فصل 52

A Testament of the Toll

Rise!” the Toll called, amid the fearsome Thunder. “Rise and leave this place behind, for I have set a place for you on high.” Then the Toll stood in the ring of fire, and, arms outstretched in the brimstone flames, he raised us up to the womb of Heaven, where we slept until the Tone called to us to be reborn, never to forget that the Toll remained in the Place Behind so that he might bring hope and intone songs of healing to that ancient wounded world. All rejoice!

Commentary of Curate Symphonius

It is this, the Brimstone Elevation, that is another of our core beliefs. While scholars disagree about many things, no one disputes the truth of the Elevation, only the interpretation. But such things are best traced back to the earliest stories. We can safely say that “the ring of fire” refers to the wheels of the Charioteer as he carried the sun across the sky, stealing it from the Place Behind and carrying it to Aria, thus leaving that place in darkness. To this day, we believe that the Toll’s spirit ministers and sings to the sunless of the old land, for they need him so much more than we do.

Coda’s Analysis of Symphonius

Symphonius relies too much on oral tradition. The Brimstone Elevation could have been many things. A volcanic eruption, for instance, that drove our subterranean ancestors to discover the surface, and see stars for the first time. And it is ridiculous to think that the Charioteer stole the sun. In fact, our great thinkers now believe that there may be other charioteers, not just one, pulling suns across countless skies—or perhaps there are no charioteers at all. But whatever the truth, I know that someday we will know it, and that will be a reason for us all to rejoice.

52 Ninety-Four Point Eight

Somewhere far away, and getting farther, a dozen people took Scythe Anastasia’s robe and lovingly turned it into a shroud. They carefully sewed it, decorated it as best they could, then set her down in the hold. A single turquoise shroud amid the pale canvas. She froze within minutes.

“You can’t just leave her there!” Rowan screamed at Cirrus. “You wanted her here! You wanted her in charge! She told me so!” “I know,” Cirrus told him. “But, like the Thunderhead, I can’t violate my core programming. The dead will all be revived when we arrive on TRAPPIST-1e, in 117 years. Although people are already considering renaming it Anastasia.” “She’s a scythe! That means she’s not bound by your rules like the rest of the dead!” “She renounced her scytheship yesterday.”

“That doesn’t matter! It’s a lifetime appointment! Scythes can do whatever they want—even give up their ring—but they never stop being scythes!” “Point taken,” said Cirrus. “In that case, I’ll let her retain her identity. I will bring her back as herself, without implanting her with someone new. In 117 years.” Rowan punched the wall. The artificial gravity was lighter than Earth’s, so the force of his punch actually pushed him backward.

“TRAPPIST-1e only has about three-quarters the gravity of Earth,” Cirrus told him. “I’ve matched our rotation to simulate the gravity there, so you need to be careful.” “I don’t want to be careful!” he said. “What I want is to be down there with her, just like I was in the vault.” He couldn’t stop his tears now. He hated that Cirrus could see them. He hated Cirrus. And the Thunderhead, and Goddard, and everyone on Earth who made this happen. “I want to be with her,” Rowan told Cirrus. “That’s what I want. I want to be frozen with her for the next 117 years.” “You may choose that, of course,” Cirrus said. “But if you stay with us, there is a high probability that you would grow to be an effective leader on this ship. You might not think so now, but in time people will warm to you. Your presence here will drop the chances of catastrophic social collapse down to nil. I would very much like you to remain alive.” “I don’t give a shit what you want.”

The hold was shaded from the sun, so the temperature of its contents were far below freezing. It was also airless, so anyone entering needed a space suit. Rowan descended through the airlock fully suited with his helmet flashlight on. She was easy to find. He wanted to touch her, but his gloves were thick, and he didn’t want to feel how hard she’d become within her shroud. He lay down near where she had been placed.

He could let it happen slowly. Just let his oxygen run out. But hadn’t Citra said when they were in the vault that oxygen deprivation was worse than hypothermia? Hypothermia was only bad until you stopped shivering and gave in to the wave of exhaustion. This wouldn’t be death by hypothermia, though—not in the traditional sense. When he opened his face mask, he would asphyxiate and freeze all in the same moments. He didn’t know whether or not it would be painful, but it would be quick.

He lay there for a good long time. He was not afraid of this. There wasn’t a thing about death that frightened him anymore. What kept sticking in his mind was Citra. She wouldn’t want him to do this—in fact, she’d be furious. She would want him to be stronger. So he stayed there for the better part of an hour, reaching for the button to open his face mask, and then taking his hand away again and again.

Then finally he stood up, gently touched the edge of Citra’s turquoise shroud, and returned to the realm of the living.

“What are our chances of making it there?” Rowan asked Cirrus.

“Very favorable,” Cirrus told him. “94.2 percent. 94.8, now that you’ve decided to remain alive.” “Good,” said Rowan. “Here’s how this is going to work. I will stay alive for the full 117 years without turning a single corner.” “Difficult, but it can be done. You’ll need nanite infusions and constant monitoring toward the end.” “Then,” continued Rowan, “when you revive her, I will turn the corner. You will set me back to the age I am right now.” “That won’t be a problem at all. Although after 117 years, your feelings may change.” “They won’t,” said Rowan.

“Conceded,” said Cirrus. “It’s just as likely that they won’t. And maintaining your devotion might even make you a more effective leader!” Rowan sat down. He was the only one on the flight deck. No one needed to be here anymore. The others, whoever they were, were getting to know one another and the ship. Everyone coming to terms with the limited environment to which they’d have to adapt.

“I believe,” said Cirrus, “that you and I are going to be great friends.” “I despise you,” said Rowan.

“Now you do, yes,” said Cirrus, “but remember: I know you, Rowan. There’s a very high probability that your hatred won’t last.” “But in the meantime,” said Rowan, “I’m really enjoying hating you.”

“I completely understand.”

Which only made Rowan hate Cirrus all the more.