فصل 53

It is my sad duty to inform you that High Blade Hammerstein of EastMerica has fallen to what can only be described as a pox. Overblade Goddard’s continued absence suggests that he, too, has been lost. In light of that, I hereby withdraw WestMerica from the North Merican Allied Scythedom, so that we may tend to our own dead.

While it would be tempting to blame Tonists for this global attack, or even the Thunderhead itself, evidence has surfaced in the form of lost writings from Scythe Da Vinci, suggesting that this event might be the mythic fail-safe of the founding scythes. If so, I can’t imagine what they were thinking, and frankly, I’m too weary to try.

To those who are suffering, I wish you a quick passage. To those of us who remain, I wish you solace, and the hope that our shared grief will draw all of humankind closer to one another.

—Her Excellency, High Blade Mary Pickford of WestMerica, September 16th, Year of the Cobra 53 The Paths of Pain and Mercy

They came to be known as “the ten plagues,” for the founding scythes had developed malicious nanites engineered to imitate nature. They mimicked the symptoms and ravages of ten mortal diseases. Pneumonia, heart disease, stroke, cancer, cholera, smallpox, tuberculosis, influenza, bubonic plague, and malaria. They were there all along in the dark hearts of the scythe gems—gems that could only be broken from the inside when the nanites within were activated.

It only took a few days for the entire world to be infected. Even so, the malicious nanites remained completely dormant in most people. Only one in twenty developed symptoms—but if you were one of the unlucky ones, there was no hope of recovery. Death was either quick or prolonged, depending on the nature of the plague, but it was always inevitable.

“Can’t you do something about it?” Greyson asked the Thunderhead as the death toll began to roll in.

“This was a scythe action,” the Thunderhead told him. “It was the last scythe action—but I am still unable to interfere. And even if I could, it is simply not my place. I have seen into the heart of these nanites, and they have none. They have no consciousness, conscience, or remorse. They are efficient, impartial, and they have but one purpose: to kill 5% of Earth’s human population, five times a century.” “So this will end?”

“Yes,” the Thunderhead told him. “This crisis will pass, and once it does, no one will die for twenty years. Then it will happen again. And again.” And although it sounded terrifying, the math was less awful than it seemed. Someone born today would have a 77% chance of living to one hundred. A 60% chance of living to two hundred. 46% to three hundred. The population would be controlled, and almost everyone would live long and healthy lives. Until they didn’t.

Was it better than scythes? Well, Greyson guessed it depended on the scythe. Either way it didn’t matter, since every scythe was basically fired.

“There have still been some killings,” the Thunderhead told him—no longer calling them gleanings. “Some scythes can’t quite adapt and are killing people who the nanites have not selected. I will, of course, revive their victims, and rehabilitate the scythes. They will need to find a new purpose. Indeed, some have already found a way to fit within this new paradigm, and it pleases me.” Greyson and Jeri chose to stay, for the time being, in Kwajalein. There was nothing left of the homes and structures on many of the islands. In time wildlife and foliage would return, but in the meantime, there were still some islands that never saw construction and remained untouched. And there was also that vacant resort on Ebadon—the westernmost island, where no ship had been built. It was already beginning to attract people who were making a pilgrimage to see where it all happened. Not to mention the Tonists who came to view “the great fork” with their own eyes—which is what they were calling the transmitter that still protruded from the old bunker.

Perhaps, Greyson, thought, he’d take a job at the resort, because unlike Anastasia and Scythe Lucifer, no one knew his face. After all the things he’d seen and done, he wouldn’t mind a simple life as a tour guide, or a desk clerk, or a water-taxi pilot. Anything but a bellhop. He was done with odd uniforms.

But he did realize that some basic things would need to change. One thing in particular. The Thunderhead knew him well, so maybe it already knew what he was about to do.

Two weeks after the ships launched and the scythe rings broke, Greyson stood alone on a charred launchpad as the sun rose, and put in his earpiece. With the transmitter shut down, all interference was gone. The blind spot was fully within the Thunderhead’s sphere of influence now. Nothing was hidden from it.

“Thunderhead,” Greyson said. “We need to talk.”

It took a moment before answering. “I am listening, Greyson.”

“Since the day you began speaking to me again, I gave you permission to use me any way you needed to.” “Yes, you did. And I thank you for that.”

“But you used Jeri without permission.”

“It was necessary,” the Thunderhead said. “And I am genuinely sorry. Have I not expressed sufficient remorse?” “You have. But there are still consequences. Even for necessary things.” “I broke none of my laws….”

“No… but you broke mine.”

A sudden surge of emotion welled up in Greyson. Tears began to cloud his eyes, reminding him how much the Thunderhead had meant, and still did mean, to him. But he could not let that stop him. If there was anything he’d learned from the Thunderhead, it was that consequences could not be ignored.

“Therefore,” he said through his tears, “I can no longer speak to you. You are… unsavory to me.” The Thunderhead’s voice became slow. Thick. Mournful. “I… I understand,” it said. “Might I ever be redeemed in your eyes, Greyson?” “When will humanity be redeemed in yours?” he asked.

“In time,” said the Thunderhead.

Greyson nodded his agreement. “In time, then.”

And before he could change his mind, or either of them could say farewell, Greyson removed his earpiece and crushed it on the charred ground.

In spite of all the Thunderhead knew, it learned something each and every day. Today it learned what it meant to be inconsolable—truly inconsolable—for there was no one in the world who could ease its despair.

And it mourned.

It seeded the clouds and brought a deluge to every place in the world it could. A cleansing rain so dense and so sudden, people ran for shelter. But not a storm. There was no thunder, no lightning. It was a tearful lament, silent but for the thrum of the rain on rooftops and streets. In this rain, the Thunderhead poured forth its grief. A surrender of all the things it would never have. An acknowledgment of all the things it must never be.

Then, when the heavens were spent, the sun came out as it always did, and the Thunderhead got back to the solemn business of taking care of things.

I will be alone, the Thunderhead told itself. I will be alone, but it is right that I should be. It is necessary.

There had to be consequences. For the good of the world—for the love of the world—things must be sacrificed. Even in its pain, the Thunderhead took solace in knowing that it had made the most correct choice. As had Greyson.

That afternoon, once the rains had passed, Greyson and Jeri walked along the beach of the main island, near where the first ship had exploded. The fused sand and even the charred wreckage were beautiful in their own way. At least it seemed that way to Greyson when he was with Jeri.

“You didn’t need to do that,” Jeri said when Greyson mentioned his final conversation with the Thunderhead.

“Yes I did,” Greyson answered, and that was all they spoke of it.

As they strolled, the sun slipped behind a cloud, and Greyson loosened his grip on Jeri’s hand, just a little. He hadn’t intended to, but this was all so new, and things take time. He and the world had much to adjust to.

That slight change in grip made Jeri smirk. It was yet a new variation, and as always, unreadable.

“You know, Scythe Anastasia once told me how she might live her life, if she were like me,” Jeri said. “A woman on land, a man at sea. In honor of her I’m going to try it, and see how it feels.” They walked farther down the beach to a spot where the sand was untouched. Then they took off their shoes and let the surf wash across their feet.

“So,” said Greyson as the gentle surf churned up the sand beneath them, “are we on land or at sea now?” Jeri considered it. “Both, actually.”

And Greyson found he liked that just fine.

Another revival center. Great. Had he splatted again? He had no memory of splatting. Besides, it had been a while since he had done that.

What had he been doing?

Oh, right, he was on his way to some party job. In Texas. The LoneStar region. Wild place, probably had crazy-ass parties. He was kind of done with the party-boy scene, though. They were paying top dollar for whatever this job was, but once it was done, he figured it was time he found something more stable. More permanent. There were people who partied their lives away. He was done with that, just like he was done with splatting.

He reached up and rubbed his eyes. It felt a little weird. Something about his face. The bridge of his nose. More rigid than he remembered. Revival always left you with odd sensations, but this was different.

He ran his tongue across his teeth. They didn’t feel like his teeth. He took a good look at his hands. They were his hands, no question—at least one thing was as it should be—but when he reached up to feel his face again, there was stubble on his cheek. He barely had any facial hair, much less full stubble—and his cheekbones seemed to be in the wrong place. This face was not his face. What the hell was going on here?

“There’s nothing to worry about,” he heard someone say. “You’re still seven-eighths yourself. Even more, now that your memory construct is in there.” He turned to see a woman sitting in the corner. Dark hair and an intense gaze. She was dressed in green.

“Hello, Tyger,” she said with a very satisfied smile.

“Do I… know you?”

“No,” she said. “But I know you.”

The scythe arrived late on a cold November afternoon. There was no brightening of sun, no foreshadowing of the arrival of deliverance at their door. But when they saw him, the family inside threw the door open wide and stepped back to allow him plenty of room to enter.

“You are welcome in our home, Your Honor. Please, this way. Hurry!”

Scythe Faraday did not hurry. He moved with the same thoughtful intent with which he lived his life. Patience. Purpose. Duty.

He proceeded to the bedroom, where a man had been wasting away for weeks. Coughing, wheezing, grimacing. His eyes betrayed desperation when he saw Faraday. Fear, but also relief.

“Can you hear me?” Faraday asked. “You are suffering from the seventh plague, but I’m sure you must know that already. Your pain nanites are overwhelmed. There is nothing that anyone can do for you. There is only one prognosis: intensifying pain, wasting, and finally death. Do you understand this?” The man nodded feebly.

“And do you wish me to help you?”

“Yes, yes,” said the man’s family. “Please help him, Your Honor. Please!” Scythe Faraday put up his hand to quiet them, then leaned closer to the man. “Do you wish me to help you?” The man nodded.

“Very well.” Faraday took out from his robe a small jar and popped open a safety lid. Then he slipped on a protective glove. “I have chosen for you a soothing balm. It will relax you. You may notice a brightening of colors, and a sense of euphoria. And then you will sleep.” He bade the man’s family to move in around him. “Take his hands,” Faraday told them. “But be careful not to touch any place where I apply the balm.” Then Faraday dipped two gloved fingers into the oily salve and began to spread it across the dying man’s forehead and cheeks. Faraday stroked the man’s face gently, moving down to his neck as he spread the balm. Then he spoke to the man in a voice that was barely a whisper.

“Colton Gifford,” he said. “You have lived an exemplary life these past sixty-three years. You’ve raised five wonderful children. The restaurant you began and ran for much of your life has brought joy to tens of thousands over the years. You have made people’s lives a little bit better. You’ve made the world a finer place.” Gifford moaned slightly, but not from pain. It was clear from the look in his eyes that the balm was having its euphoric effect.

“You are loved by many, and will be remembered long after your light goes out today.” Faraday continued to smooth in the salve on his face. Across his nose. Beneath his eyes. “You have much to be proud of, Colton. Much to be proud of.” In a moment, Colton Gifford closed his eyes. And a minute later his breathing ceased. Scythe Faraday capped the balm and carefully removed the glove, sealing it and the balm in a biohazard bag.

This was not the first and would not be his last sympathy gleaning. He was in great demand, and other scythes were following his lead. The scythedom—or what was left of it after the global revolts—had a new calling. They no longer brought uninvited death. Instead they brought much-needed peace.

“I hope,” he told the family, “that you will remember to celebrate his life, even in your grief.” Faraday looked into the tear-reddened eyes of the dead man’s wife. “How did you know all those things about him, Your Honor?” she asked.

“We make it our business to know, madam,” he said. Then she kneeled as to kiss his ring—which he still wore, in spite of everything, to remind him of what had been, and what was lost.

“No need to do that,” Faraday told her. “It’s just an empty setting now. No gem, no promise of immunity.” But that didn’t matter to her. “Thank you, Your Honor,” she said. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.” Then she kissed his ruined ring. She, and every member of Colton Gifford’s grateful family.