Thunderhead

by Neal Shusterman

  “So you thought you could be a hero,” said the chancellor.

  “Yes, sir.”

  The three looked to one another. The dean wrote something down for the other two to see. The chancellor nodded, and the doberman relented with a disgusted shift in his seat and a look the other way.

  “Our laws exist for a reason, Greyson,” said the dean. He knew he had succeeded, because they were no longer calling him “Mr. Tolliver.” They might not have believed him completely, but they believed him enough to decide this wasn’t worth any more of their time. “The life of two scythes,” continued the dean, “is not worth even the slightest compromise of the separation. The Thunderhead cannot kill, and the scythedom cannot rule. The only way to ensure that is to have zero contact—and to impose severe penalties for any violation.”

  “For your sake, we’ll make this quick,” said the chancellor. “You are hereby permanently and irrevocably expelled from this academy, and are forever barred from applying to this or any other Nimbus Academy.”

  Greyson knew this was coming, but hearing it spoken aloud hit him harder than he thought it would. He couldn’t stop his eyes from filling with tears. If anything, it would help to sell the lie he had told them.

  He hadn’t really cared for Agent Traxler, but he knew he needed to protect him. The law required culpability—a settling of the score—and not even the Thunderhead could escape its own law. That was part of its integrity; it lived by the laws it levied. The truth was, Greyson acted of his own free will. The Thunderhead knew him. It had counted on him doing so, in spite of the consequences. Now he would be punished and the law would be upheld. But he didn’t have to like it. And as much as he loved the Thunderhead, he hated it right now.

  “Now that you are no longer a student here,” said the dean, “the separation laws no longer apply—which means the scythedom will want to question you. We know nothing of their means of interrogation, so you should be prepared.”

  Greyson squeezed down a dry swallow. This was something else he hadn’t considered. “I understand.”

  The Doberman waved a hand dismissively. “Go back to your dorm and pack your things. An officer from my staff will be by at five sharp to escort you off the premises.”

  Ah, so this was the head of security. He looked adequately intimidating for the job. Greyson burned him a glare, because at this point it didn’t matter what he did. He stood to leave, but before he did, he had to ask them one question.

  “Did you really have to mark me as an unsavory?”

  “That,” said the chancellor, “had nothing to do with us. The Thunderhead gave you that punishment.”

  • • •

  The scythedom, which did everything but gleaning at a snail’s pace, took a full day to decide how to deal with the explosives. In the end, the scythedom decided it was safest to simply send a robot walking into the wire to trip the explosives, and then, when the dust and shredded trees settled, send in a construction team to rebuild the road.

  The explosion rattled the windows of Fallingwater to the point that Citra thought some might shatter. Not five minutes later, Scythe Curie was packing a bag, and instructed Citra to do the same.

  “We’re going into hiding?”

  “I don’t hide,” Scythe Curie told her. “We’re going mobile. If we stay here we’re sitting ducks for the next attack, but if we become nomadic until this blows over we’ll be moving targets, much harder to find and much harder to take down.”

  It was still unclear, however, who the target had been, and why. Scythe Curie had her thoughts on the matter, though. She shared them as Citra helped her braid her long silver hair.

  “My ego says it must be me they’re after,” she said. “I’m the most respected of the old-guard scythes . . . but it’s also possible the target was you.”

  Citra scoffed at the idea. “Why would anyone be after me?” She caught Scythe Curie’s smile in the mirror.

  “You’ve shaken things up in the scythedom more than you know,  Anastasia. A lot of the junior scythes look up to you with respect. You might even evolve into their voice. And considering that you hold to the old ways—the true ways—there could be those who want to snuff you before you have a chance to become that voice.”

  The scythedom assured them it would launch an investigation of its own, but Citra doubted they would find anything. Problem-solving was not the scythedom’s strength. They were already taking the path of least resistance, working on the assumption that this was the work of “Scythe Lucifer.” Which was infuriating to Citra—but she couldn’t let the scythedom know that. She had to distance herself from Rowan publicly. No one could know that they had met.

  “You may want to consider that they might be right,” Scythe Curie said.

  Citra pulled her hair a little too tightly as she wound the next braid. “You don’t know Rowan.”

  “Neither do you,” Scythe Curie said, pulling her hair around, and taking over the rest of the braiding herself. “You forget, Anastasia, that I was there in conclave when he broke your neck. I saw his eyes. He took great pleasure in it.”

  “It was a show!” Citra insisted. “He was performing for the scythedom. He knew it would disqualify both of us in that contest, and was the only way to guarantee a draw. If you ask me, it was pretty damn smart.”

  Scythe Curie held her silence for a few moments, then said, “Just be careful not to let your emotions cloud your judgment. Now, would you like me to braid your hair, too, or should I put it up for you?”

  But today Citra decided not to allow her hair to be bound in any way.

  • • •

  They drove the damaged sports car to the ruined portion of the road, where workers were already laboring to restore it. At least a hundred trees had been blown away, and hundreds more defoliated. Citra imagined it would take a long time for the forest to recover from this insult. A hundred years from now there would still be signs of this explosion.

  The crater made it impossible to drive across, or drive around, so Scythe Curie had a publicar sent to pick them up on the other side. They grabbed their bags, abandoning her car on the severed road, and walked around the crater to the other side.

  Citra couldn’t help but notice the bloodstains on the asphalt, just at the lip of the crater. The spot where the young man who had saved them had lain.

  Scythe Curie, who always saw far more than Citra wanted her to, caught her gaze and said, “Forget about him, Anastasia—that poor boy is not our concern.”

  “I know,” admitted Citra. But she wasn’t about to let it go. It just wasn’t in her nature.

  * * *

  The designation of “unsavory” was something I created with a heavy heart early in my reign. It was an unfortunate necessity. Crime, in its true form, ended almost immediately once I put an end to hunger and poverty. Theft for the sake of material possessions, murder precipitated by anger and social stress—it all ceased of its own accord. Those prone to violent crime were easily treated on the genetic level to quiet their destructive tendencies, bringing them down to normal parameters. To sociopaths, I gave conscience; to psychopaths, I gave sanity.

  Even so, there was unrest. I began to recognize something in humanity that was ephemeral and hard to quantify, but definitely there. Simply put, humanity had a need to be bad. Not everyone, of course—but I calculated that 3 percent of the population could only find meaning in life through defiance. Even if there was no injustice in the world left to defy, they had an innate need to defy something.  Anything.

  I suppose I could have found ways to medicate it away—but I have no desire to impose upon humanity a false utopia. Mine is not a “brave new world” but a world ruled by wisdom, conscience, and compassion. I concluded that if defiance was a normal expression of human passion and yearning, I would have to make room for its expression.

  Thus, I instituted the designation of “unsavory,” and the social stigma that goes with it. For those who unintentionally slip into unsavory st
atus, the path back is quick and easy—but for those who live a questionable existence by choice, the label is a badge of honor they wear with pride. They find validation in the world’s suspicion. They take pleasure in the illusion of being on the outside, deeply content in their discontent. It would have been cruel for me to deny them that.

  —The Thunderhead

  * * *

  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 o
f 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.