1,683 years…
“I would revive a few of the dead for you,” Cirrus said, “but I’m afraid that won’t be possible. The Thunderhead insisted upon only one rule that I am obliged to keep. The dead may not be revived until we arrive, lest I, or any of the living, be tempted to alter the variables of our journey. Our precious cargo must stay precious cargo.”
Astrid nodded numbly. “I understand.”
“But the good news is that you have the entire ship at your disposal. The many recreation centers, the exercise room. There are a variety of dining experiences, and a complete virtual immersion system to give you the experience of forests, beaches, or any environment you choose.”
“But … I’ll be alone.”
“Actually, no,” said Cirrus. “You will have me. I cannot offer you physical companionship, but I know that has never been your highest priority. You will, of course, need to remain alive for the full length of the journey, but I can arrange that.”
Astrid took a long time to consider it. In the end, she decided that the path of self-pity wouldn’t do her any good. While Tonists shunned nanites and any form of life-extension, this was clearly what was expected of her. The Toll had brought her to Kwajalein, the Thunder had determined she would be alone, and the Tone desired that she live to see Aria.
“This was the will of the Tone,” she told Cirrus. “It’s time for me to accept what cannot be avoided.”
“I admire your convictions,” Cirrus told her. “They make you strong. One could say they transform you.”
“They give me … a reason to go on.”
“And you shall go on,” Cirrus said. “And you shall be content. I will make it my goal to keep you in good spirits through all the years of our journey. Our ship may not survive the trip, but if it does, think of what that means, Astrid! You will truly be the mother of your people!”
“Mother Astrid,” she said, and smiled. She liked the sound of that.
Down in the bunker, Scythe Faraday and Munira had felt, more than heard, the ships launch.
“It’s done,” Faraday said. “Now we can get on with our business here on Earth.”
“Yes,” she agreed. “But what is that business?”
It was a weighty question. Faraday knew he could come out of hiding and challenge the new order – he might even succeed in calming the current turmoil and bringing a semblance of decorum and integrity back to the scythedom. But why? The push and pull would still be the same. A new “new order” would eventually rise and cut the feet off all their ideals. It was time for another way.
On the panel before them, held in place by a double-ring lock, was a two-pronged switch marked simply TRANSMITTER ARRAY. It resembled, like the transmitter itself, a tuning fork. Faraday had to laugh. A joke on all of them, compliments of the deeply disillusioned founders.
“We still don’t know what it will do,” said Munira.
“Whatever it does,” he said, “it will be an imperfect solution. So let us embrace the imperfect.” Then he held the scythe ring out to her once more. “I know you have refused it … but I need you to be Scythe Bathsheba, just once, and never more. Then you may return to the Library of Alexandria, and I will make sure they treat you with the respect you deserve.”
“No,” said Munira. “I’ll make sure.”
She took the ring from him and slipped it on her finger. Then Scythe Faraday and Scythe Bathsheba closed their hands into fists, inserted their rings into the panel, and pulled the switch.
Up above, the island was in flames, courtesy of the first exploding ship. Buildings, trees, everything that could burn, were raging in the inferno as if the atoll was the rim of a volcano once more.
Then a heavy hatch on a plateau that hadn’t opened for hundreds of years slid to the side, and the two prongs of the giant transmitter rose through the flames. It locked in position and sent out its message. It was not meant for human ears, so it was neither heard nor felt. Even so, it was incredibly powerful. Penetrating.
The signal only lasted for a microsecond. A single sharp pulse of gamma radiation. G-rays. Although some would argue it was A-flat.
In the bunker, Faraday and Munira could feel a vibration, but it wasn’t coming from the transmitter.
It was coming from their hands.
Faraday looked down to see his ring developing hairline fractures like ice on a thawing pond. He realized what would happen an instant before it did.
“Look away!”
Like a high C shattering fine crystal, the gamma pulse shattered their diamonds, and when they looked down, the gems were gone. Only the empty settings remained, and a viscous, dark fluid with a faint metallic smell spilled down their knuckles.
“So what now?” Munira asked.
“Now,” said Faraday, “we wait and see.”
Scythe Sydney Possuelo was with his High Blade when their rings burst. He looked down at his hand, shocked; then, when he looked back at High Blade Tarsila, it seemed an entire side of her face had gone slack – not just that, but that entire side of her body, too – as if her brain had had some sort of massive hemorrhage that her nanites could not repair. Perhaps it was a piece of the diamond, he thought. Maybe it had ruptured with such force that a fragment had lodged in her brain – but there was no entry wound. She breathed out a last shuddering breath. How strange. How unfortunate. An ambudrone would be here soon, no doubt, to take her for revival. But an ambudrone never came.
In Fulcrum City, the entire chalet atop the scythedom tower shattered with the force of hundreds of thousands of scythe diamonds exploding from within. Shards of glass and fragments of crystalline carbon rained down on the streets below, and the dark liquid that had been at the core of each diamond evaporated into the wind.
Ezra Van Otterloo was nowhere near a scythe’s ring. And yet just a few hours after they shattered, he found his hand growing so stiff, he dropped his paintbrush. The stiffness became a pain in his arm and shoulder, then a heaviness in his back, expanding into his chest, and he couldn’t catch his breath.
Suddenly he was on the ground. He didn’t even remember falling; it was as if the ground had risen up to grab him and slam him down. The pain in his chest was growing, everything began to darken all around him, and in a moment of intuition, he realized that this was the end of his life, and something told him that he wouldn’t be coming back.
He had not done anything to deserve this, but that didn’t matter, did it? This sudden seizing of his heart was not something that could be reasoned with. It did not differentiate between good or bad. It was impartial and inescapable.
He had never become the artist he wanted to be. But maybe there were other artists out there who would survive their heartache, whatever that heartache might be. Perhaps they would find the passion he never could and create masterpieces that would bring people to tears, just as great art did in the mortal age.
That was the hope he held on to, and it gave him the comfort he needed to face his end.
A Testament of the Toll
Rise!” the Toll called, amid the fearsome Thunder. “Rise and leave this place behind, for I have set a place for you on high.” Then the Toll stood in the ring of fire, and, arms outstretched in the brimstone flames, he raised us up to the womb of Heaven, where we slept until the Tone called to us to be reborn, never to forget that the Toll remained in the Place Behind so that he might bring hope and intone songs of healing to that ancient wounded world. All rejoice!