Thunderhead by Neal Shusterman
“ . . . of course none of that has to happen if you tell us the truth,” Citra heard the guard say, although she missed the list of unpleasantries the guard was threatening.
So far, Tolliver seemed unharmed. His hair was mussed a bit, and he looked woefully resigned, but other than that, he seemed fine. He was the first to see her there, and when he did, there was a spark of something in him, lifting him out of that sad, impassive state—as if his revival had somehow not been complete until he saw that she, too, was still alive.
The guards followed his gaze and saw her. She made sure that she spoke first.
“What’s going on here?” Citra asked, in her haughtiest Scythe Anastasia voice.
For an instant the guards looked panicked, but quickly became subservient.
“Your Honor! We didn’t know you’d be here. We were just questioning the suspect.”
“He is not a suspect.”
“Yes, Your Honor. Sorry, Your Honor.”
She took a step toward the boy. “Did they hurt you?”
“Not yet,” he said, then he nodded to the device that the taller guard held, “but they used that thing to shut off my pain nanites.”
She’d never even known such a device existed. She put her hand out to the guard who held it. “Give it to me.” And when he hesitated, she got a little louder. “I am a scythe and you serve me. Hand it over or I will report you.”
Still, he didn’t hand it to her.
That’s when a new piece entered this little game of chess. A scythe stepped in from another room. He must have been there all along listening, gauging the interaction for the right moment to insert himself. He timed it perfectly to catch Citra off guard.
She recognized his robe right away. Crimson silk that hissed as he walked. His face was soft, almost feminine—the result of having set his age back so many times that his basic bone structure had lost its definition, like river stones eroded by a relentless flow.
“Scythe Constantine,” Citra said. “I didn’t know you were in charge of this investigation.” The only good news about this was that if he was investigating the attempt on her and Marie’s lives, then he wasn’t out hunting for Rowan.
Constantine offered her a polite but unsettling grin. “Hello, Scythe Anastasia,” he said. “What a breath of fresh air you are in a toilsome day!” He seemed like a cat that had cornered its prey and was about to play with it. She really didn’t know what to make of him. As she had told Rowan, Scythe Constantine was not one of the terrible scythes of the new order who killed for pleasure. Nor did he align himself with the old guard, who saw gleaning as a noble and almost sacred duty. Like his red silk robe, he was slippery and smooth, siding with whoever’s agenda fit the moment. Citra did not know if that made him impartial in this investigation, or dangerous, because she had no idea where his loyalties lay.
Regardless, he was a formidable presence, and Citra felt out of her league. Then she remembered she was not Citra Terranova anymore; she was Scythe Anastasia. Recalling that transformed her, and allowed her to stand up to him. Now his grin seemed more calculating than intimidating.
“I’m pleased that you’re taking an interest in our investigation,” he said. “But I wish you would have let us know you were coming. We would have prepared refreshments for you.”
• • •
Greyson Tolliver was well aware that Scythe Anastasia might have just hurled herself in front of a speeding vehicle for him—because clearly Scythe Constantine was just as dangerous as a hurtling hunk of metal. Greyson knew very little about the structure and complexities of the scythedom, but it was obvious that Scythe Anastasia was putting herself on the line by standing up to a senior scythe.
Still, she projected such a commanding presence, it made Greyson wonder if she was actually much older than she appeared.
“Are you aware that this boy saved my and Scythe Curie’s lives?” she asked Constantine.
“Under questionable circumstances,” he responded.
“Are you planning to inflict some sort of bodily harm on him?”
“And if we are?”
“Then I’d have to remind you that the intentional infliction of pain goes against everything we stand for, and I will bring you up for discipline in conclave.”
The cool expression on Scythe Constantine’s face faded, but only a little. Greyson didn’t know if this was a good thing or bad. Constantine regarded Scythe Anastasia a moment more, then turned to one of the guards.
“Be so kind as to tell Scythe Anastasia what I ordered you to do.”
The guard glanced at Scythe Anastasia, met her eye, but Greyson could see he was unable to hold the gaze for more than a moment.
“You instructed us to cuff the suspect, turn off his pain nanites, then threaten him with several forms of physical pain.”
“Precisely!” said Scythe Constantine, then he turned back to Anastasia. “You see, there is no malfeasance whatsoever.”
Scythe Anastasia’s indignation mirrored what Greyson was feeling, but would not dare express.
“No malfeasance? You were planning to beat him until he told you whatever you wanted to hear.”
Constantine sighed again, and turned back to the guard. “What did I instruct you to do if your threats yielded no results? Were you instructed to follow through on any of those threats?”
“No, Your Honor. We were to come get you if his story didn’t change.”
Constantine spread his arms in a beatific gesture of innocence. It made the draping red sleeves of his robe look like the wings of some firebird ready to engulf the younger scythe. “There, you see?” he said. “There was never any intent to hurt the boy. I have found that in this painless world, the mere threat of pain is always enough to coerce a guilty party to confess wrongdoing. But this young man sticks to his story against the most unpleasant of threats. I am thus convinced he is telling the truth—and had you allowed me to complete the interrogation, you would have seen this for yourself.”
Greyson was sure they could all feel the relief flow from him like an electrical charge. Was Constantine telling the truth? Greyson was in no position to judge. He always found scythes to be inscrutable. They lived their lives on a plane above, greasing the gearwork of the world. He had never heard of a scythe who intentionally inflicted suffering beyond the suffering that comes with gleaning—but just because he hadn’t heard of it didn’t mean it wasn’t possible.
“I am an honorable scythe and hold to the same ideals that you do, Anastasia,” Scythe Constantine said. “As for the boy, he was never in any danger. Although now I’m tempted to glean him just to spite you.” He let that sit for a moment. Greyson’s heart missed a beat or two. Scythe Anastasia’s face, which had gone righteously red, paled a few degrees.
“But I won’t,” Scythe Constantine said, “for I am not a spiteful man.”
“Then what kind of man are you, Scythe Constantine?” asked Anastasia.
He tossed her the key to the handcuffs. “The kind who won’t soon forget what happened here today.” Then he left with a flutter of his robe, his guards following in his wake.
Once they were gone, Scythe Anastasia wasted no time in removing Greyson’s cuffs. “Did they hurt you?”
“No,” Greyson had to admit. “Like he said, it was all threats.” But now that it was over, he realized he was no better off than when they had come. His relief was quickly flooded with the same bitterness that had plagued him since the moment he was kicked to the Nimbus Academy’s proverbial curb.
“Why are you here, anyway?” he asked her.
“I suppose I just wanted to thank you for what you did. I know it cost you a lot.”
“Yes,” Greyson admitted flatly. “It did.”
“So . . . with that in mind, I’m offering you a year of immunity from gleaning. It’s the least I can do.”
She held out her ring to him. He’d never had immunity from gleaning before. He’d never even been this close to a scythe before this he
“I don’t want it,” he told her.
She was surprised by that. “Don’t be stupid; everybody wants immunity.”
“I’m not everybody.”
“Just shut up and kiss the ring!”
Her aggravation just fed his. Was that what his sacrifice was worth? A temporary get-out-of-death-free card? The life he thought he was going to lead was gone, so what was the point of a guarantee to prolong it?
“Maybe I want to be gleaned,” he told her. “I mean, everything I had to live for has been stolen from me, so why live at all?”
Scythe Anastasia lowered her ring. Her expression became serious. Too serious. “Fine,” she said. “Then I’ll glean you.”
Greyson hadn’t expected that. She could do that. In fact, she could do it before he had the chance to stop her. As much as he didn’t want to kiss her ring, he didn’t want to be gleaned, either. It would mean that the entire purpose of his existence would be to have thrown himself in front of her car. He had to live long enough to forge a purpose greater than that. Even if he had no idea what that purpose might be.
Then Scythe Anastasia laughed. She actually laughed at him. “If you could only see the look on your face!”
Now it was Greyson’s turn to go red—not from anger but from embarrassment. Perhaps he wasn’t quite done feeling sorry for himself, but he wouldn’t feel sorry for himself in front of her.
“You’re welcome,” he said. “There, you thanked me, I accepted it. Now you can go.”
But she didn’t. Greyson really didn’t expect her to.
“Is your story true?” she asked.
If one more person asked him that, he felt he might just blow up and leave his own crater. So he told her what he thought she wanted to hear.
“I don’t know who planted those explosives. I wasn’t part of the plot.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
She waited. Patiently. She made no threats, she offered no incentive. Greyson had no idea if he could trust her, but realized that he didn’t care anymore. He was done dissembling and spouting half-truths.
“No,” he told her. “I lied.” Admitting it felt freeing.
“Why?” she asked. She didn’t seem angry, just curious.
“Because it was better for everyone if I did.”
“Everyone but you.”
He shrugged. “I’d be in the same boat no matter what I told them.”
She accepted that, and sat down across from him, staring at him the whole time. He didn’t like that. She was once more on a plane above, thinking her secret thoughts. Who could know what machinations were spinning in the mind of a socially sanctioned killer?
And then she nodded. “It was the Thunderhead,” she said. “It knew about the plot—but it couldn’t warn us. So it needed someone it trusted who could. Someone who the Thunderhead knew would take the information and act on his own.”
He was amazed at her insightfulness. She figured it out when no one else had.
“Even if that were true,” he said, “I wouldn’t tell you.”
She smiled. “I wouldn’t want you to.” She looked at him a moment more, her expression not just kindly, but maybe a bit respectful. Imagine that! Greyson Tolliver getting respect from a scythe!
She stood to leave. Greyson found he was sorry to see her go. Being left alone with his blaring U and his own defeatist thoughts was something he was not looking forward to.
“I’m sorry you were marked unsavory,” she said just before she left. “But even if you’re not allowed to talk to the Thunderhead, you can still access all its information. Websites, databases—everything but its consciousness.”
“What good is all that without a mind behind it to guide you?”
“You still have your own mind,” she pointed out. “That’s got to be worth something.”
* * *
The Basic Income Guarantee predated my ascension to power. Even before me, many nations had begun to pay their citizens for merely existing. It was necessary, because with increasing automation, unemployment was rapidly becoming the norm rather than the exception. So the concept of “welfare” and “social security” was reinvented as the BIG: All citizens had a right to a small piece of the pie, regardless of their ability or desire to contribute.
Humans, however, have a basic need beyond just income. They need to feel useful, productive, or at least busy—even if that busywork provides nothing to society.
Therefore, under my benevolent leadership, anyone who wants a job can have one—and at salaries above the BIG, so that there is incentive to achieve, and a method of measuring one’s success. I help every citizen find employment that is fulfilling for them. Of course, very few of the jobs are necessary, since they could all be accomplished by machines—but the illusion of purpose is critical to a well-adjusted population.
—The Thunderhead
* * *
12
A Scale of One to Ten
Greyson’s alarm went off before sunrise. He had not set it to do so. Since coming home, he had no reason to wake up early. There was nothing pressing to be done, and when he was awake he tended to crawl back under the covers until he could no longer justify it.
He had not yet even begun to search for employment. 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.
He slapped the alarm off. “What’s going on?” he asked. “Why are you waking me up?” It took a few moments of silence to realize that the Thunderhead was not going to respond to that question as long as he was unsavory. So he sat up and looked at his bedside screen to see a message turning the room red with its angry glare.
“APPOINTMENT WITH PROBATION OFFICER AT 8:00 A.M.
FAILURE TO APPEAR WILL RESULT IN FIVE DEMERITS.”
Greyson had a vague idea what demerits were, but had no clue how to value them. Did five demerits add five days onto his unsavory status? Five hours? Five months? He had no idea. Perhaps he should take a class in unsavorism.
What does one wear to meet with a probation officer? he wondered. Should he dress up or down? As bitter as he was about all of this, he realized that impressing his probation officer couldn’t hurt, so he found a clean shirt and slacks, then put on the same tie he’d worn to his appointment at the Authority Interface back in Fulcrum City, when he’d thought he still had a life. He flagged down a publicar (which again warned him about the consequences of vandalism and abusive language), then left for the local AI office. He was determined to be early and make a positive enough impression to maybe knock a day or two off of his status downgrade.
• • •
The Higher Nashville AI office building was much smaller than the one in Fulcrum City. It was only four stories, and of red brick instead of gray granite. On the inside, however, it appeared much the same. He was not ushered to a comfortable audience room this time. Instead, he was directed to the Office of Unsavory Affairs, where he was instructed to take a number and wait in a room with dozens of other unsavories who clearly didn’t want to be there.
Finally, after the better part of an hour, Greyson’s number came up and he went to the window, where a low-level Nimbus agent checked his ID and told him things, most of which he already knew.
“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.”
“That’s me,” said Greyson. At least now he knew how long his status downgrade would last.
She looked up from her tablet, and offered him a smile that was as mirthless as that of a bot. For a moment he wondered if she might actually
“How are you feeling today?” she asked.
“Fine, I guess,” he said, and smiled back at her. He wondered if his smile looked as insincere as hers. “I mean, annoyed at having been woken up so early, but an appointment is an appointment, right?”
She marked something down in her tablet. “Please rate your level of annoyance on a scale of one to ten.”
“Are you serious?”
“We can’t proceed with intake until you answer the question.”
“Uh . . . five,” he said, “No—six; the question made it worse.”
“Have you experienced any unfair treatment since being marked unsavory? Anyone refusing you service, or in any way infringing upon your rights as a citizen?”
The rote way in which she asked the question made him want to smack that tablet out of her hand. At least she could have pretended to care about his answer the way she had pretended to smile.
“People look at me like I’ve just killed their cat.”
She looked at him as if he’d just told her he actually had killed a few cats. “Unfortunately, I can’t do anything about the way people look at you. But if your rights are ever infringed upon, it’s important that you let your probation officer know.”
“Wait—you’re not my probation officer?”
She sighed. “I’m your intake officer. You’ll meet your probation officer after we’re done with intake.”
“Will I have to take a number again?”
“Yes.”
“Then please change my annoyance level to nine.”
She threw him a glance, and made the entry on her tablet. Then took a moment to process whatever information on him she had. “Your nanites are reporting a decrease in your endorphin levels over the past few days. This may indicate an early stage of depression. Do you wish to have a mood adjustment now, or wait until you’ve reached the threshold?”