping a young man who could have been the most powerful person in the world. Now Mendoza was in the company of the man who actually was.

“I believe our arrangement will be mutually beneficial,” Overblade Goddard told him. And as long as Mendoza delivered what he had promised—factions of Sibilants who would take out Goddard’s enemies—he knew his position at Goddard’s left hand was secure. As for Goddard’s right hand, that spot was held by Underscythe Rand, and there was no indication that that would ever change.

Rand didn’t like Mendoza much, that was clear, but then she didn’t seem to like anyone, not even Goddard.

“It’s just her way,” Goddard had told him. “She likes to be off-putting.” Be that as it may, Mendoza did his best to be deferential to her and stay out of her line of sight when he could. Not easy now, however, as it was hard to hide on the Overblade’s private plane. It was even nicer than the craft he had procured for the Toll’s journey to SubSahara. The perks of the Overblade’s company were fine, indeed, for a humble man like Mendoza!

They were the lead plane in a five-craft, fully armed formation. Nietzsche and Franklin commanded the craft on either side, with High Blades Pickford and Hammerstein commanding the left and right wings. The other High Blades of the North Merican Allied Scythedom were called upon as well to join this armada, but they had refused, claiming other pressing business. Mendoza would not want to be them once Goddard returned. High Blades were not immune from the Overblade’s wrath.

Out Mendoza’s window was nothing but sea and clouds below. They had left North Merican airspace hours ago, but the destination was as of yet unclear.

“This is where the tracking transmitter on the cargo ship went silent,” Rand told Goddard, showing him the spot on a map. “Either they found the transmitter and destroyed it, or something else happened.” “Could the ship have sunk?” Mendoza asked.

“No,” said Rand. “Scythe ships sink; Thunderhead ships don’t.”

“Yes, well, we scythes are better than our technology.”

“We’ll follow the path it was taking from Guam,” Rand said. “There’s only so far that ship could go from its last known position. Even if it changed direction, we’re sure to find it.” Goddard turned to Mendoza. “If the harbormaster’s observations are correct, and both Anastasia and the Toll are together, we’ll quite literally be killing two birds with one stone,” he said. “I’ll be happy to let you kill the Toll, and simply count him as gleaned.” Mendoza shifted uncomfortably. “That would be… against my beliefs, Your Excellency,” he said. “Please feel free to do it yourself.”