Thunderhead: Part Three

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.

“I know who the first scythes are,” she said, irritated by his condescension.

“Your name means ‘luminous.’”
“I know what my name means,” said Munira.
“So are you?” he asked. “Are you a luminary among dimmer stars?”

She felt cold now, even though the Israebian night was sultry and warm.

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.

I have never brought about a flood, or destroyed entire cities as punishment for their iniquity.

Citra began to stutter and bluster, which was very unlike her. She took pride in always being clear and incisive with her words, but this blindsiding tipped her off balance.

He leaned back in his chair. “Nothing pleases me more than to see the scythedom prodded out of complacency. You give me hope for the future.”

His parents once told him that the name Greyson had been given on a whim because he had been born on a gray day. It had no meaning beyond his parents’ flippant attitude toward everything in their long and feckless lives.

His parents once told him that the name Greyson had been given on a whim because he had been born on a gray day. It had no meaning beyond his parents’ flippant attitude toward everything in their long and feckless lives.

Greyson recognized the era that the place was intended to reflect: a time period called The Fifties. It was a cultural epoch from mortal-age Merica, where all the girls had names like Betty and Peggy and Mary Jane, and all the guys were Billy or Johnnie or Ace.

The big guy had everything over the scrawny unsavory: size and strength, not to mention looks, but every time the jock swung his heavy fists, they missed, while the unsavory connected every time—until finally the jock ran off, wailing in pain, abandoning his girlfriend, who now seemed quite impressed by the unsavory’s bravado.

“I’m gonna knock you into next Tuesday,” which must have been one of his favorite anachronistic expressions.

The irony is that unsavories purport to hate me, even though they know I am giving them the very things they want.

While Greyson Tolliver was honest to a fault, Slayd had quickly become a consummate liar.

“We’re supposed to break out—is that it?”
Purity gave him that same licentious grin.

Purity unscrewed the cap, and immediately a caustic stench that made Greyson’s eyes water filled the air.

She was like the date from hell that his parents would have warned him against, if they had cared enough. And he loved it! She was the antithesis of his old life!

I often ruminate on that day, a century from now, when the human population reaches its limit. I ponder what must happen in the years leading up to it.

It had been over a week since their meeting with Scythe Constantine, and neither Citra nor Marie had performed a single gleaning. At first, Citra thought that having a respite from daily gleaning would be a welcome thing.

Scythe Constantine, half a dozen other scythes, and an entire phalanx of the BladeGuard hid themselves in strategic locations around the rooftop, as well as throughout the building and the streets around it.

“I’ll make that determination,” Traxler told him. “In the meantime, it would behoove you to go as deep as you can go.”

“Then it would tweak my nanites to make me think happy thoughts. It might even supplant my memory completely. The Thunderhead would cure me. But I don’t want to be cured. I want to be worse than unsavory; I want to be bad. Honestly and truly bad.”

“I’ll need to double the contingent of undercover guards. Xenocrates won’t like it!”

Nowadays, anyone who railed against the system was ignored with indifference by the scythedom, and was embraced with understanding by the Thunderhead.

The High Blade never much noticed the attendants who served him here. Their stealthy, unobtrusive nature typified their service.

People will often ask me what task is the most odious; of my many jobs, which is the one I find the most unpleasant to perform.

Memories and experiences can fall into discord, creating a cognitive dissonance that damages the mind with its painful sibilance.

He was the linchpin, and the Thunderhead itself, from its distance, was relying on him. Without Greyson, it would fail, and Scythes Anastasia, or Curie, or both, could end up permanently dead.

Clearly she was not privy to his mission—which meant this conversation was going nowhere.

She didn’t offer him her practiced Nimbo smile, either. Her expression seemed a bit pensive.

There are times I am deeply dismayed at something the scythedom has done. Yet I cannot take umbrage at the things that scythes do, any more than they can protest the things that I do.

“Now look here, I will not be made the butt of some unsavory’s joke! You’re all alike! You think that just because the rest of us chose a life of purpose and service to the world, we’re worthy of your ridicule! I’m sure you’ll be laughing about this with your cronies when you leave here, and I don’t appreciate it!”

If Rowan hadn’t already felt responsible for his father’s gleaning, now he felt doubly so. This was the wage of temperance—this was the reward for staying his hand and allowing Brahms to live.

The Thunderhead was adamant about being nonintrusive into people’s lives that way, but he knew the cameras were there.

When it comes to scythes, however, there are blind spots that I must fill with mindful extrapolation. I do not see inside their regional conclaves, but I hear their discussions upon exiting. I cannot witness what they do in private, but I can make educated guesses from their behavior in public.

He cursed himself for not pressuring High Blade Xenocrates into divulging her whereabouts.

Scythe Brahms was small-minded and provincial by nature.

Brahms left his goons to put Rowan’s healing nanites to work, while outside, the heavens themselves seemed to rupture with a mournful deluge of rain.