فصل 11

11

A Hiss of Crimson Silk

Unsavory! To Greyson, it was like a piece of gristle in his mouth. He couldn’t spit it out, but he couldn’t swallow it either. All he could do was continue to chew it, hoping it would somehow grind down into something digestible.

Unsavories stole things, but never got away with it. They threatened people, but never followed through. They spouted profanities, and oozed attitude like a musk—but that’s all it was; a stench. The Thunderhead always prevented them from accomplishing anything that was truly bad—and the Thunderhead was so good at it, the unsavories had long since given up everything beyond petty misdemeanors, posturing, and complaining.

The Authority Interface had a whole bureau dedicated to dealing with them, because unsavories weren’t allowed to talk to the Thunderhead directly. They were always on probation, and had to check in with their officers on a regular basis. The ones who pushed the limit were actually assigned their own personal peace officer to monitor them every hour of the day. It was a successful program, as evidenced by how many unsavories actually married their peace officers and became productive citizens again.

Greyson couldn’t imagine himself being among people like that. He had never stolen anything. There had been kids at schools who played at being unsavory, but it was never serious—it was just a thing that kids did, and grew out of.

Greyson was inoculated with a dose of his new life even before arriving home. The publicar he took read him the riot act even before it left the Nimbus Academy.

“Please be aware,” it told him, “that any attempt at vandalism will result in the immediate suspension of this journey, and expulsion to the roadside.” Greyson pictured an ejector seat launching him skyward. He would have laughed at the thought, if there wasn’t a small part of him that believed it might actually be like that.

“Don’t worry,” he told the car. “I’ve been expelled once today, and once is enough.” “All right, then,” said the car. “Tell me your destination, avoiding the use of abusive language, please.” On the way home, he stopped at the market, realizing that his refrigerator had been empty for two months. In the checkout line, the checker eyed him suspiciously, as if he were going to pocket a pack of gum. Even the people in line felt cold to him. The aura of prejudice was palpable. Why would people choose this? he wondered. And yet people did. He had a cousin who was unsavory by choice.

“It’s freeing not to care about anyone or anything,” his cousin had told him. Ironic, because he’d had iron chains surgically implanted into his wrists—a body modification trendy among unsavories these days. So much for being free.

And it wasn’t just strangers who treated him differently.

Once he got home and unpacked what little belongings he had taken with him to the academy, he sat down and messaged a few friends, to let them know that he was back and things hadn’t gone the way he had hoped. Greyson had never been the kind to cultivate deep friendships. There was no one to whom he had ever bared his soul, or explored his deepest vulnerabilities. He had the Thunderhead for that, after all. Which meant that he now had nothing. His friends were fair-weather at best. Cohorts of convenience.

He got no responses, and he marveled at how easily the veneer of friendship could be stripped to the raw. Eventually, he called a few of them. Most just let the call go to voice mail. The ones who picked up clearly had done so accidentally, not realizing it was him calling. Their screens showed that he was now marked unsavory, so they quickly, and as politely as they could, ended the call. Although no one went so far as to block him, he doubted they’d take a communication from him again in any form. At least not until the big red U was removed from his profile.

What he did get were messages from people he didn’t know.

“Dude,” one girl wrote, “welcome to the pack! Let’s get drunk and break something.” Her pic showed a shaved head and a penis tattooed on her cheek.

Greyson shut his computer and hurled it against the wall. “How’s that for breaking something?” he said to the empty room. This perfect world might have a place for everyone, but Greyson’s place was not in the same universe as the girl with the penis tattoo.

He retrieved his computer, which, indeed, had cracked but was still functional. No doubt a new one was being dispatched to him by drone—unless unsavories didn’t get their broken hardware automatically replaced.

He got online again, deleted all incoming messages, because they were all from other unsavory welcome-waggoneers, and in his frustration wrote a message to the Thunderhead.

“How could you do this to me?”

The response was immediate. It said “ACCESS TO THE THUNDERHEAD’S CONSCIOUS CORTEX IS DENIED.” He thought this day couldn’t possibly get any worse. And then the scythedom showed up at his door.

• • •

Scythes Curie and Anastasia had no reservation at the Louisville Grand Mericana Hotel. They just walked up to the registration desk and were given a room. This was the way of things; scythes never needed reservations, or tickets, or appointments. At hotels, they were usually given the best room available, and if there were none, a room would magically appear in their inventory. Scythe Curie was not interested in the best. She requested their most modest two-bedroom suite.

“How long will you be staying with us?” asked the Clerk. He had been nervous and fidgety from the moment they approached. Now his eyes darted back and forth between them, as if taking his eyes off of one of them for any length of time would prove lethal.

“We will stay until we choose to leave,” Scythe Curie told him, taking the key. Citra offered him a smile to set him a bit more at ease as they left.

They refused the bellhop, and chose to carry their own bags. No sooner had they put them down in the suite than Scythe Curie was ready to go out. “Regardless of our personal concerns, we have a responsibility to uphold. There are people who must die,” she told Citra. “Will you glean with me today?” It was amazing to Citra that Marie could already put the attack behind her and get on with business as usual.

“Actually,” said Citra, “I have to follow up on a gleaning I set last month.” Scythe Curie sighed. “Your method makes so much more work for you. Is it far?” “Just an hour by train. I’ll be back before dark.”

Scythe Curie stroked her long braid, contemplating her junior scythe. “I could go with you, if you like” she offered. “I could glean just as easily there as here.” “I’ll be fine, Marie. Moving target, right?”

For an instant she thought Scythe Curie would insist on coming, but in the end, she didn’t push the issue. “Fine. Just keep your wits about you, and if you see anything that seems remotely suspicious, let me know immediately.” Citra was sure the only suspicious thing at the moment was herself, because she had lied about where she was going.

• • •

In spite of Scythe Curie’s admonition, Citra could not just walk away from the boy who had saved their lives. She had already done the requisite research on him. Greyson Timothy Tolliver. He was about six months older than Citra, although he looked younger. His life record showed absolutely nothing of note, either positive or negative. That wasn’t unusual—he was like most people. He simply lived. His existence had neither highlights nor low points. That is, until now. His tepid, milquetoast existence had now been spiced and broiled in a single day.

When she looked at his life record, the blinking “unsavory” warning juxtaposed with the doe-innocent eyes of his picture almost made her laugh. This kid was about as unsavory as a Popsicle. He lived in a modest town house in Higher Nashville. Two sisters in college, dozens of older half-siblings from whom he was completely disconnected, and absentee parents.

As for his timely appearance in the road, his statement about it was already public record, so Citra was able to review it. She had no reason to doubt his word. Were the situation reversed, she might have done the same.

Now that he was no longer a Nimbus student, contact with him wasn’t forbidden, so paying him a visit violated no law. She wasn’t sure exactly what she hoped to accomplish by seeking him out, but she knew that until she did, the moment of his death would linger with her. Perhaps she just needed to see with her own eyes that he lived again. She had become so used to seeing the light in people’s eyes go out for good, perhaps a part of her needed evidence of his revival.

When she arrived on his street, she saw a squad car belonging to the BladeGuard—the elite police force that served the scythedom—parked out front. For an instant, she considered just leaving, because if officers of the BladeGuard saw her, word of Scythe Anastasia’s appearance here would surely make it back to Scythe Curie. That was one reprimand she wanted to avoid.

What convinced her to stay were the memories of her own experience with the BladeGuard. Unlike peace officers, who answered to the Thunderhead, the BladeGuard had no oversight but the scythedom—which meant they could get away with a whole lot more. Basically, whatever scythes allowed them to get away with.

The door was unlocked, so she let herself in. There, in the living room, Greyson Tolliver sat in a straight-backed chair, and looming over him were two brawny guards. His hands were locked into the same kind of joined steel bracelets that had been put on Citra when she was accused of having killed Scythe Faraday. One of the guards held a device that Citra had never seen before. The other was speaking to the boy.

“ . . . of course none of that has to happen if you tell us the truth,” Citra heard the guard say, although she missed the list of unpleasantries the guard was threatening.

So far, Tolliver seemed unharmed. His hair was mussed a bit, and he looked woefully resigned, but other than that, he seemed fine. He was the first to see her there, and when he did, there was a spark of something in him, lifting him out of that sad, impassive state—as if his revival had somehow not been complete until he saw that she, too, was still alive.

The guards followed his gaze and saw her. She made sure that she spoke first.

“What’s going on here?” Citra asked, in her haughtiest Scythe Anastasia voice.

For an instant the guards looked panicked, but quickly became subservient.

“Your Honor! We didn’t know you’d be here. We were just questioning the suspect.” “He is not a suspect.”

“Yes, Your Honor. Sorry, Your Honor.”

She took a step toward the boy. “Did they hurt you?”

“Not yet,” he said, then he nodded to the device that the taller guard held, “but they used that thing to shut off my pain nanites.” She’d never even known such a device existed. She put her hand out to the guard who held it. “Give it to me.” And when he hesitated, she got a little louder. “I am a scythe and you serve me. Hand it over or I will report you.” Still, he didn’t hand it to her.

That’s when a new piece entered this little game of chess. A scythe stepped in from another room. He must have been there all along listening, gauging the interaction for the right moment to insert himself. He timed it perfectly to catch Citra off guard.

She recognized his robe right away. Crimson silk that hissed as he walked. His face was soft, almost feminine—the result of having set his age back so many times that his basic bone structure had lost its definition, like river stones eroded by a relentless flow.

“Scythe Constantine,” Citra said. “I didn’t know you were in charge of this investigation.” The only good news about this was that if he was investigating the attempt on her and Marie’s lives, then he wasn’t out hunting for Rowan.

Constantine offered her a polite but unsettling grin. “Hello, Scythe Anastasia,” he said. “What a breath of fresh air you are in a toilsome day!” He seemed like a cat that had cornered its prey and was about to play with it. She really didn’t know what to make of him. As she had told Rowan, Scythe Constantine was not one of the terrible scythes of the new order who killed for pleasure. Nor did he align himself with the old guard, who saw gleaning as a noble and almost sacred duty. Like his red silk robe, he was slippery and smooth, siding with whoever’s agenda fit the moment. Citra did not know if that made him impartial in this investigation, or dangerous, because she had no idea where his loyalties lay.

Regardless, he was a formidable presence, and Citra felt out of her league. Then she remembered she was not Citra Terranova anymore; she was Scythe Anastasia. Recalling that transformed her, and allowed her to stand up to him. Now his grin seemed more calculating than intimidating.

“I’m pleased that you’re taking an interest in our investigation,” he said. “But I wish you would have let us know you were coming. We would have prepared refreshments for you.” • • •

Greyson Tolliver was well aware that Scythe Anastasia might have just hurled herself in front of a speeding vehicle for him—because clearly Scythe Constantine was just as dangerous as a hurtling hunk of metal. Greyson knew very little about the structure and complexities of the scythedom, but it was obvious that Scythe Anastasia was putting herself on the line by standing up to a senior scythe.

Still, she projected such a commanding presence, it made Greyson wonder if she was actually much older than she appeared.

“Are you aware that this boy saved my and Scythe Curie’s lives?” she asked Constantine.

“Under questionable circumstances,” he responded.

“Are you planning to inflict some sort of bodily harm on him?”

“And if we are?”

“Then I’d have to remind you that the intentional infliction of pain goes against everything we stand for, and I will bring you up for discipline in conclave.” The cool expression on Scythe Constantine’s face faded, but only a little. Greyson didn’t know if this was a good thing or bad. Constantine regarded Scythe Anastasia a moment more, then turned to one of the guards.

“Be so kind as to tell Scythe Anastasia what I ordered you to do.”

The guard glanced at Scythe Anastasia, met her eye, but Greyson could see he was unable to hold the gaze for more than a moment.

“You instructed us to cuff the suspect, turn off his pain nanites, then threaten him with several forms of physical pain.” “Precisely!” said Scythe Constantine, then he turned back to Anastasia. “You see, there is no malfeasance whatsoever.” Scythe Anastasia’s indignation mirrored what Greyson was feeling, but would not dare express.

“No malfeasance? You were planning to beat him until he told you whatever you wanted to hear.” Constantine sighed again, and turned back to the guard. “What did I instruct you to do if your threats yielded no results? Were you instructed to follow through on any of those threats?” “No, Your Honor. We were to come get you if his story didn’t change.”

Constantine spread his arms in a beatific gesture of innocence. It made the draping red sleeves of his robe look like the wings of some firebird ready to engulf the younger scythe. “There, you see?” he said. “There was never any intent to hurt the boy. I have found that in this painless world, the mere threat of pain is always enough to coerce a guilty party to confess wrongdoing. But this young man sticks to his story against the most unpleasant of threats. I am thus convinced he is telling the truth—and had you allowed me to complete the interrogation, you would have seen this for yourself.” Greyson was sure they could all feel the relief flow from him like an electrical charge. Was Constantine telling the truth? Greyson was in no position to judge. He always found scythes to be inscrutable. They lived their lives on a plane above, greasing the gearwork of the world. He had never heard of a scythe who intentionally inflicted suffering beyond the suffering that comes with gleaning—but just because he hadn’t heard of it didn’t mean it wasn’t possible.

“I am an honorable scythe and hold to the same ideals that you do, Anastasia,” Scythe Constantine said. “As for the boy, he was never in any danger. Although now I’m tempted to glean him just to spite you.” He let that sit for a moment. Greyson’s heart missed a beat or two. Scythe Anastasia’s face, which had gone righteously red, paled a few degrees.

“But I won’t,” Scythe Constantine said, “for I am not a spiteful man.” “Then what kind of man are you, Scythe Constantine?” asked Anastasia.

He tossed her the key to the handcuffs. “The kind who won’t soon forget what happened here today.”  Then he left with a flutter of his robe, his guards following in his wake.

Once they were gone, Scythe Anastasia wasted no time in removing Greyson’s cuffs. “Did they hurt you?” “No,” Greyson had to admit. “Like he said, it was all threats.” But now that it was over, he realized he was no better off than when they had come. His relief was quickly flooded with the same bitterness that had plagued him since the moment he was kicked to the Nimbus Academy’s proverbial curb.

“Why are you here, anyway?” he asked her.

“I suppose I just wanted to thank you for what you did. I know it cost you a lot.” “Yes,” Greyson admitted flatly. “It did.”

“So . . . with that in mind, I’m offering you a year of immunity from gleaning. It’s the least I can do.” She held out her ring to him. He’d never had immunity from gleaning before. He’d never even been this close to a scythe before this hellish week, much less a scythe’s ring. It shined even in the diffused light of the room, but its center was oddly dark. Although he wanted to keep staring at it, he found he had no desire to accept the immunity the ring would give.

“I don’t want it,” he told her.

She was surprised by that. “Don’t be stupid; everybody wants immunity.” “I’m not everybody.”

“Just shut up and kiss the ring!”

Her aggravation just fed his. Was that what his sacrifice was worth? A temporary get-out-of-death-free card? The life he thought he was going to lead was gone, so what was the point of a guarantee to prolong it?

“Maybe I want to be gleaned,” he told her. “I mean, everything I had to live for has been stolen from me, so why live at all?” Scythe Anastasia lowered her ring. Her expression became serious. Too serious. “Fine,” she said. “Then I’ll glean you.” Greyson hadn’t expected that. She could do that. In fact, she could do it before he had the chance to stop her. As much as he didn’t want to kiss her ring, he didn’t want to be gleaned, either. It would mean that the entire purpose of his existence would be to have thrown himself in front of her car. He had to live long enough to forge a purpose greater than that. Even if he had no idea what that purpose might be.

Then Scythe Anastasia laughed. She actually laughed at him. “If you could only see the look on your face!” Now it was Greyson’s turn to go red—not from anger but from embarrassment. Perhaps he wasn’t quite done feeling sorry for himself, but he wouldn’t feel sorry for himself in front of her.

“You’re welcome,” he said. “There, you thanked me, I accepted it. Now you can go.” But she didn’t. Greyson really didn’t expect her to.

“Is your story true?” she asked.

If one more person asked him that, he felt he might just blow up and leave his own crater. So he told her what he thought she wanted to hear.

“I don’t know who planted those explosives. I wasn’t part of the plot.” “You didn’t answer my question.”

She waited. Patiently. She made no threats, she offered no incentive. Greyson had no idea if he could trust her, but realized that he didn’t care anymore. He was done dissembling and spouting half-truths.

“No,” he told her. “I lied.” Admitting it felt freeing.

“Why?” she asked. She didn’t seem angry, just curious.

“Because it was better for everyone if I did.”

“Everyone but you.”

He shrugged. “I’d be in the same boat no matter what I told them.”

She accepted that, and sat down across from him, staring at him the whole time. He didn’t like that. She was once more on a plane above, thinking her secret thoughts. Who could know what machinations were spinning in the mind of a socially sanctioned killer?

And then she nodded. “It was the Thunderhead,” she said. “It knew about the plot—but it couldn’t warn us. So it needed someone it trusted who could. Someone who the Thunderhead knew would take the information and act on his own.” He was amazed at her insightfulness. She figured it out when no one else had.

“Even if that were true,” he said, “I wouldn’t tell you.”

She smiled. “I wouldn’t want you to.” She looked at him a moment more, her expression not just kindly, but maybe a bit respectful. Imagine that! Greyson Tolliver getting respect from a scythe!

She stood to leave. Greyson found he was sorry to see her go. Being left alone with his blaring U and his own defeatist thoughts was something he was not looking forward to.

“I’m sorry you were marked unsavory,” she said just before she left. “But even if you’re not allowed to talk to the Thunderhead, you can still access all its information. Websites, databases—everything but its consciousness.” “What good is all that without a mind behind it to guide you?”

“You still have your own mind,” she pointed out. “That’s got to be worth something.” The Basic Income Guarantee predated my ascension to power. Even before me, many nations had begun to pay their citizens for merely existing. It was necessary, because with increasing automation, unemployment was rapidly becoming the norm rather than the exception. So the concept of “welfare” and “social security” was reinvented as the BIG:  All citizens had a right to a small piece of the pie, regardless of their ability or desire to contribute.

Humans, however, have a basic need beyond just income. They need to feel useful, productive, or at least busy—even if that busywork provides nothing to society.

Therefore, under my benevolent leadership, anyone who wants a job can have one—and at salaries above the BIG, so that there is incentive to achieve, and a method of measuring one’s success. I help every citizen find employment that is fulfilling for them. Of course, very few of the jobs are necessary, since they could all be accomplished by machines—but the illusion of purpose is critical to a well-adjusted population.

—The Thunderhead