Thunderhead (Arc of a Scythe, #2)

by Neal Shusterman

The turkeys, from the moment of their hatching, were suspended in a warm gel, and their small brains were wet-wired into a computer that produced for them an artificial reality in which they experienced flight, freedom, reproduction, and all the things that would make a turkey content.

“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.”

“We have just entered the worst of all possible worlds.”

As an aside, it pleases me that Scythe Curie has perspective enough to realize that my absence there is a perilous thing. And yet I don’t find it perilous myself. I don’t find it problematic. I should. I make a note that I must contribute substantial processing time to analyze my unusual lack of concern.

“It is an honor to be able to stand in your presence,” he said. “I imagine so,” snarked Grandslayer Cromwell. “Without that new body, you’d only be able to roll.”

And a species cannot grow if it never faces the consequences of its own actions. To deny humanity the lesson of consequences would be a mistake. And I do not make mistakes.

… the Thunderhead screamed.

For the Thunderhead had, in its infinite wisdom, decided that all of humanity was complicit in its actions, large and small… and all of humanity had to face the consequences. Everyone, everywhere was now designated unsavory.