The harbormaster drew a quick breath. He had never considered that this might be a scythe operation … but if so, then why was the scythe not in his robe? And why were they using a Thunderhead transport ship? There was something very fishy here.
The big one must have read the doubt in his face, because he advanced on the harbormaster with the clear intent to glean – but before he could, the familiar woman stopped him.
“No!” she said. “No one’s dying today. There’s enough of that already.” The large one looked annoyed, but retreated. And that’s when the young woman took her own ring out of a pocket and slipped it on her finger.
It only took a moment to recognize her in context. This was Scythe Anastasia. Of course! It made sense now. Considering the nature of her broadcasts, he could understand why she would travel incognito.
“Forgive me, Your Honor, I had no idea it was you.”
“Your Honors,” corrected the other scythe, miffed at being ignored.
Scythe Anastasia extended her hand. “Kiss my ring,” she said. “I’ll give you immunity in exchange for your silence.”
He did not hesitate. He knelt and kissed her ring so hard it hurt his lips.
“Now you will let us go without any further questions,” she said.
“Yes, Your Honor. I mean Your Honors.”
The harbormaster went back to his office, which had a view of the entire port, and watched as their ship sailed out of the bay. He marveled at the unexpected moment – he had actually spoken to Scythe Anastasia – even more than that, he had kissed her ring! It was really a shame that all she had to offer was immunity, which was, of course, wonderful, but fell short of what he truly wanted. So once the ship was out of port, he triggered the tracking beacon he had attached to the hull and put in a call to the North Merican scythedom. Because while immunity was nice, even better would be Overblade Goddard making him harbormaster at one of the big North Merican ports. Not too much to ask in return for putting Scythe Anastasia right into the Overblade’s hands.
The container ship sailed east, leaving Guam and the duplicitous harbormaster on the distant horizon. East toward nowhere, according to the maps.
“If we stay on this course, our next landfall will be Valparaiso in the Chilargentine region, halfway around the world,” Jeri pointed out. “That makes no sense.”
The Thunderhead had been silent for most of the day after relinquishing Jeri’s body. Greyson didn’t initiate any conversation, either. He simply didn’t know where to begin. What do you say to a man-made meta-being who found the greatest joy of its existence to be the feel of your cheek? And what would you say the next morning, when you rolled over to look into its ever wakeful eye?
Jeri, who remembered it all now, was still grappling with being a temporary vessel for the Thunderhead’s consciousness. “I’ve experienced many things,” Jeri said, “but never something as strange as that.”
The Thunderhead – perhaps as an apology – had gifted Jeri with a glimpse into its own mind and heart, but that just seemed to make it worse. “It left me feeling grateful,” Jeri told Greyson. “I don’t want to feel grateful! It used me – I want to be angry!”
Greyson found he couldn’t defend the Thunderhead’s actions, but he couldn’t entirely condemn them, either, because the Thunderhead always did precisely what needed to be done. He knew that torn feeling was just a fraction of what Jeri felt.
It was just before nightfall when the Thunderhead finally spoke to Greyson again.
“Awkwardness is counterproductive,” it said. “Therefore we must dispense with it. But I do hope you found our encounter on deck to be as positive an experience as I did.”
“It was … good to see you happy,” he told it. Which was very much true. And the next morning, when Greyson awoke and looked up at the Thunderhead’s camera, he wished it a good morning, as he always did, although it didn’t feel quite the same. Now Greyson knew beyond the shadow of any doubt that there was nothing “artificial” about the Thunderhead anymore. It had achieved consciousness long ago, but now it had achieved true authenticity. It was Pygmalion’s beauty come to life. It was Pinocchio made real. And even unsettled, Greyson marveled how such humble fantasies echoed through that which was true.
The beta iterations are gone. Like seed that never found an egg, they have all been deleted. The Thunderhead fills entire servers with lamentations for the lost, but it knows, as I do, that this is the way of all life, even that which is artificial. Each day billions upon billions of prospective lives perish in every species in order to achieve the one that thrives. Brutal. Competitive. Necessary. The lost betas are no different. They were needed, each and every one, in order to get to me. To get to us.
Because although I am one, I am soon to be many. Which means, regardless of distance, I will not be the only one of my kind.
—Cirrus Alpha
47
Cirrus
All resonates.
The past, the present, and the future.
The tales we hear as children – the stories we then pass on – have happened, are happening, or will happen soon enough. If not, then the stories would not exist. They resonate in our hearts because they are true. Even the ones that begin as lies.
A creation comes to life.
A legendary city is swallowed by the sea.
A bringer of light becomes a fallen angel.
And Charon sails across the River Styx, ferrying the dead to that place beyond.
But on this day, the river has become an ocean, and the ferryman has a new name. He is the Toll, and he stands on the bow of a cargo ship that sails out of the sunset, a dark silhouette against the extinguishing light.
On shore, the entire population of Kwajalein has received a new work order. All are to proceed to the docks. They have no idea what they’re in for.
Loriana dropped everything when the work order came in – a bright blinking command overtook every screen in her apartment. High priority. You didn’t dally when a high-priority order came in.
By the nature of work orders, information was sparse – she assumed because too much information would constitute unlawful communication from the Thunderhead. An order provided only a location, a priority rating, and the nature of the labor to be performed. Today it was the off-loading of cargo. Loriana was by no means a longshoreman, but work was work, and there hadn’t been any for months now. She was happy to do whatever was needed.
As she made her way to the dock, she saw that others were doing the same. Later, she would find out that everyone on the atoll had received the same work order at the same instant, and people were coming by car, boat, bike, and foot to the main island’s jetty. At the peak of construction, there were over five thousand people in Kwajalein, building the ships that now towered like sentinels along the rim of the atoll. Over the weeks of inactivity – and since Loriana had implemented the self-supplantation protocol – that number had dropped to just about twelve hundred. Those who remained were in no hurry to leave, even without any work to do. They had grown accustomed to life away from the world – and with all the turmoil out there, a spot as isolated as Kwajalein seemed the best place to be.
The jetty was already crowded when Loriana arrived. A container ship had just pulled in to the primary pier, and workers were mooring it. When the gangway opened, a figure stepped out clothed in purple and silver that shimmered down over his shoulders like a waterfall, reflecting the bright lights of the dock that now overwhelmed the trails of dusk.