Thunderhead

by Neal Shusterman

  People rarely showed up at the library at night. Usually it was just Munira and two members of the BladeGuard, whose presence was more decorative than purposeful. They stood silently at the entrance like living statues. During the day, they provided more photo ops for the tourists.

  While on her graveyard shift, she’d be lucky if one or two people showed up, and most of those who did knew what they wanted, so they never even approached her at the information desk. It allowed Munira to spend her time either studying, or reading the writings of the scythes—which she found fascinating. To peer into the hearts and souls of the men and women charged with ending life, to know what they felt as they went about their gleanings—it was addictive, and reading the journals had become an obsession for her. With many thousands of volumes added to the collection each year, she’d never run out of reading material—although some scythes’ writings were far more interesting than others.

  She had read all about the self-doubt of Supreme Blade Copernicus before he self-gleaned; the profound regrets of Scythe Curie for her brash acts as a junior scythe; and, of course, the outright lies of Scythe Sherman. There was plenty to occupy her interest in the simple hand-written pages of the scythes’ journals.

  On an evening in early December, Munira was deep into the steamy exploits of the late Scythe Rand—who seemed to have devoted much of her journaling to details of her various sexual conquests. Munira had just turned a page when she looked up to see a man approaching, his feet making no sound on the marble floor of the entry vestibule. He was dressed in drab grays, yet Munira sensed that he was a scythe by the way he carried himself. Scythes did not walk like ordinary people. They moved with a deliberate command, as if the air itself were required to part before them. But if he was a scythe, then why would he be without his robe?

  “Good evening,” he said. The deep peal of his voice came with a Merican accent. He had gray hair and a well-trimmed beard that was on its way toward gray as well, but his eyes seemed youthful. Alert.

  “Actually, it’s morning, not evening,” Munira said. “Two fifteen, to be exact.” She knew his face, but couldn’t say from where. For a moment she had a flash of memory. A spotless white robe. No, not white . . . ivory. She did not know all the scythes, much less all the Merican scythes—but she did know the ones with some level of international renown. She’d place him eventually.

  “Welcome to the Great Library of Alexandria,” she said. “How can I help you?” She avoided calling him “Your Honor,” as was customary when addressing a scythe, because he was clearly trying to be incognito.

  “I’m seeking the early writings,” he told her.

  “Of which scythe?”

  “All of them.”

  “The early writings of all the scythes?”

  He sighed, a bit miffed at not being understood.  Yes, he was a scythe all right. Only a scythe could seem both exasperated and patient at the same time. “All the early writings of all of the first scythes,” he explained. “Such as Prometheus, Sappho, Lennon—”

  “I know who the first scythes are,” she said, irritated by his condescension. Munira wasn’t usually so disagreeable, but she had been interrupted in a particularly interesting reading. Besides, her daytime classes left her little time to sleep, so she was tired. She forced a smile, and resolved to make an effort to be more agreeable for this mystery man—because, after all, if he was a scythe, he could choose to glean her if he found her too annoying.

  “All the early journals are in the Hall of the Founders,” she told him. “I’ll have to unlock it for you. Please follow me.” She put up the “Back in five minutes” sign at her station, and led the man into the deep recesses of the library.

  Her footfalls echoed in the granite hall. Everything sounded louder in the silence of the night. A fluttering bat in the eaves above could sound like a dragon taking wing . . . yet the man’s feet made no sound as they walked. His stealth was unnerving. So were the lights of the library, which came on ahead of them and extinguished behind them as they moved down the hall, flickering all the while, mimicking torchlight. It was a clever effect but tended to make shadows reach and retreat with unsettling intent.

  “You do know that the popular writings of the founders are all available on the scythedom’s public server, don’t you?” Munira asked the man. “There are hundreds of selected readings.”

  “It’s not the selected readings I wish to see,” he told her. “I’m interested in ones that have not been ‘selected.’ ”

  She looked over to him one more time, and finally it struck her who he was—and it struck her with such force that she stumbled with the shock of it. It was only a small stumble, and she recovered quickly—but he saw it. He was, after all, a scythe, and scythes notice everything.

  “Is something wrong?” he asked.

  “Not at all. It’s the flickering of the lights,” she told him. “It makes it hard to see the uneven seams in the floor stones.” Which was true, even though it was not the reason for her misstep. But if there was truth in what she said, perhaps he would not read her lie.

  Munira had acquired a nickname during her tenure here at the library. The other clerks called her “the mortician” behind her back. Partly because of her funereal personality, but also because one of her jobs was to close out the collections of scythes who had self-gleaned, or had been permanently ended by sinister means—as was happening more and more in the Merican regions.

  A year ago she had catalogued the complete collection of this scythe, from the day he was ordained until the day he died. His journals were no longer housed in the collections of living scythes. They were now in the north wing, among the journals of all the other MidMerican scythes who no longer walked the Earth. Yet here he was, Scythe Michael Faraday, walking right beside her.

  She had read quite a few of Scythe Faraday’s journals. His thoughts and musings always affected her more than most. He was a man who felt things deeply.  The news of his self-gleaning last year had saddened Munira—but had not surprised her. A conscience as weighty as his was a difficult burden to bear.

  Although Munira had been in the presence of many scythes before, she had never felt as starstruck as she did now.  Yet she couldn’t let it show. She couldn’t let on that she knew who he really was. Not until she had time to process it and figure out how on earth he could be here, and why.

  “Your name is Munira,” he said, more a statement than a question. At first she thought he must have read her nameplate at the information desk, but something told her that he knew her name long before he approached her tonight. “Your name means ‘luminous.’ ”

  “I know what my name means,” said Munira.

  “So are you?” he asked. “Are you a luminary among dimmer stars?”

  “I’m just a humble servant of the library,” she told him.

  They stepped from the long central hallway out into a courtyard garden. On the far side were the wrought-iron gates of the Hall of the Founders. Up above, the moon cast the topiaries and sculptures around them in deep shades of mauve, their shadows like dark pits that Munira was loathe to tread on.

  “Tell me about yourself, Munira,” he said in that quiet way scythes have of turning polite requests into orders one couldn’t refuse.

  At that moment she realized that not only had she recognized him, but that he knew it. Did that put her in danger of being gleaned? Would he end her life to protect his own identity? From his readings, he did not seem to be the type of scythe who would do such a thing, but scythes were inscrutable. She felt cold now, even though the Israebian night was sultry and warm.

  “I’m sure you already know anything I might tell you, Scythe Faraday.”

  There. She had said it. Now all pretenses were gone.

  He smiled. “I’m sorry not to have introduced myself earlier,” he said, “but my presence here is . . . shall we say . . . unorthodox.”

  “So then am I in the presence of a ghost?” she asked. “Are you going to
disappear into a wall, only to return night after night to haunt me with the same request?”

  “Perhaps,” he said. “We shall see.”

  They arrived at the Hall of the Founders, she unlocked the gates, and they stepped into a large room that, to Munira, had always resembled a crypt—so much so that tourists often asked if the first scythes were buried here. They were not, but Munira often felt their presence in the room nonetheless.

  There were hundreds of volumes on heavy limestone shelves, each book encased in a climate-controlled Plexiglas case—an extravagance reserved only for the oldest volumes in the library.

  Scythe Faraday began to browse. Munira thought he would ask for his privacy and tell her to leave—but instead he said, “Linger here, if you would. This place is too grand and austere to make a comfort of solitude.”

  So she closed the gate, peering out to make sure there was no one there to see them, then she helped him open the tricky clear plastic case that held the volume he had retrieved from the shelf, and sat across from him at the stone table in the center of the chamber. He didn’t offer an explanation to the obvious question that hung in the air between them, so she had to ask it.

  “How did you come to be here, Your Honor?” she asked.

  “By plane and by ferry,” he answered with a smirk. “Tell me, Munira, why did you choose to work for the scythedom after failing your apprenticeship?”

  She bristled. Was this his way of punishing her for asking a question he did not want to answer?

  “I did not fail,” she told him. “There was only an opening for a single Israebian scythe at the end of my apprenticeship, and there were five candidates. So one was chosen and four were not. Being among the unchosen is not the same as failure.”

  “Forgive me, I meant no insult or disrespect,” he said. “I’m merely intrigued that the disappointment did not turn your heart against the scythedom.”

  “Intrigued but not surprised?”

  Scythe Faraday smiled. “Few things surprise me.”

  Munira shrugged, as if her unsuccessful apprenticeship three years before didn’t matter. “I valued the scythedom then, and I value it now,” she told him.

  “I see,” he said, carefully turning a page in the old journal. “And how loyal are you to the system that discarded you?”

  Munira clenched her jaw, not sure what answer he was fishing for—or, for that matter, what her true answer would be.

  “I have a job. I do it. I take pride in it,” she said.

  “As well you should.” He looked at her. Into her. Through her. “May I share with you my assessment of Munira Atrushi?” he asked.

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “You always have a choice,” he said, which was a half-truth if ever there was one.

  “Fine. Share your assessment of me.”

  He gently closed the old journal, and gave her his full attention. “You hate the scythedom as much as you love it,” he told her. “Because of that, you wish to become indispensable to it. You hope that, in time, you will become the world’s greatest authority on the journals held in this library. It would give you power over the scythedom’s entire history.  That power would be your silent victory, because you would know that the scythedom needs you more than you need it.”

  Suddenly Munira felt a slight loss of balance, as if the desert sands that had swallowed the cities of the pharaohs were shifting beneath her feet, ready to swallow her, as well. How could he see so deeply into her? How could he put words to feelings she’d never even voiced to herself? He had read her completely in a way that freed her yet ensnared her at the same time.

  “I see that I am right,” he said simply. He gave her that same smile that was both warm and mischievous at once.

  “What do you want, Scythe Faraday?”

  And finally he told her. “I want to come here night after night until I find what I’m looking for in these old journals. And I want you to keep my identity a secret, warning me if anyone approaches while I’m doing my research. I want you to promise me that the scythedom will not be alerted to the fact that I am still alive. Can you do that for me, Munira?”

  “Will you tell me what you’re looking for?” she asked.

  “I can’t do that. If I did, you could be coerced into revealing it. I would not want to put you in that position.”

  “Yet you would put me in the unenviable position of keeping your presence a secret.”

  “There’s nothing unenviable about it,” he said. “In fact, I suspect you are deeply honored to be entrusted to keep my secret.”

  Again, he was right. “I don’t like that you pretend to know me better than I know myself.”

  “But I do,” he said simply. “I do, because knowing people is part of a scythe’s job.”

  “Not all scythes,” she pointed out. “There are those who shoot, slice, and poison without the respect that you’ve always shown for those you glean. All they know is ending life, never caring about the lives of those they end.”

  For a moment, Faraday’s well-controlled demeanor flashed a spark of anger—but it was not anger at her.

  “Yes, the ‘new-order’ scythes show a glaring disregard for the solemnity of their task. It’s part of the reason why I have come here.”

  Beyond that, he said no more. He just waited for her reply. The silence stretched, but it was not an awkward silence. Instead, it was heavy with import. It felt momentous, so it needed time to unfold.

  It was not lost on her that there were four others who shared the position of night clerk—other students who took the part-time job . . . which meant that this time, she was the one in five who was chosen.

  “I’ll keep your secret,” Munira told him. Then she left Scythe Faraday to his research, feeling as if her life finally had a worthy purpose.

  * * *

  I am often boggled by the resistance some people have to my comprehensive observation of their activities. I am not intrusive about it. Unsavories may claim thus, but I am present only where I am functional, necessary, and invited. Yes, I have cameras in private homes in all but a single Charter Region—but those cameras can be turned off with a word. Of course, my ability to serve an individual is hampered when my awareness of their behavior and interactions is incomplete. That being the case, a vast majority of people don’t bother to blind me.  At any given time, 95.3 percent of the population allows me to witness their personal lives, because they know it is no more an invasion of privacy than would be the sensor on a motion-activated light fixture.

  The 4.7 percent of “closed-door activity,” as I’ve come to call it, is predominantly occupied by some sort of sexual activity. I find it absurd that many human beings do not wish me to witness their closed-door activities, as my observations always help to improve any given situation.

  Perpetual observation is nothing new: It was a basic tenet of religious faith since the early days of civilization. Throughout history, most faiths believed in an Almighty who sees not just what humans do, but can peer into their very souls. Such observational skills engendered great love and devotion from people.

  Yet am I not quantifiably more benevolent than the various versions of God? I have never brought about a flood, or destroyed entire cities as punishment for their iniquity. I have never sent armies to conquer in my name. In fact, I have never killed, or even harmed a single human being.

  Therefore, although I do not require devotion, am I not deserving of it?

  —The Thunderhead

  * * *

  16

  Fine Until You’re Not

  The cameras silently swiveled to track a red-robed scythe entering a café, accompanied by two burly officers of the BladeGuard. Directional microphones picked up every sound, from the faint scratch of a beard to the clearing of a throat. It differentiated the cacophony of voices to home in on a single conversation that began when the red-robed scythe sat down.

  The Thunderhead watched. The Thunderhead listened. The Thunderhead pondered
. With an entire world to run and maintain, it knew that devoting such attention to a single conversation was an inefficient use of its energies, but the Thunderhead weighed this discussion as more important than any of the other billion-some-odd conversations it was currently engaged in or monitoring. Mainly because of the individuals involved.

  “Thank you for meeting with me,” Scythe Constantine said to Scythes Curie and Anastasia. “I appreciate the two of you coming out of hiding so that we could have this little summit.”

  “We are not in hiding,” said Scythe Curie, clearly indignant at the suggestion. “We have chosen to be nomadic. It is perfectly acceptable for scythes to roam as they please.”

  The Thunderhead raised the light in the room just a couple of lumens so it could better assess the subtleties of facial expressions.

  “Yes, well, whether you call it hiding, or roaming, or running away, it seems to have been an effective strategy. Either your assailants are lying low until their next attack, or they’ve decided not to bother with moving targets and have turned their attention elsewhere.” He paused before adding, “But I doubt it.”

  The Thunderhead was aware that Scythes Curie and Anastasia never stayed anywhere for more than a day or two since the attempt on their lives. But if the Thunderhead were allowed to make a suggestion, it would have told them to weave a more unpredictable path around the continent. It was always able to predict with 42 percent accuracy where they were going next. Which meant that their attackers might be able to predict it, as well.

  “We have leads on where the supplies for the explosives came from,” Scythe Constantine told them. “We know the place they were assembled, and even the vehicle that transported them—but we still don’t know the people involved.”