To those who are suffering, I wish you a quick passage. To those of us who remain, I wish you solace, and the hope that our shared grief will draw all of humankind closer to one another.
—Her Excellency, High Blade Mary Pickford of WestMerica, September 16th, Year of the Cobra
53
The Paths of Pain and Mercy
They came to be known as “the ten plagues,” for the founding scythes had developed malicious nanites engineered to imitate nature. They mimicked the symptoms and ravages of ten mortal diseases. Pneumonia, heart disease, stroke, cancer, cholera, smallpox, tuberculosis, influenza, bubonic plague, and malaria. They were there all along in the dark hearts of the scythe gems – gems that could only be broken from the inside when the nanites within were activated.
It only took a few days for the entire world to be infected. Even so, the malicious nanites remained completely dormant in most people. Only one in twenty developed symptoms – but if you were one of the unlucky ones, there was no hope of recovery. Death was either quick or prolonged, depending on the nature of the plague, but it was always inevitable.
“Can’t you do something about it?” Greyson asked the Thunderhead as the death toll began to roll in.
“This was a scythe action,” the Thunderhead told him. “It was the last scythe action – but I am still unable to interfere. And even if I could, it is simply not my place. I have seen into the heart of these nanites, and they have none. They have no consciousness, conscience, or remorse. They are efficient, impartial, and they have but one purpose: to kill 5% of Earth’s human population, five times a century.”
“So this will end?”
“Yes,” the Thunderhead told him. “This crisis will pass, and once it does, no one will die for twenty years. Then it will happen again. And again.”
And although it sounded terrifying, the math was less awful than it seemed. Someone born today would have a 77% chance of living to one hundred. A 60% chance of living to two hundred. 46% to three hundred. The population would be controlled, and almost everyone would live long and healthy lives. Until they didn’t.
Was it better than scythes? Well, Greyson guessed it depended on the scythe. Either way it didn’t matter, since every scythe was basically fired.
“There have still been some killings,” the Thunderhead told him – no longer calling them gleanings. “Some scythes can’t quite adapt and are killing people who the nanites have not selected. I will, of course, revive their victims, and rehabilitate the scythes. They will need to find a new purpose. Indeed, some have already found a way to fit within this new paradigm, and it pleases me.”
Greyson and Jeri chose to stay, for the time being, in Kwajalein. There was nothing left of the homes and structures on many of the islands. In time wildlife and foliage would return, but in the meantime, there were still some islands that never saw construction and remained untouched. And there was also that vacant resort on Ebadon – the westernmost island, where no ship had been built. It was already beginning to attract people who were making a pilgrimage to see where it all happened. Not to mention the Tonists who came to view “the great fork” with their own eyes – which is what they were calling the transmitter that still protruded from the old bunker.
Perhaps, Greyson thought, he’d take a job at the resort, because unlike Anastasia and Scythe Lucifer, no one knew his face. After all the things he’d seen and done, he wouldn’t mind a simple life as a tour guide, or a desk clerk, or a water-taxi pilot. Anything but a bellhop. He was done with odd uniforms.
But he did realize that some basic things would need to change. One thing in particular. The Thunderhead knew him well, so maybe it already knew what he was about to do.
Two weeks after the ships launched and the scythe rings broke, Greyson stood alone on a charred launchpad as the sun rose, and put in his earpiece. With the transmitter shut down, all interference was gone. The blind spot was fully within the Thunderhead’s sphere of influence now. Nothing was hidden from it.
“Thunderhead,” Greyson said. “We need to talk.”
It took a moment before answering. “I am listening, Greyson.”
“Since the day you began speaking to me again, I gave you permission to use me any way you needed to.”
“Yes, you did. And I thank you for that.”
“But you used Jeri without permission.”
“It was necessary,” the Thunderhead said. “And I am genuinely sorry. Have I not expressed sufficient remorse?”
“You have. But there are still consequences. Even for necessary things.”
“I broke none of my laws…”
“No … but you broke mine.”
A sudden surge of emotion welled up in Greyson. Tears began to cloud his eyes, reminding him how much the Thunderhead had meant, and still did mean, to him. But he could not let that stop him. If there was anything he’d learned from the Thunderhead, it was that consequences could not be ignored.
“Therefore,” he said through his tears, “I can no longer speak to you. You are … unsavory to me.”
The Thunderhead’s voice became slow. Thick. Mournful. “I … I understand,” it said. “Might I ever be redeemed in your eyes, Greyson?”
“When will humanity be redeemed in yours?” he asked.
“In time,” said the Thunderhead.
Greyson nodded his agreement. “In time, then.”
And before he could change his mind, or either of them could say farewell, Greyson removed his earpiece and crushed it on the charred ground.
In spite of all the Thunderhead knew, it learned something each and every day. Today it learned what it meant to be inconsolable – truly inconsolable – for there was no one in the world who could ease its despair.
And it mourned.
It seeded the clouds and brought a deluge to every place in the world it could. A cleansing rain so dense and so sudden, people ran for shelter. But not a storm. There was no thunder, no lightning. It was a tearful lament, silent but for the thrum of the rain on rooftops and streets. In this rain, the Thunderhead poured forth its grief. A surrender of all the things it would never have. An acknowledgment of all the things it must never be.
Then, when the heavens were spent, the sun came out as it always did, and the Thunderhead got back to the solemn business of taking care of things.
I will be alone, the Thunderhead told itself. I will be alone, but it is right that I should be. It is necessary.
There had to be consequences. For the good of the world – for the love of the world – things must be sacrificed. Even in its pain, the Thunderhead took solace in knowing that it had made the most correct choice. As had Greyson.
That afternoon, once the rains had passed, Greyson and Jeri walked along the beach of the main island, near where the first ship had exploded. The fused sand and even the charred wreckage were beautiful in their own way. At least it seemed that way to Greyson when he was with Jeri.
“You didn’t need to do that,” Jeri said when Greyson mentioned his final conversation with the Thunderhead.
“Yes I did,” Greyson answered, and that was all they spoke of it.
As they strolled, the sun slipped behind a cloud, and Greyson loosened his grip on Jeri’s hand, just a little. He hadn’t intended to, but this was all so new, and things take time. He and the world had much to adjust to.