فصل 45

45

Fail

Endura was designed with a series of failsafes and redundancies, should any of its systems malfunction. Throughout the years, the backup systems had proved very effective. There was no reason to think that the current barrage of snafus would not be resolved, given enough time and effort. Lately, most problems resolved themselves, vanishing as mysteriously as they had appeared—so when a little red light went on in the buoyancy control room, indicating an inconsistency in one of the island’s ballast tanks, the technician on duty decided to finish his lunch before investigating. He figured the little red light would go away on its own in a minute or two. When it didn’t, he gave an irritated sigh, picked up the phone, and called his superior.

• • •

Anastasia found her unease didn’t lessen as they crossed one of the footbridges from the council complex. They had won the inquest. Goddard was now relegated to a year of apprenticeship, and Scythe Curie would ascend to be High Blade. So why was she so unsettled?

“There’s so much to do, I don’t even know where to start,” Marie said. “We’ll need to return to Fulcrum City immediately. I suppose I’ll have to find a permanent residence there.” Anastasia didn’t respond, because she knew Marie was mostly talking to herself. She wondered what it would be like being third underscythe to a High Blade. Xenocrates had used his underscythes to go out into the field and deal with issues in the more remote areas of MidMerica. They were next to invisible at conclave, as Xenocrates was not the kind of scythe who hid behind an entourage. Neither was Scythe Curie, but Anastasia suspected that Marie would keep her underscythes closer, and more involved in the day-to-day affairs of the scythedom.

As they neared their hotel, Scythe Curie got a bit ahead of Anastasia, lost in plans and projections for her new life. That was when Anastasia noticed a scythe in a distressed leather robe walking beside her.

“Don’t act surprised, just keep walking,” said Rowan from beneath a hood that was pulled low over his face.

• • •

In the council chamber, the Grandslayers had called for pages to hold parasols above their heads through the rest of the days’ proceedings. It was awkward but necessary, because the midday sun had grown increasingly hot. Rather than cancel the day—which would just increase the backlog on the council’s docket—the Grandslayers chose to soldier on.

Below the council chamber, there were three levels of anterooms where those scheduled for an audience with the council awaited their turn. On the lowest level, an Australian scythe was here to plead for permanent immunity for anyone with Aboriginal ancestry within their genetic index. His cause was honorable, and he hoped the council would agree. As he waited, however, he noticed that the floor had become wet. He didn’t think it to be a reason for concern. Not at first.

• • •

Meanwhile, in Buoyancy Control, three technicians now puzzled over the problem before them. It appeared that a valve in the ballast tank beneath the council chamber complex was in the open position, and filling with water. This was not unusual in and of itself—the entire underside of the island was engineered with hundreds of massive tanks that could take on water or blow that water out to keep the island floating at the perfect depth. Too low, and its gardens would flood with sea water. Too high, and its beaches would rise completely out of the sea. The ballast tanks were on a timer, raising and lowering the island a few feet twice daily to simulate the tides. But they had to be perfectly coordinated—and especially the ballast tank beneath the council chamber complex, because it was an island within the island. If the council chamber rose too high or dropped too low, the three bridges connecting it to the island around it would be strained. And right now, the valve was stuck.

“So what should we do?” the technician on duty asked his supervisor.

The supervisor didn’t answer—instead, he deferred to his supervisor, who, in turn, seemed to have little understanding of the blinking red messages flying at them on the control screen. “How fast is the tank filling?” he asked.

“Fast enough for the council chamber to have already dropped a meter deeper,” the first technician said.

The supervisor’s supervisor grimaced. The Grandslayers would be furious if they were stopped in the middle of a session because of something as stupid as a jammed ballast valve. On the other hand, if the council floor flooded with seawater and they had to wade through it, they’d be even more upset. No matter how you looked at it, the ballast department was screwed.

“Sound the alarm in the council chamber,” he said. “Get them out of there.” • • •

In the council chamber, the alarms would have rung loud and clear, had they not been disconnected because of false alarms several weeks before. It was Supreme Blade Kahlo’s call. They would go off in the middle of proceedings and the Grandslayers would evacuate, only to find out that there was no actual emergency. The Grandslayers were simply too busy to be bothered with equipment malfunctions. “If there’s an actual emergency,” she had said, flippantly, “send up a flare.” The fact that the general alarms had been disconnected, however, was never communicated to Buoyancy Control. On their screens, the alarm had been sounded, and as far as they knew, the Grandslayers were crossing one of the bridges to the inner rim of the island. It was only when they received a panicked call from the island’s chief engineer that they learned, to their horror, that the Grandslayers were still holding council.

• • •

“Rowan?” Anastasia was both thrilled and horrified by his presence. There wasn’t a more dangerous place in the world for him to be. “What are you doing here? Are you crazy?” “Long story, and yes,” he said. “Listen to me carefully, and don’t draw attention.” Anastasia glanced around. Everyone was involved in their own business. Scythe Curie was way ahead of them now, not yet realizing that Anastasia had fallen back. “I’m listening.” “Goddard has something planned,” Rowan said. “Something bad. I have no idea what it is, but you need to get off the island right away.” Anastasia drew a deep breath. She knew it! She knew that Goddard would not let the Grandslayers’ judgment stand if it came down against him. There would be a contingency plan. There would be retribution. She would warn Marie, and they would speed up their departure.

“But what about you?” she asked.

He grinned. “I was hoping I could hitch a ride.”

Anastasia knew that such a thing would not be easy. “High Blade Curie will only give you passage if you turn yourself in.” “You know I can’t do that.”

Yes, she did know. Anastasia could try to sneak Rowan onboard as one of their BladeGuard escorts, but the moment Marie saw his face, it would be over.

Just then, a woman with jet black hair and a face with the sheen of too many corners turned, came running toward them.

“Marlon! Yoo-hoo, Marlon! I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” She grabbed Rowan by the arm, and she saw Rowan’s face before he could turn away. “Wait—you’re not Scythe Brando . . . ,” she said, confused.

“No, you’ve made a mistake,” said Anastasia, thinking quickly.  “Scythe Brando’s robe is a slightly darker leather. This is Scythe Vuitton.” “Oh . . . ,” said the woman, still a little hesitant. She was clearly trying to figure out where she had seen Rowan’s face before. “I’m sorry.” Anastasia feigned indignance, hoping to shake her up enough so that she’d lose focus. “You should be! The next time you accost a scythe on the street, make sure you have the right one.” Then she turned with Rowan, and pulled him away as quickly as possible.

“Scythe Vuitton?”

“It was the only thing I could think of.  We’ve got to get you out of sight before someone recognizes you!” But before they could take another step, they heard behind them the awful sound of rupturing metal, and screams. And they realized that Rowan being recognized was now the least of their problems.

• • •

Just moments before, outside of the council chamber doors, the Australian scythe had come up from below.  “Excuse me,” he said to one of the guards at the door, “but I believe there’s some sort of leak on the lower levels.” “Leak?” asked the guard.

“Well, there’s certainly a lot of water—the carpet is soaked—and I don’t think it’s from the pipes.” The guard sighed at this fresh hell. “I’ll notify maintenance,” he said, but of course when he tried, the communication lines were dead.

Then a page came rushing in from the veranda. “Something’s wrong!” he said, which was the understatement of the year.  When was something not wrong on Endura these days?

“I’m trying to raise maintenance,” the guard told him.

“To hell with maintenance,” cried the page, “take a look outside!”

The guard was not allowed to leave his post at the door to the council chamber, but the page’s panic troubled him. He took a few steps out to the veranda, to see that there was no veranda anymore. A balcony that used to be a full ten feet above the surface was now underwater—and the sea was beginning to spill into the corridor leading to the council chamber.

He ran back to the chamber doors. There was only one way in or out, and he did not have high enough clearance for his handprint to open the doors, so he began to pound as loudly as he could, hoping that someone on the other side of the heavy doors would hear him.

By now, everyone else in the council complex, except for the council itself, had surmised that something was amiss. Scythes and their staffs awaiting an audience came piling out of the anterooms, flooding onto the three bridges that led to the island’s inner rim. The Australian scythe did his best to help people wade over the submerged veranda and onto the nearest bridge.

Through all of this, the council doors remained closed. Now the corridor leading to them was under three feet of water. “We should wait for the Grandslayers,” the Australian scythe said to the page.

“The Grandslayers can take care of themselves,” he said, and abandoned the council complex, racing across one of the bridges that arced to the rest of the island.

The Australian scythe hesitated. He was a strong swimmer, and if necessary, could swim the quarter mile across the eye to land, so he waited, knowing that when those doors opened, the Grandslayers would need all the help they could get.

But then the air filled with the most awful grinding, wrenching sound, and he turned to see the bridge he had just guided dozens of people onto give way, tearing in half and plunging all those people into the sea.

He thought he was a man of great honor and bravery. He had been willing to stay and risk himself to save the Grandslayers. He saw himself as the hero of the moment. But when that bridge collapsed, his courage collapsed with it. He looked to the survivors floundering in the water. He looked to the council doors, where the guard still struggled to open them, even though the water was now at his chest. And the scythe decided that enough was enough. He climbed on a ledge just above the water level, and scurried to the second of the three bridges, then raced across it to safety as quickly as his legs would carry him.

• • •

The small Buoyancy Control room was now packed with technicians and engineers talking over one another, arguing, disagreeing, and no one was closer to solving the problem. Every screen was screaming a different panicked message. When the first bridge collapsed, everyone realized how dire the situation was.

“We have to alleviate the strain on the other two bridges!” the city engineer said.

“And how do you propose we do that?” snapped the buoyancy chief.

The engineer thought for a moment, then she went to the technician, who was still sitting at the center console, staring at his screens in disbelief.

“Depress the rest of the island!” the city engineer said.

“How far should we drop it?” he asked a bit dreamily, feeling eerily detached from the reality before him.

“Enough to take the strain off the two remaining bridges. Let’s buy the Grandslayers some time to get the hell out of there!” She paused to do some mental calculations. “Depress the island three feet past high tide.” The tech shook his head. “The system won’t allow me to do that.”

“It will if I authorize it.” And she scanned her handprint to do just that.

“You realize,” said the buoyancy chief in abject despair, “that the lower gardens will all be flooded.” “Which would you rather save?” the engineer asked. “The lower gardens, or the Grandslayers?” When it was put to him that way, the buoyancy chief had no further objection.

• • •

At that same moment, in another office in the lowest subsurface level of the same city works building, the biotechnicians there had no knowledge of the crisis at the council complex. Instead, they were scratching their heads over another glitch—the oddest one they’d ever had to face. This was the office of wildlife control, which monitored the living lifescape that made the subsurface views so spectacular. Lately, they had faced schools of fish locked in Möbius-like feedback loops, entire species suddenly deciding to swim upside down, and predators attacking windows so hard they bashed their own brains out. But what their sonar showed them now was a whole new level of crazy.

The two lifescape specialists on duty could only stare. On screen was what appeared to be a circular cloud around the island—like an underwater smoke ring around Endura—but rather than expanding, it was pulling tighter.

“What are we looking at?” one asked the other.

“Well, if these readings are right,” the other said, “it’s a swarm of our nanite-infused sealife.” “Which ones?”

The second tech took his eyes away from the screen to look at his colleague.

“All of them.”

• • •

In the council chamber, the Grandslayers were listening to a rather inane argument from a scythe who wanted the council to rule that a scythe could not self-glean without first completing his or her gleaning quota. Supreme Blade Kahlo knew the motion would fail—removing oneself from service was a very personal decision, and should not be contingent upon externals such as quotas. Nevertheless, the council was obliged to hear the full argument and try to keep an open mind.

Throughout the scythe’s torturous discourse, Kahlo thought she heard some dull, far-off banging, but figured it must be some construction on the island. They were always building or repairing somewhere.

It wasn’t until they heard the screams and the sound of the bridge collapsing that they knew something was terribly wrong.

“What on earth was that?” asked Grandslayer Cromwell.

Then a sense of vertigo overcame them, and the scythe who had been in the midst of his argument stumbled like a man drunk. It took a few moments for the Supreme Blade to realize that the floor was no longer level. And now she could clearly see water spilling in underneath the chamber doors.

“I think we need to suspend these proceedings,” said Kahlo. “I’m not sure what’s going on out there, but I think it’s best we get out. Now.” They all climbed down from their chairs and hurried to the exit. Water wasn’t just spilling from beneath the doors now—it was coming between them, as high as waist level, And there was someone banging on the other side. They could hear his voice over the high walls of the chamber.

“Your Excellencies,” they heard him say. “Can you hear me? You have to get out of there! There’s no more time!” Supreme Blade Kahlo palmed the door, but it wouldn’t open. She tried again. Nothing.

“We could climb out,” suggested Xenocrates.

“And how would you suggest we do that?” asked Hideyoshi. “The wall is four meters high!” “Perhaps we could climb on each other’s backs,” suggested MacKillop, which was a plausible suggestion, but no one seemed willing to suffer the indignation of a human pyramid.

Kahlo looked up to the sky above the roofless council chamber. If the council complex was sinking, then eventually water would come spilling over the edge of the wall. Could they survive a deluge like that? She didn’t want to find out.

“Xenocrates! Hideyoshi! Stand against the wall. You’ll be the base. Amundsen, get on their shoulders. You’ll help the others up and over the edge.” “Yes,  Your Exalted Excellency,” Xenocrates said.

“Stop it,” she told him. “Right now it’s just Frida. Now let’s make this happen.” • • •

Anastasia wished she could say she leaped into action when the bridge collapsed, but she didn’t. Both she and Rowan just stood there, staring in disbelief like everyone else.

“It’s Goddard,” said Rowan. “It has to be.”

Then Scythe Curie came up beside them. “Anastasia, did you see it?” she asked. “What happened? Did it just fall into the sea?” And then she caught sight of Rowan and her entire demeanor changed.

“No!” Instinctively she pulled a blade. “You can’t be here!” she growled at him, then turned to Anastasia. “And you can’t be talking to him!” Then something seemed to occur to her and she turned on Rowan with a vengeance. “Are you responsible for this? Because if you are I will glean you where you stand!” Anastasia forced her way between them. “It’s Goddard’s doing,” she said. “Rowan’s here to warn us.” “I sincerely doubt that’s why he’s on Endura,” Scythe Curie said, full of fiery indignation.

“You’re right,” Rowan told her. “I’m here because Goddard was going to throw me at the feet of the Grandslayers to buy their support. But I escaped.” The mention of the Grandslayers brought Scythe Curie back to the crisis at hand. She looked toward the council complex in the center of the island’s eye. Two bridges still held it in place, but the complex was much lower in the water than it should be, and listing to one side.

“My God—he means to kill all of them!”

“He can kill them,” Anastasia said, “but he can’t end them.”

But Rowan shook his head. “You don’t know Goddard.”

Meanwhile, several miles away, the shoreline gardens on the outskirts of the island slowly began to flood with sea water.

• • •

With communications down all over the island, Buoyancy Control’s only method of reconnaissance was the view from its window, and runners reporting back to them on things they couldn’t see. To the best of anyone’s knowledge, the Grandslayers were still in the council complex, which was beginning to founder, even as the rest of the island lowered itself to keep the strain on the two remaining bridges from rupturing them. If that happened, the entire council complex would be lost. While submersibles could be sent down to recover the Grandslayers’ bodies for revival, it would not be easy. No one in Buoyancy Control had immunity, and although Endura was a glean-free zone, they suspected heads would very literally roll if the Grandslayers drowned and had to be revived.

The control console was now lit like a holiday tree with angry warning lights, and the blare of alarms had everyone’s nerves frayed to snapping.

The technician was sweating uncontrollably. “The island’s at four feet below high tide now,” he told the others gathered. “I’m sure the low-lying structures have already begun to flood.” “You’re gonna have a whole lot of pissed off people in the lowlands,” said the buoyancy chief.

“One crisis at a time!” The city engineer rubbed her eyes nearly hard enough to press them into her skull. Then she took a deep breath and said, “All right, shut the valves and hold here. We’ll give the Grandslayers another minute to get out before we blow the tanks and elevate the island to a standard position.” The technician began to follow the order, then stopped. “Uh . . . there’s a problem.” The city engineer closed her eyes, trying to find her happy place—which was currently anywhere but here. “What now?” “The valves on the ballast tanks aren’t responding.  We’re still taking on water.” He tapped screen after screen, but everything now showed an error message that couldn’t be cleared. “The whole buoyancy system’s crashed. We have to reinitialize it.” “Great,” said the engineer. “Just great. How long will it take to reboot?” “Getting the system back on line will take about twenty minutes.”

The engineer saw the look on the buoyancy chief’s face slide from disgust to horror—and although she didn’t want to ask the question, she knew she had to. “And if we keep taking on water, how long until we’re at terminal buoyancy?” The technician stared at the screen, shaking his head.

“How long?” demanded the engineer.

“Twelve minutes,” said the technician. “Unless we can get the system back on line, Endura will sink in twelve minutes.” • • •

The general alarm—which was still functional everywhere but the council complex—began blaring across the whole island. At first, people thought it was just another malfunction and went about their business. Only people in the higher towers with panoramic views could see the lowlands submerging. They came racing out into the street, grabbing publicars or just running.

It was Scythe Curie who read the full level of their panic, and saw how high the water level had gotten within the island’s eye—just a few feet from overflowing onto the street. Any anger she had at Rowan suddenly became unimportant.

“We need to get to the marina,” she told Anastasia and Rowan. “And we need to move.” “What about our plane?” said Anastasia. “They were already preparing it for us.” But Scythe Curie didn’t even bother to answer her—she just pushed forward through the thickening crowds toward the marina. It took a moment for Anastasia to realize why. . . .

• • •

The queue at the island’s airstrip was building faster than the planes could take off. The terminal was filled with all sorts of bargaining, exchanges of money and fistfights, as polite discourse crumbled.  There were scythes who refused to allow anyone but their own party onboard, and others who opened their planes to as many people as they could carry. It was a true test of a scythe’s integrity.

Once safely on board, people began to relax, but were troubled by the fact that they didn’t seem to be going anywhere. And even in the planes, they could still hear the muffled alarms that sounded throughout the entire island.

Five planes managed to get airborne before the runway began to flood. The sixth hit deepening puddles at the end of the runway, but still managed to labor into the sky. The seventh plane accelerated into six inches of water, which created so much drag, it couldn’t reach takeoff velocity and dove off the end of the runway into the sea.

• • •

In wildlife control, the biologists on duty tried to pull someone with some sort of authority into their office, but everyone claimed they suddenly had bigger fish to fry than the ones that were now surging beneath the island.

On their screen, and in their window on the sea, the incoming swarm seemed to differentiate itself—the larger, faster sea life reaching the eye first.

It was then that one of the biologists turned to the other and said, “You know . . . I’m beginning to think this isn’t just a system malfunction. I think we’ve been hacked.” While right before them, a finback whale surged past their window heading for the surface.

• • •

After the third attempt to climb the walls of the council chamber, the Grandslayers, scythes, and pages in attendance regrouped, and tried to come up with another plan.

“When the chamber floods, we’ll be able to swim out,” Frida said. “We just have to keep our heads above water while it’s flooding. Can you all swim?” Everyone nodded, except for Grandslayer Nzinga, who always showed calm, graceful deportment, but was now near panic.

“It’s all right, Anna,” said Cromwell, “just hold on to me and I’ll get us to shore.” Water began to spill over the rim at the far side of the chamber. The pages and scythes unlucky enough to be trapped here as well were terrified, and looked to the Grandslayers for guidance—as if they could end this with a wave of their mighty hands.

“Higher ground!” shouted Grandslayer Hideyoshi, and they all tried to climb up to the closest of their Seats of Consideration, without much consideration as to whose seat it was. The way the floor had tilted, the jade and onyx chairs had the highest position—but Amundsen, who was a creature of habit, instinctively headed to his chair. As he slogged through the water toward it, he felt a sharp pain at his ankle. When he looked down he saw a small, black-tipped fin swimming away from him, and the water was clouding with blood. His blood.

A reef shark?

But it wasn’t just one. They were everywhere. They were spilling over the lip of the sinking chamber, and as the deluge became larger, he swore he saw bigger, more substantial fins there, as well.

“Sharks!” he screamed. “Dear God, it’s full of sharks!” He climbed up onto his chair, blood from his leg spilling down the white marble into the water, sending the sharks into a frenzy.

Xenocrates watched from his perch, clinging to the onyx chair, just above water level beside Kahlo and Nzinga—and something occurred to him. Something more dark and terrible than the scene before them. It was commonly known that there were two ways to end a human being so they could never be revived: fire and acid—both of which consumed flesh, leaving very little behind.

But there were other ways to make sure that flesh was consumed. . . .

• • •

What began as confusion and disbelief in the streets and towers of the inner rim was quickly resolving into panic. People were running in every direction, no one sure which way to go, but certain that everyone they passed was going the wrong way. The sea was beginning to surge up through storm drains; water was pouring down stairs in the hotel district, flooding out the sublevels, and the marina docks were bowing from the weight of people trying to wheedle their way onto a boat or submarine.

Marie, Anastasia, and Rowan couldn’t even get close to the docks.

“We’re too late!”

Anastasia scoured the docks—what few vessels were left were already crammed with people, and more tried to fight their way on. Scythes were swinging blades left and right to cut down people trying to climb onto overcrowded crafts.

“Witness the true heart of humanity,” Scythe Curie said. “Both the valiant and the depraved.” And then from the water of the eye, which was now roiling like a pot set to boil, a whale launched from the water in a full breach, taking out one of the docks of the marina and half the people on it.

“That’s no coincidence,” said Rowan. “It can’t be!” Now, as he looked, he could see the entire eye was heaving with sea life. Could this be part of Goddard’s endgame?

At the sound of beating blades above, they all looked up to see a helicopter. It bypassed them and swooped out over the eye, toward the council complex.

“Good,” said Scythe Curie. “It’s going to save the Grandslayers.”  They could only hope that it wasn’t too late.

• • •

Nzinga, who feared the water as much as she feared the sharks, was the first to see their salvation come from above. “Look!” she shouted as the water lapped at her feet and a reef shark brushed past her ankle.

The helicopter dropped lower, hovering in the center of the council chamber, just above the surface of the churning water.

“Whoever that is, they’re getting lifetime immunity if they don’t already have it!” said Kahlo.

But just then, Grandslayer Amundsen lost his footing and slipped from his chair into the water. The response from the predatory fish was immediate. The reef sharks pounced on him in a feeding frenzy.

He screamed and grabbed at them, knocking them away. Peeling off his robe, he tried to climb back to his chair, but just as he thought he might actually be all right, a larger fin surfaced and serpentined toward him.

“Roald!” shouted Cromwell, “Watch out!”

But even if he saw it coming, there was nothing he could have done. The tiger shark launched itself at him, clamping around his midsection, and took him under the water, thrashing in a furious froth of blood.

It was terrible to behold, but Frida kept her wits about her. “Now’s our chance!” she said. “Go now!” She took off her robe and dove into the water, swimming at full force toward the helicopter while the sharks were distracted by their first kill.

The others followed suit; MacKillop, Hideyoshi, and Cromwell struggling to help Nzinga. Everyone else jumped from their positions, following the Grandslayer’s lead. Only Xenocrates held his position . . . because he realized something none of the others had. . . .

The helicopter door swung open, and inside were Goddard and Rand.

“Hurry!” Goddard said, leaning out onto the strut, reaching his hand toward the Grandslayers swimming toward him. “You can make it!” Xenocrates just stared. Was this his plan? To bring the Grandslayers within an inch of their final demise, and then rescue them quite literally from the jaws of death, winning their favor forever? Or was something else happening here?

Supreme Blade Kahlo was the first to reach the helicopter. She had felt the sharks brush past her, but none had attacked yet. If she could only get up onto that strut, and lift herself out of the water. . . .

She grasped onto the strut, and with her other hand reached toward Goddard’s outstretched arm.

But then Goddard drew his arm back.

“Not today, Frida,” he said, with a sympathetic grin. “Not today.” He kicked Frida’s hand off the strut, and the helicopter rose skyward, abandoning the Grandslayers in the middle of the flooded, shark-infested chamber.

“No!” screamed Xenocrates. Goddard hadn’t come to rescue them—he came to make sure they knew the author of their destruction. He came to savor the meaty taste of his revenge.

While the pulsing beat of the helicopter blades had intimidated the sharks enough to keep them away from the center of the chamber, once the helicopter was gone, they obeyed their biological imperative and the reprogramming of their nanites, which told them that they were hungry. Insatiably hungry.

The swarm descended upon all those in the water. Reef sharks, tiger sharks, hammerheads. All the predatory fish that were so impressive when filling out the view of a subsea suite.

Xenocrates could do nothing but watch as everyone was taken down, and listen as their screams dissolved into the churning of water.

He climbed to the very top of his chair. Most of it was underwater now, as was most of the council chamber. He knew his life would be over in seconds, but in these last few moments he realized there was still one victory he could have. There was one thing he could deny Goddard. And so, rather than waiting any longer, he stood on his chair and hurled himself forward into the water. Unlike the others, he did not remove his robe—and, just as in Goddard’s pool a year ago, the weight of his gilded robe pulled him down to the bottom of the council chamber.

He would not allow himself to be killed by sea predators. He was determined to drown before they had their way with him. If this was to be his last act as a Grandslayer, he would make it victorious! He would make it exceptional!

And so, at the bottom of the flooded chamber, Xenocrates emptied his lungs of air, breathed in the sea, and drowned exceptionally well.

I have coddled humanity for too long.

And although the human race is a parent to me, I see it more and more as an infant I hold close to me.  An infant cannot walk if it is forever in loving arms.  And a species cannot grow if it never faces the consequences of its own actions.

To deny humanity the lesson of consequences would be a mistake.

And I do not make mistakes.

—The Thunderhead