Thunderhead: Part Two

Before I assumed stewardship of the world, Earth had a maximum sustainability of ten billion.

Greyson Tolliver loved the Thunderhead. Most people did, for how could they not? It held no guile, no malice, no agenda, and always knew exactly what to say.

“You see, many come to work for the Authority Interface because they lack the creativity to find a truly stimulating profession. Others feel powerless and have a need to experience power vicariously. These are the lackluster ones, the boring ones, who ultimately become the least effective Nimbus agents. Rare are those such as yourself whose longing to serve is a mark of character.”

While scythes were made or broken in a one-year apprenticeship, becoming a Nimbus agent was a five-year process. Four years of study, followed by a year out in the field as a journeyman agent.

The message was simple and unambiguous. Greyson Tolliver was to report to the local Authority Interface headquarters immediately.

The offices of the Authority Interface, or AI, as it was commonly called, were not ornate, nor were they conspicuously austere.

Greyson felt out of place when he pushed his way through the revolving door into the polished marble vestibule—light gray marble the same color as all the suits around him.

She wouldn’t stop shaking his hand as she spoke. It began to feel awkward, and he wondered which would be worse, allowing her to continue pumping his hand up and down, or withdrawing it from her grasp. Finally Greyson rescued his hand from her grip, feigning a need to scratch his nose.

Scythe Curie had warned Citra of what she called “holiday opportunism.” Relatives and family friends would swarm Citra like bees, seeking favor from the young scythe.

“I am not partial to uninformed conjecture, and I would appreciate it if you did not waste your time in guessing games, either.”

“Either you’re exceedingly naive, or exceptionally stupid,” spat the Doberman.
The chancellor put up a hand to quiet the man’s vitriol.

The law required culpability—a settling of the score—and not even the Thunderhead could escape its own law.

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.

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.

Even if there was no injustice in the world left to defy, they had an innate need to defy something.

Thus, I instituted the designation of “unsavory,” and the social stigma that goes with it. For those who unintentionally slip into unsavory status, 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.

Thus, I instituted the designation of “unsavory,” and the social stigma that goes with it. For those who unintentionally slip into unsavory status, 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.

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.

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.

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.

In spite of Scythe Curie’s admonition, Citra could not just walk away from the boy who had saved their lives.

When she looked at his life record, the blinking “unsavory” warning juxtaposed with the doe-innocent eyes of his picture almost made her laugh.

Regardless, he was a formidable presence, and Citra felt out of her league.

“You see, there is no malfeasance whatsoever.”

Scythe Anastasia’s indignation mirrored what Greyson was feeling, but would not dare express.

Constantine spread his arms in a beatific gesture of innocence.

Was Constantine telling the truth? Greyson was in no position to judge. He always found scythes to be inscrutable.

He was done dissembling and spouting half-truths.

Who could know what machinations were spinning in the mind of a socially sanctioned killer?

Work was, after all, optional. He would be provided for even if he made no discernible contribution to the world—and right now he had no desire to contribute anything to the world but his bodily waste.

“Greyson Tolliver; permanently expelled from the Nimbus Academy and denigrated to unsavory status for a minimum of four months, due to an extreme violation of the scythe-state separation.”

“Perhaps you do want to,” Agent Traxler said gently. Almost subversively.

Faraday regarded him with eyes filled with smoldering anger and bitter disappointment.

Scythes were not allowed to wear black, which is exactly why he chose it. Black death for purveyors of darkness.

“There’s no evidence that Nod even exists,” Rowan pointed out.
“Which is why it has never been found. Not even by the tone cults, who believe in it with the same fervor that they believe in the Great Resonance.”

So much of the world has become homogeneous. Such is the fate of a unified planet. Native languages become quaint and secondary. Races blend into a pleasing mélange of all the best from each ethnicity, with only minor variations.

All citizens are free to engage in any recreational activity they choose, and receive a Basic Income Guarantee much higher than in other regions, so that they do not feel slighted by an inability to actually earn a living. This has resulted in a substantial rise in altruistic and charitable endeavors. One’s social status is not measured by wealth, but by one’s compassion and selflessness.

She offered him an enigmatic smile that he found more attractive than he wanted to admit.

It was both heady and chilling to finally know the nature of his destiny!