فصل 31

31

The Trajectory of Yearning

The Arch had fallen in the Age of Mortality, when Fulcrum City had been called St. Louis. For many years, the great steel span had stood on the western bank of the Mississippi River, until it was brought down by hatred in an epoch where unsavories didn’t just play at evil deeds, but actually accomplished them on a regular basis.

All that was left of it now were the ends; two rusting steel pylons reaching heavenward, at a slight lean toward each other. In daylight, from certain angles, it played a trick on the eye. One could almost see the trajectory of their yearning, following their invisible paths up and across. One could see the ghost of the entire arch just from the hint of its bases.

Scythes Anastasia and Curie arrived in Fulcrum City on the first day of the year—five days before Winter Conclave, which always took place on the first Tuesday of the new year.  At Scythe Curie’s urging, they paid a visit to the unrequited arms of the Arch.

“It was the last act of terrorism accomplished before the Thunderhead ascended and put an end to such nonsense,” Scythe Curie told Citra.

Citra had learned about terror. There had been a unit in school dedicated to the subject. Like her classmates, Citra had been baffled by the concept. People bringing about the permanent end of others without having a license to do so? People destroying perfectly good buildings, bridges, and other landmarks for the sole purpose of denying others the privilege of their existence? How could any of that have ever really happened? Only after joining the scythedom did Citra understand the concept—and even then, it hadn’t hit home until she saw the Orpheum Theater burn, leaving nothing of its grandeur but the memory. The theater wasn’t the target, but the unsavories who attacked them didn’t care about the collateral damage.

“I often come here to visit the remains of the Arch at the start of a new year,” Scythe Curie said as they strolled through the winter-bare but well-tended paths of the riverside park. “It humbles me. It reminds me of the things we’ve lost—but also of how much better our world is now than in mortal days. It reminds me why I glean, and gives me the fortitude to stand tall in conclave.” “It must have been beautiful,” Citra said, looking at the rusted ruin of the north pylon.

“There are pictures of the Arch in the backbrain,” Marie told her, “if you ever feel like mourning what was lost.” “Do you?” Citra asked her. “Do you ever mourn what was lost?”

“On some days, yes, on others, no,” Scythe Curie said. “Today I am determined to rejoice in what we’ve gained, rather than what was lost. Both in the world, and personally.” Then she turned to Citra and smiled. “You and I remain alive and unharmed, in spite of two attempts to end us. That is worth celebrating.” Citra returned Marie’s smile, then gazed once more at the rusting pylons, and the park in which they sat. It reminded Citra of the Mortality Memorial in the park where she had secretly met Rowan. The thought of Rowan made her heart sink. Word had reached her of the fiery end of Scythe Renoir. Although she wouldn’t admit it out loud, and barely could admit it to herself, she longed for news of more dead scythes—because another gleaning by Scythe Lucifer would mean that Rowan had not been caught.

Renoir had been ended nearly a month ago. She couldn’t guess where Rowan was now, or who he was planning to end next. He wasn’t limiting himself to MidMerican scythes, which meant he could be anywhere. Anywhere but here.

“Your mind wanders,” Scythe Curie observed. “This place can do that to you.” Citra tried not to linger on those wanderings. “Are you ready for conclave next week?” she asked.

Marie shrugged. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“They’ll all be talking about us,” Citra said. “I mean, after the attempts on our lives.” “I’ve been the center of attention at conclave before,” Marie said dismissively. “And so have you, dear. It’s neither negative nor positive in itself—it’s what you do with the attention that matters.” From the other side of the north pylon came a group of people. They were Tonists. Twelve of them. When they weren’t traveling alone, Tonists always traveled in groups of either seven or twelve, representing the seven notes of the diatonic scale and the twelve notes of the chromatic scale. They were ridiculously slavish to the mathematics of music. Tonists could often be found sniffing around architectural ruins, searching for the so-called Great Fork, which was supposed to be hidden within some mortal-age bit of engineering.

While other people slipped away when they saw scythes in the park, the Tonists stood their ground. Some even glared. Citra began to walk toward them.

“Anastasia, what are you doing?” asked Marie. “Just let them be.”

But Scythe Anastasia wouldn’t stop a thing once she had committed herself to it. Neither, for that matter, would Citra Terranova.

“What order are you?” she asked the one who looked like he might be their leader.

“We are Dorian Tonists,” he said. “But I can’t see why that’s any of your business.” “If I wanted you to get a message to someone in a Locrian monastery, would you be able to?” He stiffened. “We Dorians do not associate with Locrians,” he said. “They are far too lax in their interpretation of doctrine.” Citra sighed. She didn’t know what message she’d want to pass on to Greyson. Perhaps just gratitude for saving her life. She had been so upset that he hadn’t been Rowan, that she had treated him poorly, and had never even thanked him for what he had done. Well, it didn’t matter now, because clearly no message would be getting to him.

“You should go,” the lead Tonist said to her, his face cold and judgmental. “Your stench offends us.” Citra actually laughed at him, and her laughter made him redden. She’d come across Tonists who were kind and accepting, others who were all about selling their particular brand of crazy. She made a mental note that Dorian Tonists were assholes.

Scythe Curie came up beside her then. “Don’t waste your time, Anastasia,” she said. “They have nothing to offer you but hostility and harangues.” “I know who you are,” said their leader with a caustic enmity even greater than that he’d shown to Citra. “Your early deeds have not been forgotten or forgiven. Someday, your score will be settled.” Marie reddened with fury. “Are you threatening me?”

“No,” he said. “We leave justice to the universe. And what rings out always echoes back.” Which Citra figured was the Tonist version of  “What goes around comes around.” “Come, Anastasia,” Marie said. “These zealots aren’t worth another second of our time.” Citra could have just walked away, but the man’s attitude begged for her to play with them a little. So she held out her ring.

“Kiss it,” she said to him.

Scythe Curie turned to her, shocked. “Anastasia, why on earth would you—” But she cut Marie off. “I said kiss it!” She knew he wouldn’t, but she also suspected that some of the others in the group might be tempted. “I’ll grant a year of immunity to any of you who steps forward to kiss my ring.” Their leader paled, terrified that this turquoise harbinger of unnatural death might steal his entire flock away.

“Intone!” he shouted to them. “Drive them away!”

And they all began a bizarre open-mouthed humming—each of them droning a different note, until they sounded like a swarm of bees.

Citra lowered her ring and held the leader’s gaze for a moment more. Yes, he had triumphed over her temptation, but only barely, and he knew it. She turned her back on them and left with Scythe Curie. Even though the scythes were gone, they continued to drone, and probably wouldn’t stop until their leader told them to.

“What was the use of that?” Marie chided. “Haven’t you ever heard the expression, ‘Leave a cult to its cacophony?’ ” Marie seemed unsettled as they left the park, probably because of the memory of her brother.

“I’m sorry,” Citra said. “I shouldn’t have kicked a hornet’s nest.”

“No, you shouldn’t have.” Then after a moment, she said, “As infuriating as Tonists are, he was right about one thing.  Your deeds will always come back to haunt you. It’s been almost a hundred and fifty years since I routed the rotting vestiges of government to clear the path for a better world. I never paid a price for those crimes. But someday, the echo will return.” Scythe Curie spoke no more of it, but her words lingered just as powerfully as the Tonists’ droning, which Citra could swear she still heard in her head for the rest of the day.

There are many moments in my existence where I have been confounded by “circumstances beyond my control.” What most come to mind are the disasters in space.

On the moon, there was a catastrophic leak that exposed the entire supply of liquid oxygen to the vacuum of space, leaving nearly a thousand people to suffocate—and all attempts to retrieve their bodies for revival met with failure.

On Mars, a fledgling colony lasted for almost a year before a fire consumed the entire complex and everyone within it.

And the NewHope orbital station—a prototype that I had hoped would eventually form a habitable ring around the Earth, was destroyed when the engines of an approaching shuttle misfired, and pierced the station like an arrow through its heart.

After the NewHope disaster, I terminated the colonization program—and although I still employ millions in research and development of technologies that could potentially be used in the future, those employees and those facilities often succumb to bad luck.

However, I do not believe in bad luck. Nor, in this circumstance, do I believe in accidents or coincidence.

Trust me when I say that I have a keen understanding of what things—and people—are “beyond my control.” —The Thunderhead