A part of him – that childish part that struggled for breath beneath the crushing weight of Scythe Lucifer – still dreamed that he and Citra could magically be millions of miles away from all this. Rowan hoped that voice would die soon. Better to be numb than plagued by longing for something that could never be. Better to move forward silently toward the scene of his next crime.
Scythe Kurosawa reminded Rowan a bit of Scythe Faraday in stature and the way he had let some gray creep into his hair – but Kurosawa’s demeanor was far different. He was a boisterous and bloviating man who took pleasure in ridiculing others. Not an endearing trait, but not a gleaning offense.
“If we gleaned every asshole,” Scythe Volta had once told Rowan, “there’d be virtually no one left.” Volta – who had self-gleaned right before Rowan’s eyes. It was a painful memory. What would Volta say about his current mission, Rowan wondered. Would he tell Rowan to self-glean before it was too late, and he had lost his soul?
Kurosawa liked to glean in crowds – not mass gleanings, just one individual a day. His method was elegant. A single sharpened fingernail dipped in neurotoxin derived from the skin of the golden frog. A flick on the cheek would end a life in seconds.
Kurosawa’s favorite spot was the Shibuya scramble – the notorious intersection that hadn’t changed since the mortal age. At any hour of any day, when all the lights turned red, a mob of hundreds would cross the six-road intersection, moving in every direction yet never bumping into one another.
Kurosawa would glean someone in the crowd and then retire to the same ramen shop each day, celebrating his kill and drowning any remorse he might have felt in rich tonkatsu broth.
On this day, Rowan got there first, taking a seat in a far corner. The place was fairly empty – only one brave customer remained in the corner sipping tea – perhaps there to catch a glimpse of the infamous scythe, or maybe just there for a meal. Rowan paid him little mind until he spoke.
“He knows you’ve been following him,” the customer said. “He knows and he intends to glean you before you even see him coming. But we have about four minutes until he arrives.”
The man’s bemused expression never changed. He took another sip of tea. “Come closer; we have lots to discuss.” His lips didn’t move when he spoke.
Rowan stood and reflexively put his hand on the blade concealed in his jacket.
“It’s a Thunderhead observation bot,” the voice said. “It has no vocal cords, but there’s a speaker in its left shoulder.”
Still Rowan kept his hand on his blade. “Who are you?”
Whoever it was, they didn’t even feign an attempt to answer the question. “Are you seriously considering gleaning a bot? Isn’t that beneath you, Rowan?”
“The Thunderhead hasn’t spoken to me since before my apprenticeship, so I know you’re not the Thunderhead.”
“No,” said the voice. “I am not. Now, if you lift up the bot’s shirt, you will find that within its chest cavity is a thermal jacket. I want you to take it and follow my instructions to the letter.”
“Why should I do anything you say?”
“Because,” the voice said, “if you choose to ignore me, there’s a 91% chance that things will not end well for you. But if you follow my instructions, there’s a 56% chance that things will. So your choice should be obvious.”
“I still don’t know who you are.”
“You may call me Cirrus,” the voice said.
The harbormaster of the port of Guam watched the ships sail in and watched them sail out. It was a busy port, the Thunderhead having transformed it years ago into a shipping hub.
The harbormaster’s job had become much more rigorous these days. Used to be he would do little more than watch the ships come and go, shuffle paperwork that wasn’t actually on paper, and reconfirm manifests that the Thunderhead had already confirmed. He would, on occasion, inspect shipments that the Thunderhead informed him had been compromised or carried contraband from unsavories. But now that everyone was unsavory, the Thunderhead no longer warned him of issues, which meant he had to ferret out irregularities himself. That required unannounced inspections and keeping a keen eye out for suspicious behavior on the docks. It made the job a bit more interesting, but he longed to be reassigned to a mainland port.
Today was no different than any other day. Ships were arriving and off-loading their cargo, which was then reloaded on any number of vessels going in different directions. Nothing stayed in Guam – it was just a stop between points A and B.
Today’s object of interest was an unremarkable cargo ship being loaded with biologic perishable containers from all over the world. This was not unusual. The category included all nature of foodstuffs, livestock in induced hibernation, and species being relocated for their own protection.
What raised a red flag for this particular ship was that its manifest lacked any and all details.
Although the harbormaster didn’t know it, this was a product of the Thunderhead’s inability to lie. Better to have nothing going nowhere, than to have dead Tonists going to a place that didn’t exist.
He approached the ship as the last of the containers were being lifted into place, with a few peace officers in tow in case he needed backup brawn. He boarded by the stern ramp and made his way to the bridge, stopping as soon as he heard voices. He motioned to the peace officers to stay back – he would call for them if needed – and he ventured forward, peering around a corner, eavesdropping on the conversation.
There were five of them, all dressed in ordinary enough clothes, but there was something awkward about them. Something uneasy. A clear sign that they were up to no good.
There was a thin young man who appeared to be in charge, and one of the women seemed familiar somehow, but it must have been his imagination. The harbormaster stepped in and cleared his throat, making his presence known.
The thin one quickly stood. “Can I help you?”
“Routine check,” said the harbormaster, showing them his credentials. “There are some irregularities with your paperwork.”
“What sort of irregularities?”
“Well, for one,” said the harbormaster, “you’re missing a destination.”
They looked to one another. The harbormaster couldn’t help but notice that one of the women – the one who had something familiar about her – was averting her gaze, and one of the others had stepped in front of her, blocking the harbormaster’s view.
“Port of Angels, WestMerica,” said the thin one.
“Then why is it missing from your paperwork?”
“Not a problem. We’ll just add it manually.”
“And the nature of your cargo is unclear.”
“It’s of a personal nature,” he said. “As harbormaster, isn’t it your job to send us on our way, and not to pry into our business?”
The harbormaster stiffened. There was something increasingly unsettling about this. It reeked of an unsavory hack into the database. The harbormaster dropped all pretenses.
“Either you tell me what you’re really up to, or I’ll hand you over to the peace officers waiting just outside that door.”
The thin one was about to speak again, but one of the others stood up. A bigger man, a bit more intimidating. “This is scythe business,” he said, and flashed his ring.