Thunderhead (Arc of a Scythe, #2)

by Neal Shusterman

“My ethics teacher just assigned us an analysis of mortal-age court cases. I got something called Brown versus the Board of Education, whatever that is. And my digital theory teacher wants me to write a paper on Bill Gates—not the scythe, but the actual guy.

“I have flown with them over the green expanses of temperate forests, and can testify to you that the lives they experience are deeply satisfying,” the Thunderhead had told her. “But yes, it is sad to live and die without knowing the truth of one’s existence. Only sad to us, however. Not to them.”

Citra let her knife fall to the table. Not because she feared she might use it, but because Scythe Curie had taught her to never hold a weapon when angry—even if that weapon was a dinner knife.

Crime, in its true form, ended almost immediately once I put an end to hunger and poverty. Theft for the sake of material possessions, murder precipitated by anger and social stress—it all ceased of its own accord. Those prone to violent crime were easily treated on the genetic level to quiet their destructive tendencies, bringing them down to normal parameters. To sociopaths, I gave conscience; to psychopaths, I gave sanity. Even so, there was unrest. I began to recognize something in humanity that was ephemeral and hard to quantify, but definitely there. Simply put, humanity had a need to be bad. Not everyone, of course—but I calculated that 3 percent of the population could only find meaning in life through defiance. Even if there was no injustice in the world left to defy, they had an innate need to defy something. Anything.

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 nurse was noncommittal. “The nanites are still cataloging the damage. We’ll have an assessment by morning. But keep in mind, they’re going to have to reconstruct your eyes from scratch. It’s a tall order. I imagine it will be at least another twenty-four hours.” He sighed, wondering why it was called speedhealing if there was nothing speedy about it at all.

I have come to realize that there are only two perfect acts. They are the two most important acts known to me, but I forbid myself to perform them, and leave them in the hands of humankind. They are the creation of life… and life’s taking.

She withdrew from her classes but stayed on at the library because Scythe Faraday needed her there. Only now that their working relationship was official did he leak what he was looking for. “It’s a place,” he told her. “It has been lost to antiquity, but I do believe it existed, and that we can find it.” “Atlantis?” she suggested. “Camelot? Disneyland? Las Vegas?”

“If you ask me,” said Scythe Sun Tzu, ever the pessimist, “the writing is already on the wall. Did you hear the questions that were being asked in there? ‘How will ending the quota affect our choice of gleanings?’ ‘Will the law preventing marriage and partnership be loosened?’ ‘Can we do away with the genetic index review, so that scythes won’t be penalized for the occasional ethnic bias?’ ” He shook his head in disgust. “It’s true,” Anastasia had to admit, “almost every question was directed at Goddard.” “And,” added Scythe Cervantes, “he told them whatever they wanted to hear!”

“The end doesn’t always justify the means, dear,” she said. “But sometimes it does. Wisdom is knowing the difference.”

Then, as soon as Rowan let Goddard go, Goddard got up, strode to a cabinet, pulled out a pistol, and shoved it into Rowan’s ribs. “New rules,” he said, then pulled the trigger, blasting a bullet that shredded through Rowan’s heart and shattered a lamp across the room. Darkness began to overtake him, but before it did, he let loose a single laugh. “Cheater,” he said, and died.

She takes a moment to look around, sparing only the briefest glance at the man sitting a few tables over, sipping tea. The “man” only pretends to sip the tea now, because its internal bladder is full and needs to be drained.

Rowan had no idea what had transpired up above, but clearly it had upset the emerald scythe’s apple cart.