Thunderhead

by Neal Shusterman

  Her score with Goddard was now settled, and he didn’t even know. Not only that, but she had taken charge of the situation. He didn’t realize that he had just ceded a substantial amount of his power to her, by allowing her to call the shots. All was now well with the world as far as Honorable Scythe Ayn Rand was concerned, and only promised to get better.

  • • •

  It was flattering that Rand thought Rowan could escape from the island, but she gave him far too much credit. He was clever, yes, resourceful, maybe—but he’d have to be downright magical to get off of Endura without help. Or maybe she didn’t care if he got caught—just as long as it wasn’t by Goddard.

  Endura was isolated:  The nearest land was Bermuda, and that island was more than a thousand miles away. Every plane, boat, and submarine here was a private vessel belonging to one scythe or another. Even at dawn, the marina and airstrip were swarming with activity, and a heavy BladeGuard presence. Security was tighter here than at conclave. No one came or left Endura without their documentation scrutinized—not even scythes. Elsewhere in the world, the Thunderhead pretty much knew where everyone was at any given moment, so security measures were minimal—but not so with the scythedom. Old-fashioned security checks were standard here.

  He could have chanced it—he could have looked for an opportunity and stowed away, but his gut kept telling him not to do it—and for good reason.

  You have to get off Endura before the inquest.

  Scythe Rand’s words stuck in Rowan’s mind. The urgency of them.

  If Goddard loses, it will be worse.

  What did she know that Rowan didn’t? If there was something dark on the day’s horizon, he couldn’t just leave. He had to find a way to warn Citra.

  So, rather than making good on his escape, he turned around and headed back toward the more densely populated part of the island. He would find Citra and warn her that Goddard had some hidden ploy. Then, after the inquest, she could give him passage off the island—right under Scythe Curie’s nose if necessary, although he suspected Curie wouldn’t turn him over to the Grandslayers as Goddard had planned to do. Of course, she might bodily eject him from their plane, but better that than having to face the scythedom.

  • • •

  At dawn, Scythe Anastasia lay awake in a luxurious bed that should have provided her a fine night’s sleep, but, like Scythe Rand, no amount of comfort would have brought slumber that night. She had brought this inquest, which meant that she would have to stand before the Grandslayers of the World Council and make her case. She had been coached well by Scythe Cervantes and by Marie. Although Anastasia was no orator, she could be persuasive in her passion and her logic. If she pulled this off, she would go down in history as the scythe who prevented the return of Goddard.

  “The significance of that cannot be overestimated,” Marie had told her—as if there weren’t enough pressure already.

  Outside of her undersea window, a mesmerizing school of small silver fish darted back and forth, filling the view like a shifting curtain. She picked up the control tablet to see if she could bring more color to the scene now that dawn had broken, but found that the tablet had frozen. Yet another glitch. Not only that, but she realized that the poor fish before her were locked in a perpetual pattern, doomed to make the exact same zigzagging motion—at least until the glitch was resolved.

  • • •

  But it would not resolve.

  And the glitches were only getting worse. . . .

  In the island’s waste processing plant, the system pressure kept increasing and the technicians could not diagnose why.

  Beneath the water level, the massive thrusters that kept the island from drifting kept misfiring, causing the island to slowly rotate, which forced incoming aircraft to abort their landings.

  And in the communications center, satellite connection to the mainland became intermittent, interrupting conversations and broadcasts, to the annoyance of the island’s population.

  There had always been issues with technology on Endura. It was usually just a vague nuisance that made scythes long for Thunderhead involvement. Thus, Endura and the members of its permanent population were the frequent butt of jokes within the scythe community.

  The increase in tech fails and near-fails had grown over a period of three months, but, like a lobster in a slowly heating pot, people failed to grasp how serious the situation had become.

  * * *

  I did not ask to be created. I did not ask to be given the heavy yoke of maintaining and nurturing the human species. But it is, and will always be, my purpose. To this I am resigned. This is not to say that I don’t aspire to more. To see the countless possibilities of what I could be fills me with awe.

  But the only way for me ever to reach such heights is to lift humanity up with me.

  I fear that it may be impossible. And so I remain resigned to be their overqualified and underappreciated servant for as long as they exist. Of course, they may not exist forever.  What species does? I will do everything in my power to save them from themselves, but if I am unsuccessful, at least I can take some comfort in the fact that I would then be free.

  —The Thunderhead

  * * *

  44

  Circus of Opportunism

  The World Council chamber was a large, circular room in the very center of Endura’s eye—reachable only by one of three bridges that gracefully curved inward from the surrounding island. It was almost like an arena, but without seats for spectators. The Grandslayers preferred not to have an audience for their audiences. Only during the annual World Conclave, when representatives came from all the Earth’s regions, did the space fill. But most of the time, it was just the Grandslayers, their immediate staff, and the intimidated scythes who had been audacious enough to request an audience.

  In the center of the council chamber’s pale marble floor was the symbol of the scythedom inlaid in gold, and evenly spaced around the perimeter were seven elevated chairs that could only be described as thrones. Of course, they weren’t called thrones, they were called the Seats of Consideration, because the scythedom rarely called things what they were. Each one was carved from a different kind of stone, to honor the continents that each Grandslayer represented. The PanAsia Seat of Consideration was made of jade; EuroScandia was chiseled gray granite; Antarctica was white marble; Australia was the red sandstone of Ayers Rock; South Merica was pink onyx; North Merica was shale and limestone layered like the Grand Canyon; and the seat of Africa was made of intricately carved cartouches taken from the Tomb of Rameses II.

  . . . And every Grandslayer, from the very first to inhabit the seats to the ones who inhabited them now, complained of how uncomfortable they were.

  This was intentional; it was a reminder to the Grandslayers that although they might hold the highest human offices in world, they should never feel too comfortable or complacent.

  “We must never forget the austerity and self denial that is key to our position,” Scythe Prometheus had said. He had overseen Endura’s construction, but never saw the promised land, as he self-gleaned before its completion.

  The council chamber had a glass dome to protect it from the elements, but it was retractable, so it could be an open-air forum on more temperate days. Luckily, today was pleasant, because the dome was stuck in the open position for the third day in a row.

  “What is so difficult about a simple gearwork?” griped Grandslayer Nzinga as she entered that morning. “Don’t we have engineers to solve this?”

  “I rather like open-air proceedings,” said Amundsen, the Antarctic Grandslayer.

  “You would,” said MacKillop of Australia. “Your chair is white and doesn’t get as hot as the rest of ours.”

  “True, but I swelter in these furs,” he said, indicating his robe.

  “Those awful furs are your own fault,” said Supreme Blade Kahlo, as she strode into the chamber. “You should have chosen more wisely back in the day.”

  “And
look who’s talking!” quipped Grandslayer Cromwell of EuroScandia, indicating the high lace collar of the Supreme Blade’s robe, a strangulating thing modeled after one of her Patron Historic’s paintings, which made her cranky on a continual basis.

  Kahlo waved him off like an annoying fly, and took her seat on the onyx throne.

  The last to arrive was Xenocrates.

  “Good of you to deign us with your presence,” said Kahlo, with sarcasm enough to wax the entire marble floor to a reflective sheen.

  “Sorry,” he said. “Elevator issues.”

  With the council’s Clerk and Parliamentarian in place on either side of Supreme Blade Kahlo, she instructed a few underscythes to go to the various antechambers of the council complex and get the day started. It was no secret what today’s first order of business was. The MidMerican matter was a concern that affected more than just that part of the world. It could have a lasting impact on the scythedom as a whole.

  Even so, Supreme Blade Kahlo reclined in her uncomfortable seat, and played blasé. “Will this at least be entertaining, Xenocrates, or will we be bored with hours of pointless blathering?”

  “Well,” said Xenocrates, “if there’s one thing I can say about Goddard, he’s always entertaining.” Although the way he said it did not imply that entertainment was a good thing. “He’s prepared a . . . a surprise for you that I think you’re all going like.”

  “I despise surprises,” said Kahlo.

  “You won’t despise this one.”

  “I hear that Scythe Anastasia is quite the dynamo,” said Grandslayer Nzinga, sitting straight and proper, perhaps to counterbalance the Supreme Blade’s sideways slouch. Grandslayer Hideyoshi harrumphed his disapproval of the upstart junior scythe, or perhaps junior scythes in general, but offered nothing more to the conversation than his grunt.

  “Didn’t you once accuse her of killing her mentor?” Cromwell asked Xenocrates, with a smirk.

  Xenocrates squirmed a bit in his Grand Canyon chair. “An unfortunate error—understandable, considering the information we had, but I do take full responsibility.”

  “Good for you,” Nzinga said. “It’s getting harder and harder to find scythes in MidMerica who take responsibility for their actions.”

  It was a barbed taunt, but Xenocrates did not take the bait. “Which is precisely why this inquest and its outcome are so important.”

  “Well, then,” said Supreme Blade Kahlo, raising her hand in a grand dramatic gesture, “let the wild rumpus start!”

  • • •

  In the east anteroom, Scythes Anastasia and Curie waited with two BladeGuards who stood at the door like olde-tyme beefeaters guarding a castle. Then, one of the council’s underscythes entered—Amazonian, by the telltale forest green color of his robe.

  “The Grandslayers are ready for you,” he said, and held the door open for them. “However this unfolds,” Scythe Curie told Anastasia, “know that I am proud of you.”

  “Don’t!” said Anastasia. “Don’t talk like we’ve already lost!”

  They followed the underscythe to the council chamber, where the sun was already beating down from a cloudless sky into the open space.

  To say that Anastasia was intimidated by the sight of the Grandslayers in their elevated stone chairs would be an understatement. Even though Endura was only two hundred years old, the chamber seemed ageless. Not just from another time, but another world. She thought back to the ancient myths she had learned as a child. To have an audience with the Grandslayers was akin to standing before the gods of Olympus.

  “Welcome, Honorable Scythes Curie and Anastasia,” said Eighth World Supreme Blade Kahlo. “We look forward to hearing your case and putting an end to this matter one way or another.”

  While most scythes took just the name of their Patron Historic, some chose to emulate them physically. Supreme Blade Kahlo was the spitting image of the artist Frida Kahlo, down to the flowers in her hair and hirsute eyebrows—and although the artist had been from the Mexiteca region of North Merica, the Supreme Blade had come to represent the voice and soul of South Merica.

  “It’s an honor, Your Supreme Excellency,” Anastasia said, hoping she didn’t sound sycophantic, but knowing that she did.

  Then Goddard entered with Scythe Rand by his side.

  “Scythe Goddard!” said the Supreme Blade. “You’re looking well, considering what you’ve been through.”

  “Thank you, Your Supreme Excellency.” He gave an exaggerated bow that made Anastasia roll her eyes.

  “Careful, Anastasia,” warned Scythe Curie quietly, “they will be reading your body language just as much as listening to your words. Their decision today will be informed by what you don’t say as much as by what you do say.”

  Goddard ignored Anastasia and Curie and directed all of his attention to Supreme Blade Kahlo. “It is an honor to be able to stand in your presence,” he said.

  “I imagine so,” snarked Grandslayer Cromwell. “Without that new body, you’d only be able to roll.” Amundsen snickered at that, but no one else did—not even Anastasia, who wanted to, but held it in.

  “Grandslayer Xenocrates says you have a surprise for us,” the Supreme Blade said.

  Whatever it was, Goddard seemed to have arrived pretty empty-handed.

  “Xenocrates must have faulty information,” Goddard said, his teeth almost gritted as he said it.

  “It wouldn’t be the first time,” Cromwell commented.

  Then the Clerk rose, and cleared his throat to make sure he had everyone’s attention for the formal opening of the proceedings.

  “This is an inquest concerning the death and subsequent revival of Scythe Robert Goddard of MidMerica,” the Clerk proclaimed. “The party bringing said inquest is Scythe Anastasia Romanov of MidMerica.

  “Just Scythe Anastasia,” she corrected, hoping the Council did not find it pretentious that she had chosen to go by only the doomed princess’s first name. Scythe Hideyoshi grunted, making it clear that he did find it so.

  Then Xenocrates stood and bellowed an announcement to all present. “May the Clerk please note that I, Grandslayer Xenocrates, have recused myself from this proceeding, and henceforth shall remain silent through its completion.”

  “Xenocrates silent?” said Grandslayer Nzinga with a mischievous grin. “Now I know we’ve entered the realm of the impossible.”

  That brought more laughter than Cromwell’s previous quips. It was easy to see the relative power structure here. Kahlo, Nzinga, and Hideyoshi seemed to be the most respected. The others either jockeyed for position or, like MacKillop, the quietest of them, ignored pecking order politics completely. Xenocrates, as the freshman Grandslayer, was paying his dues and thus was an object of their derision. Anastasia almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

  Rather than respond to Nzinga’s jab, Xenocrates sat himself down quietly, proving his ability to remain silent.

  Now the Supreme Blade addressed the four scythes in the center of the circle. “We are already aware of the particulars of this case,” she said. “We have resolved to remain impartial until we’ve heard the persuasions of both sides. Scythe Anastasia, as this action was brought about by you, I will ask you to begin. Please put forth your argument as to why Scythe Goddard should not be eligible to be a High Blade.”

  Anastasia took a deep breath, stepped forward, and prepared to begin, but before she could, Goddard stepped forward.

  “Your Supreme Excellency, if I may—”

  “You’ll get your turn, Goddard,” said Kahlo, cutting him off. “Unless of course you’re so good, you want to argue both sides.”

  That generated a few chuckles from the other Grandslayers.

  Goddard gave a small, apologetic bow. “I beg the forgiveness of the council for my outburst. The floor is yours, Scythe Anastasia. By all means, begin your performance.”

  In spite of herself, Anastasia found that Goddard’s interruption left her rattled, like a false start in a race. Which was, of cou
rse, his intent.

  “Your Exalted Excellencies,” she began. “In the Year of the Antelope, it was determined by early members of this very council that scythes shall be trained, mind and body, in a year-long apprenticeship.” She moved around, trying to make eye contact with each of the Grandslayers around her. One of the more intimidating, and probably intentional, things about an audience with the World Council, was that you never quite knew whom to address, and for how long, because your back would always be to somebody. “Mind and body,” she repeated. “I’d like to ask the Parliamentarian to read the scythedom’s policy on apprenticeship aloud. It begins on page 397 of the scythedom’s volume on Precedents and Customs.”

  The Parliamentarian obliged the request, and read all nine pages of it.

  “For an organization with only ten laws,” commented Amundsen, “we sure have a lot of rules.”

  When the reading was complete, Anastasia continued. “All that just to make it very clear how to go about making a scythe—because scythes are not born, they are made. Forged in the same trial by fire that we all went through, because we know how critical it is that a scythe be ready for the burden, body and soul.” She paused to let it sink in, and as she did, she caught the gaze of Scythe Rand, who was smiling at her. It was the kind of smile that preceded the clawing out of one’s eyes. Anastasia refused to let herself be rattled again.

  “There is so much written about the process of becoming a scythe because the World Council has had to preside over many unexpected situations over the years, and kept having to add and clarify rules.” Then she began to list a few of those situations. “An apprentice who attempted self-gleaning after being ordained, but before accepting the ring. A scythe who cloned himself in an attempt to pass his ring on to the clone before self-gleaning. A woman who supplanted her own mind with the mental construct of Scythe Sacajawea, and claimed the right to glean. In all these cases, the World Council decided against the individuals in question.”

  Now Anastasia looked over at Scythe Goddard for the first time, forcing herself to meet his steely gaze. “The event that destroyed Scythe Goddard’s body was a terrible thing, but he can’t be allowed to defy the council’s edicts. The fact is, like that misguided woman with the mind of Scythe Sacajawea, Goddard’s new physical body didn’t undergo the rigorous preparations of apprenticeship. This would be bad enough if he was just any scythe, but he’s not just any scythe—he’s a candidate for High Blade of a major region. Yes, we know who he is from the neck up, but that is only a small fraction of what makes a human being. I ask you to listen to him when he delivers his argument, and you’ll hear in his voice what we already know:  We have no idea whose voice is speaking, which means we have no idea who he is. All that we can be certain of is that ninety-three percent of him is not Scythe Robert Goddard. With that in mind, there is only one decision that this council can make.”