فصل 39

Part Six

ENDURA AND NOD

The Island of the Enduring Heart—also known as Endura—is a towering achievement of human engineering. And when I say human, I mean just that.  While it was constructed using technologies that I pioneered, it was designed and built entirely by human hands, with no interference from me. I suppose it was a matter of pride for the scythedom that it could create such a wondrous place on its own.

And, as one might expect, it is a monument to the scythedom’s collective ego. That’s not necessarily a bad thing.  There is something to be said for the architecture of anima—structures conceived in the furnace of biological passions. They have an audacious sensibility that is breathtaking and impressive, even while being somewhat offensive.

The floating island, positioned in the Atlantic, southeast of the Sargasso Sea and midway between Africa and the Mericas, is more like a massive vessel than a feature of geography. It has a circular structure, four kilometers in diameter, full of gleaming spires, lush parks, and spectacular water features. From above, it resembles the scythedom’s symbol: the unblinking eye between long, curved blades.

I have no cameras on Endura. This is intentional—a necessary consequence of the Separation of Scythe and State. While I have buoy-cams stationed throughout the Atlantic, the closest ones are twenty miles from Endura’s shore. I see the island from a distance. Therefore, all I truly know about Endura is what goes in, and what comes out.

—The Thunderhead

39

A Predatory View

Scythes Anastasia and Curie arrived on one of the scythedom’s luxurious private jets that was richly appointed, and seemed more like a tubular chalet than an airplane.

“A gift from some aircraft manufacturer,” Scythe Curie explained. “The scythedom even gets its planes for free.” Their approach pattern took them in an arc around the floating isle, giving Anastasia a stunning view. Everything that wasn’t gorgeous gardens was glistening crystal and bright titanium-white buildings. There was a huge circular lagoon in the center of the island, open to the sea.  The island’s “eye.” It was the arrival point for submersible transports, and was full of pleasure craft. In the center of the eye, set apart from everything else, was the World Scythe Council complex, connected to the mainland around it by three bridges.

“It’s even more impressive than the pictures,” Anastasia commented.

Scythe Curie leaned over to look out of the window, as well. “As many times as I’ve been here, Endura never ceases to amaze me.” “How often have you been here?”

“Perhaps a dozen times. Vacation mostly. It’s a place to come where no one looks at us strangely. No one fears us. We aren’t the immediate center of attention when we walk into a room. In Endura, we get to be human beings again.” Although Scythe Anastasia suspected that even in Endura, the Granddame of Death was a bit of a celebrity.

The tallest tower, set apart on its own hill, Scythe Curie explained, was the Founder’s Tower. “It’s where you’ll find the Museum of the Scythedom, with the Vault of  Relics and Futures, as well as the very heart for which the island is named.” But even more impressive was a series of seven identical towers, evenly spaced around the island’s central eye. One for each of the Grandslayers of the World Scythe Council, their underscythes, and their extensive staffs. The scythedom’s seat of power was a web of bureaucracy, like the Authority Interface, without the benefit of the Thunderhead to make it run smoothly—which meant it made policy at a snail’s pace, and had many months of backlogged items on its docket. Only the most urgent business was moved to the top of the list—business such as the inquest over the MidMerican election. It puffed Anastasia up a bit to know that she had created a brouhaha big enough to demand the immediate attention of the World Scythe Council. And for the council, a three-month wait was like the speed of light.

“Endura is open to all scythes and their guests,” Scythe Curie told her. “Your family could even live here, if you wanted.” Anastasia tried to imagine her parents and Ben in a city of scythes, and it made her brain hurt.

Upon landing, they were met by Scythe Seneca—Xenocrates’s first underscythe, whose drab maroon robe clashed with the brighter surroundings. Anastasia wondered how many MidMerican scythes Xenocrates had brought with him. His three underscythes were a given. If he took too many, there would be a huge need for apprentices—and that could mean an influx of more new-order scythes.

“Welcome to the Island of the Enduring Heart,” Seneca said, with his usual lack of enthusiasm. “I’ll take you to your hotel.” Like the rest of the island, the hotel was a state-of-the art affair, with polished green malachite floors, a towering crystalline atrium, and a huge service staff to meet their every need.

“It almost reminds me of the Emerald City,” Anastasia commented, recalling a mortal-age children’s tale.

“Yes,” said Scythe Curie, with a mischievous grin. “And I once did have my eyes dyed to match my robe.” Seneca had them bypass reception, where an impatient line of vacationing scythes had formed, and an irritated scythe in a robe of white feathers raged against the incompetence of the staff for apparently not meeting all his needs fast enough. Some scythes didn’t enjoy not being the immediate center of attention.

“This way,” said Seneca. “I’ll send a bellhop for your bags.”

It was here that Anastasia noticed something that had been on the edge of her perception since she had arrived. It was actually brought to her attention by a small child waiting with his family at the elevator.

He pointed to one of the elevator doors, and turned to his mother. “What does ‘out of order’ mean?” “It means that the elevator doesn’t work.”

But the boy couldn’t wrap his mind around the concept. “How can an elevator not work?” His mother had no answer, so gave him a snack instead, which distracted him.

Now Anastasia thought back to their arrival. How their flight had to circle several times before landing—something to do with the air traffic control system. And she had noticed a scrape on the side of a publicar just outside of the terminal. She had never seen such a thing before. And the line at reception. She had heard one of the clerks saying that their registration computer “is having issues.” How does a computer have issues? In the world that Anastasia knew, things simply worked. The Thunderhead made sure of it. Nothing ever had an “out of order” sign, because the instant something ceased to function, a team was sent to repair it. Nothing was ever out of order long enough to need a sign.

“What scythe are you?” asked the little boy, but with his accent, it sounded like “sath.” Anastasia pegged him as from the Texas region, although some southern parts of EastMerica had that friendly drawl.

“I’m Scythe Anastasia.”

“My uncle’s the Honorable Sath Howard Hughes,” he announced. “So we got immunity! He’s here givin’ a symphonium on how to properly glean with a bowie naff.” “Symposium,” his mother corrected quietly.

“I’ve only used a bowie knife once,” Anastasia told him.

“You should do it more often,” said the boy. “They’re double-edged at the tip. Very efficient.” “Yes,” agreed Scythe Curie. “At least more efficient than these elevators.” The boy began to swipe his hand through the air as if he were wielding the knife. “I wanna be a sath one day!” he said, which ensured that he never would be. Unless, that is, the new-order scythes gained control of his region.

An elevator arrived, and Anastasia made a move to enter, but Scythe Seneca stopped her.

“That one’s going up,” he said, flatly.

“We’re not going up?”

“Obviously not.”

She looked to Scythe Curie, who didn’t seem at all surprised.

“So they’re putting us in the basement?”

Scythe Seneca scoffed at the suggestion, and didn’t dignify it with a response.

“You forget we’re on a floating island,” Scythe Curie pointed out. “A full third of the city is below the waterline.” Their suite was on sublevel seven, and featured a floor-to-ceiling picture window filled with brightly colored tropical fish darting about. It was a stunning view that was partially blocked by a figure standing in front of it.

“Ah, you’ve arrived!” said Xenocrates, stepping forward to greet them.

Neither Scythe Curie nor Anastasia was particularly friendly with their former High Blade. Anastasia never quite forgave him for accusing her of killing Scythe Faraday—but the need for diplomacy was greater than her need to hold a personal grudge.

“We didn’t expect you’d greet us personally, Your Exalted Excellency,” said Scythe Curie.

He shook their hands in that hearty, two-handed way he had. “Yes, well, it wouldn’t do to have you visit my offices. It would have the appearance of favoritism in the matter of MidMerican High Blade.” “But you’re here,” Anastasia pointed out. “Does that mean we have your support for the inquest?” Xenocrates sighed. “Alas, I have been asked by Supreme Blade Kahlo to recuse myself. She feels I cannot be impartial—and I’m afraid she’s right.” He took a moment to look at Scythe Curie, and for a moment it seemed he had dropped his own personal defenses. He actually seemed honest. “You and I may not have always seen eye to eye, Marie, but there is no question that Goddard would be a disaster. I truly hope your inquest against him is a success—and although I am not allowed to vote, I will be rooting for you.” Which, Anastasia noted, would be of no use whatsoever. She did not know the other six Grandslayers, only what Scythe Curie had told her. Two were sympathetic to new-order ideals, two were opposed, and two were wild cards. The inquest could go either way.

Anastasia turned away from the other scythes, enamored of the view. It was a pleasant distraction from the moment at hand. It would be nice to be like those fish; to have no concerns beyond survival and blending into the school. Being just a part of the whole, rather than an isolated individual in a world turning hostile.

“Impressive, isn’t it?” said Xenocrates, coming up beside her. “Endura serves as a huge artificial reef—and the sea life in a twenty-mile radius is infused with nanites that allow us to control them.” He grabbed a tablet off the wall. “Observe.” He tapped a few times, and the colorful fish cleared away like a parting curtain. In a moment the ocean before them was full of jellyfish, deceptively soothing as they undulated beyond the huge window. “You can change your living view to anything you want.” Xenocrates held the tablet out to her. “Here, try it.” Anastasia took the tablet, and sent the jellyfish away. Then she found what she was looking for in the menu. A single reef shark approached, then another and another, until the view was full of them. A larger tiger shark punctuated the scene, eying them soullessly through the window as it passed.

“There,” said Anastasia. “A much more accurate view of our current situation.” Grandslayer Xenocrates was not amused. “No one will ever accuse you of optimism, Miss Terranova,” he said—intentionally using her birth name as a backhanded insult.

He turned away from the shark-filled view. “I will see you both at tomorrow’s inquest. In the meantime, I’ve arranged a private tour of the city for you, and excellent seats for tonight’s opera. Aida, I believe.” And although neither Anastasia nor Marie were in the state of mind for such things, they did not decline the offer.

“Perhaps a day of pleasant diversions is what we need,” Marie said, after Xenocrates had left. Then she took the tablet from Anastasia and dispersed the predatory view.

• • •

After leaving Scythes Anastasia and Curie, His Exalted Excellency, Grandslayer Xenocrates, surveyed his domain from the glass-walled, glass-roofed penthouse suite atop the North Merican tower, which had been bestowed on him upon ascending to Grandslayer status. It was one of seven such residences, each one atop the Grandslayer towers around the central eye of Endura. Within the eye, luxury submarines arrived and departed; water taxies shuttled people about; pleasure craft zigged back and forth. He could see one visiting scythe on a Jet Ski still in his robe, which was not a good idea. The fabric acted like a parasail, lifting him off the back of the Jet Ski and depositing him in the water. Idiot. The scythedom was cursed with idiots. They might have been blessed with wisdom, but common sense was a trait sorely lacking among them.

The sun beamed down on him through the glass roof, and he had his valet try to work the shades. It always seemed that the shade that would actually block the sun was inoperative, and getting a repairman was next to impossible—even for a Grandslayer.

“This is only a recent occurrence,” his valet told him. “Since about the time of your arrival, things just haven’t been working the way they should.” As if somehow this plague of functional failure were Xenocrates’s fault.

He inherited his valet from Grandslayer Hemingway. Only the scythes in Hemingway’s employ were required to self-glean along with him, but the service staff remained. It provided a sense of continuity—although Xenocrates suspected he’d eventually replace all of them, so that he didn’t have to feel they were always comparing him to their former employer.

“I find it ridiculous that the roof of this residence must also be made of glass,” Xenocrates commented, not for the first time. “I feel as if I am on display for every passing aircraft and jetpacker.” “Yes, but the crystalline appearance of the tower pinnacles is beautiful, isn’t it?” Xenocrates harrumphed at that. “Isn’t form supposed to follow function?” “Not in the scythedom,” replied his valet.

So now Xenocrates had reached the shining peak of the world. The culmination of all his life’s ambitions. Yet even now, he found himself projecting his next success. Someday, he would be Supreme Blade. Even if he had to wait for all the other Grandslayers to self-glean.

There was, even in this new elevated position, a sense of humility he had not expected. He had gone from being the most powerful scythe in MidMerica to being the junior-most scythe on the World Council—and although the other six Grandslayers had approved him for the position, it didn’t mean they were ready to treat him as an equal. Even at this high level, there were dues to pay, respect to earn.

For instance, upon his confirmation, just one day after Scythe Hemingway and his underscythes had self-gleaned, Supreme Blade Kahlo had made an offhand remark to Xenocrates in front of all the other Grandslayers.

“So much heavy fabric must be an encumbrance,” she said of his robe. “Especially here in the horse latitudes.” Then she added, without so much as a grin. “You should find a way to shed some of it.” Of course, she was not referring to a lighter fabric, but to the fact that it took so much of it to clothe him. He had gone beet-red at the comment, and when he did, the Supreme Blade laughed.

“You look downright cherubic, Xenocrates,” she said.

That evening, he had a wellness technician adjust his nanites to substantially speed up his metabolism. As High Blade of MidMerica, maintaining an impressive weight was intentional. He was imposing, and it added to the impression of him being larger than life. But here, among the Grandslayers, he felt like an overweight child chosen last for a sports team.

“With your metabolism dialed to maximum, it will take you six to nine months to reach your optimal weight,” the wellness tech had told him. It was much longer than he had patience for, but he had little choice in the matter. Well, at least he didn’t have to curb his appetite and exercise, as they had to do in mortal days.

As he pondered his slowly shrinking belly and the follies of the vacationing scythes below, his valet returned, looking a bit unsettled.

“Excuse me, Your Exalted Excellency,” he said. “You have a visitor.”

“Is it anyone I want to see?”

The valet’s Adam’s apple bobbed noticeably. “It’s Scythe Goddard.”

Which was absolutely the last person he wanted to see. “Tell him I’m busy.” But even before the valet could leave to deliver the message, Goddard barged in. “Your Exalted Excellency!” he said jovially. “I hope I haven’t caught you at a bad time.” “You have,” Xenocrates said. “But you’re already here, so there’s nothing I can do about it.” He dismissed his valet with a wave of his hand, resigned that this encounter could not be sidestepped. What was it the Tonists said? That which comes cannot be avoided.

“I’ve never seen a Grandslayer’s suite,” Goddard said, strolling about the living room, examining everything from the furniture to the artwork. “It’s inspiring!” Xenocrates wasted no time with small talk. “I wish you to know that the moment you resurfaced, I made sure that Esme and her mother were hidden away in a place you’ll never find them—so if it is your aim to use them against me, it won’t work.” “Ah yes, Esme,” said Goddard, as if thinking about her for the first time in ages. “How is your darling daughter? Growing like a weed, I imagine. Or more like a shrub. I do so miss her!” “Why are you here?” demanded Xenocrates, annoyed at Goddard’s presence, and the blasted sunlight that kept shining into his eyes, and the air conditioner that could not find a consistent temperature.

“Just to be given equal time,  Your Exalted Excellency,” Goddard said. “I know that you met with Scythe Curie this morning. It could seem biased to meet with her and not with me.” “It would seem biased because it is,” Xenocrates said. “I don’t approve of your ideas, or your actions, Goddard. I will not keep that a secret anymore.” “And yet you recused yourself from tomorrow’s inquest.”

Xenocrates sighed. “Because the Supreme Blade asked me to. Now I will ask you again, why are you here?” And once more, Goddard indulged himself in yet another beat around the bush. “I merely wished to pay my respects to you and apologize for past indiscretions, so that we may have a clean slate between us.” Then he spread his arms palms up in a beatific gesture, to indicate his new body.  “As you can see, I’m a changed man.  And if I become High Blade of MidMerica, it will be in both our interests to have a good relationship.” Then Goddard stood at the great curved window, just as Xenocrates had done a few moments before, looking down at the view, as if it might be his one day.

“I wish to know how the winds are blowing in the council,” he said.

“Haven’t you heard?” mocked Xenocrates. “There are no winds at these latitudes.” Goddard ignored him. “I know that Supreme Blade Kahlo and Grandslayer Cromwell do not support the ideals of new-order scythes, but Grandslayers Hideyoshi and Amundsen do. . . .” “If you already know that, then why are you asking me?”

“Because Grandslayers Nzinga and MacKillop have not expressed an opinion either way. It is my hope that you could appeal to them.” “And why would I do that?”

“Because,” said Goddard, “in spite of your self-serving nature, I know that you are, at heart, a truly honorable scythe. And as an honorable man, it is your duty to serve justice.” He took a step closer. “You know as well as I do that this inquest is not at all in the spirit of fairness. I believe your formidable diplomatic skills can persuade the council to put their worldviews aside and make a decision that is fair and just.” “And allowing you to become High Blade after a year’s absence, and with only seven percent of you intact, is fair and just?” “I’m not asking for that—I’m only asking that I not be disqualified before the vote is tallied. Let the MidMerican scythedom speak. Let their decision stand, whatever it is.” Xenocrates suspected that Goddard would be so magnanimous only if he somehow knew that he had won the election.

“Is that it?” asked Xenocrates. “Is that all you’ve got?”

“Actually, no,” Goddard said, and finally got to the heart of his purpose there. Rather than saying anything, he reached into an inner pocket of his robe, and pulled out another robe, folded and wrapped in a bow, like a gift. He tossed it to Xenocrates. It was black. The robe of Scythe Lucifer.

“You . . . you caught him?”

“Not only have I caught him, but I’ve brought him here to Endura to face judgment.” Xenocrates gripped the robe. He had told Rowan that he didn’t care if he was caught. That had been true; once Xenocrates knew that he was about to become a Grandslayer, capturing Rowan seemed an insignificant matter, better left to his successor. But now that Goddard had him, it changed the entire board.

“I intend to present him to the council at the inquest tomorrow, as a goodwill gesture,” Goddard said. “It is my hope that it can be a feather in your cap, rather than a thorn in your side.” Xenocrates did not like the sound of that. “What do you mean?”

“Well, on the one hand,” Goddard said, “I could tell the council that it was your efforts that led me to capturing him. I was working under your directive.” Then he paused to finger a paperweight on a table, setting it rocking back and forth. “Or I could point to the apparent incompetence of your investigation. . . . But was it really incompetence? After all, Scythe Constantine is regarded as the best investigator in all the Mericas . . . and the fact that Rowan Damisch visited you in your favorite bathhouse suggests, at the very least, collusion between the two of you, if not friendship. If people knew about that meeting, they might think, among other things, that you were behind his crimes all along.” Xenocrates drew a deep breath. It was like being punched in the gut. He could already see the brush that Goddard was holding, and it was poised to paint a huge swath across him. Never mind that the meeting was entirely Damisch’s doing, and that Xenocrates had absolutely nothing wrong. That didn’t matter. The innuendo was enough to skewer him.

“Get out!” yelled Xenocrates. “Get out before I hurl you from this window!” “Oh, please do!” said a gleeful Goddard. “This body of mine enjoys a good splatting!” And when Xenocrates made no move, Goddard laughed. Not a cruel, cold laugh but a hearty one. A friendly one. He grabbed Xenocrates’s shoulder and shook it gently, as if they were the best of comrades.

“You have no need to worry, old friend,” he said. “No matter what happens tomorrow, I will make no accusation, and will tell no one that Rowan paid you a visit. In fact, as a precaution, I’ve already gleaned the bathhouse bartender who was spreading rumors. Rest assured, whether I win or lose the inquest, your secret will be safe with me—because in spite of what you may think, I am an honorable man, too.” Then Goddard sauntered out. Swaggered was more like it—no doubt the muscle memory of the young man whose body he now had.

And Xenocrates realized that Goddard wasn’t lying. He would be true to his word. He wouldn’t cast aspersions on Xenocrates, or tell the council of how he had let Rowan Damisch go that night. Goddard wasn’t here to blackmail Xenocrates—his purpose was to simply let Xenocrates know that he could. . . .

. . . Which meant that even here, at the pinnacle of the scythedom, at the top of the world, Xenocrates was still nothing but a bug ever so carefully pinched between Goddard’s stolen fingers.

• • •

The guide giving Scythes Curie and Anastasia a personalized tour of the island’s highlights had lived on Endura for over eighty years, and exhibited a sense of pride that she hadn’t left the floating island once in all that time.

“Once you’ve found paradise, why go anywhere else?” she told them.

It was difficult not to be awed by the things Anastasia saw. Gorgeous gardens on terraced hills that looked like an actual landscape, skywalks connecting the many towers, as well as glass seawalks that ran from building to building on the island’s underbelly—each programmed with its own ambient sea life swarming around it.

In the Museum of the Scythedom, there was the Chamber of the Enduring Heart, which Anastasia had heard rumors of but until recently never believed truly existed. The heart floated in a glass cylinder, connected to biologically merged electrodes. It beat at a steady rate, its sound amplified in the room so that everyone could hear.

“One could say that Endura is alive, because it has a heart,” their guide said. “This heart is the oldest living human organ on Earth. It began beating in the mortal age, toward the beginning of the twenty-first century, as part of the earliest experiments in immortality, and hasn’t stopped since.” “Whose heart is it?” Anastasia asked.

The guide was stumped, as if she had never been asked the question before. “I don’t know,” she said. “Probably some random test subject, I suppose. The mortal age was a barbaric time. One could barely cross the street in the early twenty-first century without being kidnapped for experimentation.” But to Anastasia, the highlight of the tour was the Vault of Relics and Futures. It wasn’t a place open to the public—and even scythes had to get special permission from a High Blade or Grandslayer to see it—which they had.

It was a solid steel cubic chamber, magnetically suspended within a larger cube like a puzzle box, and was accessible by a narrow, retractable bridge.

“The central chamber was designed after a mortal-age bank vault,” their guide told them. “A foot of solid steel on all sides. The door alone weighs almost two tons.” As they crossed the bridge to the inner vault, the guide reminded them that there were no pictures allowed. “The scythedom is strict about that. Outside of these walls, this place must exist only in memory.” The inner chamber was twenty feet across, and on one side were mounted a series of golden mannequins, all dressed in aging scythe robes. One of embroidered multicolored silk, another of cobalt blue satin, another of gossamer silver lace—thirteen in total. Anastasia gasped. She couldn’t help herself, because she recognized them from her history lessons. “Are these the robes of the founding scythes?” The guide smiled, and strode past them, pointing to each as she passed. “Da Vinci, Gandhi, Sappho, King, Laozi, Lennon, Cleopatra, Powhatan, Jefferson, Gershwin, Elizabeth, Confucius, and, of course, Supreme Blade Prometheus! All the founders’ robes are preserved here!” Anastasia noted with some satisfaction that all of the female founders went by a single name, as she did.

Even Scythe Curie was impressed by the display of founders’ robes. “To be in the presence of such greatness does take one’s breath away!” So enamored was Anastasia of the robes of the founders that it took her a few moments to notice what lined the other three walls of the vault.

Diamonds! Row after row of them. The room glistened with every color of the spectrum refracting through the gems. These were the gems that had been on every scythe’s ring. They were all of identical size and shape, and all had the same dark center.

“The gems were forged by the founding scythes, and are here for safekeeping,” the guide told her. “No one knows how they were made—it is a technology lost to scythedom. But there’s no need to worry—there are enough gems here to bejewel nearly 400,000 scythes.” Why, wondered Citra, would there ever be a need for 400,000 scythes?

“Does anyone know why they look the way they do?” she asked.

“I’m sure the founders did,” their guide said, cheerily evading the question. Then she tried to dazzle them with facts about the vault’s locking mechanism.

To complete the day, they went to the Endura Opera House that evening for a performance of Verdi’s Aida. There was no threat of annihilation, and no obsequious neighbors beside them. In fact, many of those present were visiting scythes, which made getting in and out of their row a major endeavor, considering the bulkiness of all those scythe robes.

The music was lush and melodramatic. It instantly brought Anastasia back to the only other opera she had seen—also by Verdi. She had first met Rowan that night. They had been brought together by Scythe Faraday. She had not the slightest inkling that he would ask her to be an apprentice, but Rowan had known—or at least suspected it.

The opera was easy to follow: a forbidden love between an Egyptian military commander and a rival queen, which ended with eternal entombment for the two of them. So many mortal-age narratives concluded with the finality of death. It was as if they were endlessly obsessed with the limited nature of their lives.  Well, at least the music was pretty.

“Are you ready for tomorrow?” Marie asked, as they descended the grand opera house stairs when the performance was over.

“I am ready to state our case,” Anastasia said, deferring to the fact that it was not just hers, but theirs. “Not sure I’m ready to face the possible outcome, though.” “If we lose the inquest, I still might have the votes to be High Blade.” “I guess we’ll know soon enough.”

“Either way,” said Marie, “it will be an overwhelming prospect. To be High Blade of MidMerica is not something I ever desired. Well, maybe in my youth—those days when I swung my blade to bring down the bloated egos of the high and mighty. But not anymore.” “When Scythe Faraday took Rowan and me on as apprentices, he told us that not wanting the job is the first step toward deserving it.” Marie smiled at her ruefully. “We are forever impaled upon our own wisdom.” Then her smile faded. “If I do become High Blade, you realize I will, for the sake of the scythedom, have to hunt Rowan down and bring him to justice.” And although it pained Anastasia more than she could say, she nodded in stoic resignation. “If it is your justice, then I will accept it.” “Our choices are not easy—nor should they be.”

Anastasia looked out at the ocean, how it played on the water all the way to the horizon. She had never felt so far away from herself as she did here. She had never felt so far from Rowan. So far that she couldn’t even count the miles between them.

Perhaps because there were no miles between them.

• • •

In Scythe Brahms’s vacation home, not far from the opera house, Rowan remained locked away in a furnished basement with a subsea view.

“This is far better treatment than you deserve,” Goddard had told him when they arrived that morning. “Tomorrow, I shall present you to the Grandslayers, and, with their permission, will glean you with the same brutality with which you cut my head from my body.” “Endura is a glean-free zone,” Rowan reminded him.

“For you,” Goddard said, “I’m sure they’ll make an exception.”

When he was gone, and Rowan had been locked in, he sat down to take a final accounting of his life.

His childhood was unremarkable, punctuated with moments of intentional mediocrity, in an attempt not to stand out. He shined as a friend. He supposed he stood a shoulder above when it came to doing the right thing—even when the right thing was a truly stupid thing—and it seemed most of the time it was, or he wouldn’t be in the mess he was in right now.

He was not ready to leave this world, but after having gone deadish so many times over the past few months, he no longer feared what eternity might bring. He did want to live long enough to see Goddard taken down for good—but if that wasn’t going to happen, he was fine having his existence ended now. That way he wouldn’t have to watch the world fall victim to Goddard’s twisted philosophies. But not to see Citra again . . . that would be much harder.

He would see her, though. She would be there at the inquest. He would see her, and she would have to watch as Goddard gleaned him—for it was certainly part of Goddard’s plan to force her to witness it. To scar her. To ruin her. But she would not be ruined. The Honorable Scythe Anastasia was much stronger than Goddard would ever give her credit for. It would only serve to make her resolve stronger.

Rowan was determined to grin and wink at her as he was gleaned—as if to say Goddard can end me, but he can’t hurt me. And that would be the parting memory with which he would leave her. Cool, casual defiance.

Denying Goddard the satisfaction of Rowan’s terror would be almost as gratifying as surviving.

When I assumed stewardship of the Earth and established a peaceful world government, there were some difficult choices that had to be made. For the collective mental health of humanity, I chose to remove traditional seats of government from the list of viable destinations.

Places like the Merican District of Columbia.

I did not destroy that once-distinguished city, for that would have been a vile, heartless thing to do. Instead, I merely allowed it to diminish on its own, through a policy of benign neglect.

Historically, fallen civilizations left behind ruins that vanished into the landscape, only to be rediscovered thousands of years later, becoming almost mystical in nature. But what happens to the institutions and edifices of a civilization that doesn’t fall, but evolves beyond its own embarrassment? Those buildings, and the obsolete ideas they stood for, must lose their power if evolution is to succeed.

Therefore, Washington, Moscow, Beijing, and all other places that were powerful symbols of mortal-age government have been treated by me with indifference—as if they no longer matter to the world. Yes, I still observe them, and am available to any and all who need me in those places, but I don’t do anything more than is necessary to sustain life.

Rest assured it will not always be this way. I have detailed blueprints and images of what these venerable places looked like before their decline. My timetable for full restoration begins in seventy-three years, which, I have determined, is when their historical significance will outweigh their symbolic importance in the eyes of humankind.

But until then, the museums have been relocated, the roads and infrastructure are in disrepair, the parks and greenbelts have become wilderness.

All this to drive home the simple fact that human government—whether it be dictatorship, monarchy, or government of the people, by the people, for the people—had to perish from the Earth.

—The Thunderhead