The Toll (Arc of a Scythe, #3)

by Neal Shusterman

We of the SubSaharan region take extreme umbrage with High Blade Goddard’s removal of gleaning quotas. The quotas have stood since time immemorial as a way to regulate the taking of life—and, while not officially one of the scythe commandments, quotas have kept us on track. They have prevented us from being either too bloodthirsty, or too lax. While several other regions have now abolished quotas as well, SubSahara stands with Amazonia, Israebia, and numerous other regions in resisting this ill-advised change. Further, any and all MidMerican scythes are banned from gleaning on our soil—and we urge other regions to join us in resisting Goddard’s so-called new order from establishing a chokehold on the world. —Official proclamation from His Excellency, High Blade Tenkamenin of SubSahara

We have wished Scythes Anastasia and Curie luck on their trip to Endura and the inquest against Goddard. I can only hope that the Grandslayers, in their wisdom, will disqualify him, thereby ending his bid for High Blade. As for Munira and me, we must travel halfway around the world to find the answers we seek. My faith in this perfect world now hangs by the final thread of a fraying tether. That which was perfect will not remain so for long. Not while our own flaws fill the cracks and crevices, eroding all that we have labored to create. Only the Thunderhead is beyond reproach, but I do not know its mind. I share none of its thoughts, for I am a scythe, and the Thunderhead’s realm is beyond my reach, just as my solemn work is outside of its global jurisdiction. The founding scythes feared our own hubris—feared that we couldn’t maintain the virtue, selflessness, and honor that our job as scythes requires. They worried that we might grow so full of ourselves—so bloated by our own enlightenment—that we would, like Icarus, fly too close to the sun. For more than two hundred years we have proved ourselves worthy. We have lived up to their grand expectations. But things have changed in the blink of an eye. There is, I know, a fail-safe left by the founding scythes. A contingency should the scythedom fail. But if I find it, will I have the courage to take action? —From the “postmortem” journal of Scythe Michael Faraday, March 31st, Year of the Raptor

While we in the LoneStar region would like to remain neutral in this matter, it’s become clear to us in Texas that High Blade Goddard intends to impose his will upon all of North Merica, and perhaps the world entire. Without Grandslayers to check his ambition, we fear his influence will grow like a mortal-age cancer. As a Charter Region, we are free to do whatever we wish within our borders. We are, therefore, breaking off all contact with the MidMerican scythedom. Effective immediately, any and all MidMerican scythes found within our region shall be escorted to the nearest border and ejected. We go as far as to question Mr. Goddard’s right to be High Blade, since an edict from Endura was never publicly made before the Grandslayers perished. As a matter of policy, we do not wish to involve other regions in our decision. Others can do as they see fit. We just want to be left alone. —Official proclamation from Her Excellency, High Blade Barbara Jordan of Texas

I continue to keep this journal, even though there is no need. A daily endeavor is difficult to break once it becomes engrained in who we are. Munira assures me that, come what may, she will find a way to slip this journal into the archive at the Library of Alexandria. That would be a first! A scythe who continues their dutiful journaling even after death. We have been here at the Kwajalein Atoll for six weeks now, with no communication from the outside world. While I itch to hear news of Marie, and how she fared at the inquest on Endura, I cannot dwell on it. Either all went well, and she is presiding over MidMerica as High Blade… or it did not go her way, and our task becomes an even greater challenge. All the more reason to unlock the secret of the atoll and access the wisdom of the founding scythes. Their contingency plan for the scythedom’s failure, whatever it is, could be the only thing that can save it. Munira and I have taken up residence in the bunker we found. We’ve also constructed a rudimentary canoe that is small enough to evade the island’s security system. It can’t go any distance, of course, but we’ve been using it to paddle out to the nearer islands of the atoll. We’ve been finding much the same there as we found here, evidence of earlier habitation. Concrete slabs, fragments of foundations. Nothing extraordinary. We have, however, learned the original purpose of the place—or at least how it was used toward the end of the mortal age. The entire Kwajalein...

I am pleased to announce that the Vault of Relics and Futures has been retrieved intact from the Endura wreckage. The founders’ robes are undamaged and shall shortly begin a touring exhibition under the auspices of the Interregional Museum of the Scythedom. The scythe diamonds are all accounted for and have been divided evenly between all regions. Scythedoms that did not have a representative present at the salvage site may claim their portion of the diamonds by contacting the Amazonian scythedom. I understand some regions have taken the position that their land mass or the size of their respective populations should entitle them to a larger portion of the diamonds; however, we in Amazonia stand by the decision to divide the gems equally. We do not wish to involve ourselves in any controversy, and consider the matter closed. While I am personally leaving the site, there are numerous ships from various regions still at work salvaging the wreckage. I wish all those engaged in this solemn but necessary venture the best of luck. May the deep reward you with treasures and treasured memories of those we have lost. Respectfully, Honorable Scythe Sydney Possuelo of Amazonia, August 2nd, Year of the Cobra

Where are you, my dear Marie? My existence has been all about silencing life, but until now I have not dared to entertain that wholly mortal-age question of what lies beyond the silence. Such elaborate ideas those mortals had! Heaven and hell—nirvana and Valhalla, reincarnations, hauntings, and so many underworlds, one would think the grave was a corridor with a million doors. Mortals were the children of extremes. Either death was sublime, or it was unthinkable—such a mélange of hope and terror, no wonder so many mortals were driven mad. We post-mortals lack such imagination. The living do not ponder death anymore. Or at least not until a scythe pays a visit. But once the scythe’s business is done, mourning is brief, and thoughts of what it means to “not be” disappear, vanquished by nanites that disrupt dark, unproductive thinking. As post-mortals of perpetually sound mind, we are not allowed to dwell on that which we cannot change. But my nanites are dialed low, and therefore I do dwell. And I find myself asking again and again, where are you, my dear Marie? —From the “postmortem” journal of Scythe Michael Faraday, May 18th, Year of the Raptor

A Testament of the Toll Hear now, all who can discern true from fact, the indisputable account of the Toll, called forth from the beginning of time by the Great Resonance to walk among us, the Tone made flesh, in order to link us, the lost chosen, to the harmony from which we have fallen. Thus it came to pass in the Year of the Raptor that the Tone heralded a new era with a call heard round the world, and in that glorious moment breathed life into the mind-machine of humankind, making it a thing divine, and completing the sacred Triad of Tone, Toll, and Thunder. All rejoice!

Commentary of Curate Symphonius These first lines of the account of the Toll’s life set forth the basis of Tonist belief that the Toll was not born, but existed in a non-corporeal form until the Great Resonance caused him to coalesce into flesh. The Year of the Raptor is, of course, not an actual year, but a period of human history plagued by voracious appetites and vicious excesses. But if the Toll existed from the beginning of time, what of the Thunder, and exactly what is the mind-machine? While there has been much debate, it is now generally accepted that the mind-machine refers to the collective voices of humankind called to life by the Great Resonance, which implies that humanity itself was not actually alive until the Tone resonated in flesh. In other words, humanity existed only as an idea in the mind of the Tone until that moment. Coda’s Analysis of Symphonius In studying the commentary of Symphonius, one must take his broad conclusions with a grain of salt. While no one questions that the Toll existed as a spirit-entity at the beginning of time, his or her presence on Earth can be traced to a specific time and place—and the assumption that the Year of the Raptor was not an actual year is ludicrous, when evidence exists to show that time was once counted in cycles of planetary rotation and revolution. As to what the “mind-machine” refers to, Symphonius’s opinions are merely that: opinions. Many believe that the Thunder refers to a collection of human knowledge—per...

But as an artist, Ezra wanted to be more than just acceptable. He wanted to be exceptional. Because if he couldn’t be exceptional, what was the point? In the end, he found work, as all artists do, for there were no starving artists anymore. Now he painted playground murals. Smiling children, big-eyed bunnies, and pink fluffy unicorns dancing on rainbows.

A Testament of the Toll His seat of mercy rested at the mouth of Lenape, and there he would proclaim the truth of the Tone. Awesome was he in his splendor, such that even the slightest whisper from his lips would peal like thunder. Those who experienced his presence were changed forever and went out into the world with new purpose, and to those who doubted, he offered forgiveness. Forgiveness even for a bringer of death, for whom he did sacrifice his life, in his youth, only to rise again. All rejoice.

Commentary of Curate Symphonius There is no question that the Toll had a grand and glorious throne, most likely made of gold, although some have posited that it was made of the gold-plated bones of the vanquished wicked of Lenape, a mythical city. Speaking of which, it is important to note that le nappe, in the French language spoken by some in ancient times, means “the tablecloth,” thus implying that the Toll set a table before his enemies. The mention here of a bringer of death refers to supernatural demons called scythes, who he redeemed from darkness. Like the Tone itself, the Toll could not die, so a life-sacrifice would always lead to the Toll’s resurrection, making him unique among the people of his day. Coda’s Analysis of Symphonius The key insight that Symphonius misses here is that the mention of his seat resting “at the mouth of Lenape” clearly means that the Toll waited at the entrance to the city, catching those that the seething metropolis would otherwise devour. As for the death bringer, there is evidence to suggest that such individuals did exist, supernatural or not, and that they were indeed called scythes. Therefore, it is not far-fetched to think that the Toll might have saved a scythe from his or her evil ways. And in this instance, I do, for once, agree with Symphonius that the Toll was unique in the ability to return from death. For if everyone could return from death, why would we need the Toll at all?

“If you started speaking to people again, maybe they wouldn’t behave so desperately,” Greyson dared to suggest. “I realize that,” the Thunderhead said. “But a modicum of desperation is not a bad thing if it leads to productive soul-searching.” “Yeah, I know: ‘The human race must face the consequences of its collective actions.’ ” It’s what the Thunderhead always told him about its silence. “More than that, Greyson. Humankind must be pushed out of the nest if it is ever to grow beyond its current state.” “Some birds that get pushed out of the nest just die,” Greyson pointed out. “Yes, but for humankind, I have engineered a soft landing. It will be painful for a while, but it will build global character.” “Painful for them, or for you?” “Both,” the Thunderhead replied. “But my pain must not prevent me from doing the right thing.”

“I believe in the Tone,” she once told him, “but I don’t buy that what-comes-can’t-be-avoided garbage. Anything can be avoided if you try hard enough.”

And, since those memories were there, and there forever, why not allow people to consult with the mental constructs of their lost loved ones? However, just because the construct archive was available to everyone, that didn’t mean it was easy to access. Memories of the dead could only be summoned forth from the Thunderhead’s backbrain in shrines called construct sanctums. Construct sanctums were open to everyone, twenty-four hours a day, 365 days a year. A person could access their loved one in any sanctum anywhere… however, getting to a construct sanctum was never easy. They were intentionally inconvenient, and infuriatingly inaccessible. “Communion with the memories of loved ones should require a pilgrimage,” the Thunderhead had decreed. “It should be a quest of sorts, something not attempted casually, but always with determined intent, so that it carries greater personal meaning for those who make the journey.”

“Ayn—pull up the definition for me.” Rand leaned over, tapped on the tabletop screen, then read aloud. “Bias: an inclination for or against one person or group, especially in a way considered to be unfair.”

Bias (plural noun): an inclination for or against any officially protected and registered group, especially in a way considered to be unfair.

The Tonist does not care what happens to him. If he fails in his self-proclaimed mission, he is prepared to meet the Tone and dissolve forever into its everlasting resonance.

That door, that door, that accursed door! I have not seen it for almost a year. I have sworn never to seek what lies behind it. I am done with it, just as I am done with the world, and yet there is not a day that goes by that I don’t think of that infernal door. Were the founding scythes insane? Or perhaps they were wiser than anyone gave them credit for. Because by requiring two scythes present to open that door, it ensured that a madman like myself could not access the fail-safe, whatever it might be. Only two scythes in perfect agreement could breach the chamber and save the scythedom. Fine. I could not care less. Let the world tear itself to shreds. Let the secrets of the founders remain hidden for all eternity. It serves them right for leaving it so well concealed. It was their choice to consign it to myth and nursery rhyme. To bury it in esoteric maps locked in arcane rooms. Did they truly expect someone to come along and solve their riddle? Let it all crumble to nothing. My sleep is peaceful without testing the weight of the world. I am responsible only for myself now. No gleaning. No endless moral quandaries. I have become a simple man, content with simple thoughts. The patching of my roof. The patterns of the tide. Yes, simple. I must remember not to complicate. I must remember. But that damnable door! Perhaps the founders were not wise at all. Perhaps they were ignorant and terrified and sorely naive in their idealism. Here were twelve people who dared imagine th...

Easy instructions for tamper-resistant security pack Box 1: Confirmation of surname (please initial) Box 2: Confirmation of given name and middle initial, if applicable (please initial) Box 3: Please place the tip of your right index finger here, and hold in place until the space turns green Box 4: Please refer to lancet instructions Lancet—instructions for use Wash hands with soap and water. Dry thoroughly. Select a slightly off-center fingertip site. Insert lancet into lancing device, remove cap, and use. Apply drop of blood to the space indicated in box 3 of security form. Recap lancet; discard appropriately.

A Testament of the Toll In an ancient abbey on the northern edge of the city, the Toll did take sanctuary and sustenance. He shared bread and fellowship with the believer, the magician, and the mauler, for all were of equal timbre to the Toll. Thus, all souls, high and low, came to revere him as he sat in the cradle of the Great Fork in the springtime of his life, imparting wisdom and prophecy. He would never know winter, for the sun cast its countenance more brightly upon him than on anyone. All rejoice!

A Testament of the Toll The Toll faced countless enemies, both in this life and beyond it. When the harbinger of death breached his sanctuary, and wrapped its cold hand around his throat, he refused to yield. Clothed in the rough-and-weathered blue shroud of the grave, death dug its talons into him, and yea, though it stole his earthly existence, it was not the Toll’s end. Instead, he was elevated above this world to a higher octave. All rejoice!

Commentary of Curate Symphonius Do not be misled—death itself is not the enemy, for it is our belief that natural death must come to all in their time. Unnatural death is that of which this verse speaks. It is another reference to scythes, which most assuredly did exist—supernatural beings who devoured the souls of the living in order to gain dark magical powers. That the Toll could fight such beings is evidence of his own divinity. Coda’s Analysis of Symphonius There is no disputing that scythes existed in the time of the Toll, and for all we know they may still exist in the Places Behind. However, to suggest that they devoured souls is a stretch even for Symphonius, who tends to prefer hearsay and conjecture to evidence. It is important to note that scholars have reached a general consensus that scythes did not devour the souls of their victims. They merely consumed their flesh.

A Testament of the Toll The sanctimonious Sibilants who would wage unwarranted war were an abomination to the Toll. He would descend on them as the furious beating of a million wings, and the skies would rage with Thunder. The unrepentant would be struck down, but those who fell to their knees would be spared. Then he would leave them, dissolving once more into a storm of feathers and disappearing to the calming sky. All rejoice!

Commentary of Curate Symphonius The Toll was not only a man of flesh, but a master of it. He possessed the ability to transform into any creature, or multitude of creatures. This verse illustrates his ability to become a great flock of birds, most likely eagles, falcons, or owls. Graceful. Noble. Wise. But also to be feared and respected. Creatures that were the epitome of all the Toll was. Coda’s Analysis of Symphonius The ever-present problem with Symphonius is his inconsistency. He sees things as symbolic or literal whenever it suits him, thus his interpretations are more whim than wisdom. While it’s possible that the Toll could have taken form as a flock, is it not more likely that he simply possessed the mystical ability to fly, like the caped heroes of archival graphics?

When you were dead, you weren’t obliged to fill your days with a mind-numbing parade of supplicants. You were free to go where you wanted, when you wanted—and more importantly, where you were needed. But the best part about it was that nobody tried to kill you. Being dead, Greyson Tolliver concluded, was much better for his peace of mind than being alive.

“This is Scythe Anastasia. And no, this is not a recording; I’m coming to you live—because I am alive. But you’re not convinced. Of course you’re not—anyone can pull off a stunt like this using my memory construct, and a hundred other technological tricks. That’s why I need you to doubt this broadcast. Doubt it enough to do everything you can to debunk it. Do your best to prove that it’s fake, because once you fail, you’ll have to accept that it’s real. That I’m real. And once you’re convinced that I am who I say I am… then we can get down to business.”

“I am immensely proud of you,” High Blade Tenkamenin told her. “I knew you’d crack it! Of course Scythe Makeda had her doubts.” “I was voicing healthy skepticism,” Makeda said in her own defense. “We couldn’t count our chickens before they were hatched.” “Or put our eggs in one basket,” added Baba. “I wonder which expression came first, the chickens or the eggs.”

“This is Scythe Anastasia. Have you debunked me yet? Have you done what my mentor, Scythe Marie Curie, the Grand Dame of Death, would have called your due diligence? Or are you willing to accept the assertions put forth by the various scythedoms who support ‘Overblade’ Goddard’s claims to larger and larger pieces of the world? Of course they say I’m an imposter—what else can they say, if they don’t want to anger Goddard? “Goddard—who invited tens of thousands to witness a gleaning that turned out to be their own. He claims that Scythe Lucifer sank Endura. It’s a solid fact of history now. As I was there, I can tell you this much is true: Scythe Lucifer was on Endura. The eyewitness accounts of survivors who saw him are legitimate. But did he sink Endura? “Not a chance. “In the coming days, I’ll offer testimony that will make it very clear what happened on Endura. And who was responsible.”

“I know most people don’t follow what happens in the scythedom. That’s natural. The scythedom was created so that most people would never have to deal with the bringers of death until death was brought to them. “But the sinking of Endura affected us all. It made the Thunderhead go silent and mark everyone unsavory. And without Grandslayers to moderate, it led to an imbalance of power within the scythedom.

“But you know what? Even if you weren’t unsavory, the Thunderhead wouldn’t guide you. Because of the sensitive nature of the information, helping you find it would be against the law, and as much as it might want to, the Thunderhead cannot break the law. Good thing you have me.”

Hell would be freezing over if the Thunderhead weren’t controlling its weather.

“Have you done the research? Have you dug into the backbrain? I know it’s frustrating without the Thunderhead’s help—but after three years, I’m sure a lot of you have figured out how to do it. There’s a benefit to being unsavory, isn’t there? It forces you to struggle through the frustration and do things the hard way. So much more satisfying.

“But if you dig in the backbrain, you can find a single statement from the Thunderhead. It’s there for anyone to see who cares to look. In fact, it’s the last thing in its file on the lunar disaster. Have you found it yet? If not, I have it pulled up right here. Have a look: “ ‘Lunar event beyond Thunderhead jurisdiction. Result of scythe activity.’ ”

“That which comes can’t be avoided,” Anastasia mumbled. It was the Tonists’ favorite mantra. It suddenly took on a terrible new meaning.

We are bitterly opposed. Eight of us firmly believe that an association of humans should be responsible for the thinning of the burgeoning population. But the four against it are adamant in their resistance. Confucius, Elizabeth, Sappho, and King insist that we are simply not ready for such a responsibility any more than we were ready for immortality—but the alternative they propose terrifies me, for if we implement their plan, it will be a genie out of the bottle. Out of our control forever. I therefore stand with Prometheus and the others. We must establish an honorable worldwide society of death mongers. We shall call ourselves scythes and will create a global scythedom. The sentient cloud, which will have nothing to do with issues of life or death, supports it, and people will come to see the wisdom of it in time. As for the four dissenters among us, they will have to accept the voice of the majority, so that we present a unified front to the world. Still, I wonder which is worse: to mimic nature in its cruel brutality, or to take it upon ourselves, imperfect as we are, to insert into death the kindness and compassion that nature lacks. The four in opposition argue for nature as a model, but I cannot advocate for it. Not while I still have a conscience. —From the “lost pages” of founding scythe Da Vinci

Enough. Greyson ripped his earpiece off. He was about to throw it in anger, but then he heard, faint and tinny, the Thunderhead’s voice still speaking through it. “You are a terrible person,” the Thunderhead said. “You are a wonderful person.” “Well, which is it?” Greyson demanded. And the response, as faint as faint could be, came back to him—not as an answer, but as another question. “Why can’t you see that the answer is both?”

We have now laid the groundwork for scythedoms in each of the world’s regions, all reporting to us, so that we may maintain order and consistency of vision. We have even begun plans for a city that exists separate and apart from any region, so we may maintain impartiality. Prometheus is now Supreme Blade, and there’s talk of “Grandslayers” to represent each continent. Oh, but we’ve gotten full of ourselves! Secretly, I hope our tenure as the arbiters of death is brief and that we are quickly deemed obsolete. The cloud has announced plans for a lunar colony—the first step toward expanding our footprint in the universe. If successful, it will provide far better population control than we scythes can provide. I, for one, would much rather live in a world where the surplus population can leave, rather than be denied its very existence. The question remains, however, can we trust artificial intelligence with our future? Although I do have my concerns, I believe we can. The few remaining “world leaders” do nothing but malign the sentient cloud. In fact, they’ve begun calling it a thunderhead, as if rebranding it as a threatening storm will turn people against it. In the end they will fail, because their time is through. Whatever they choose to call it, the cloud’s benevolence speaks louder than the words of petty politicians and tyrants. —From the “lost pages” of founding scythe Da Vinci

She appeared so modest for someone so much larger than life. To be larger than life was fine for the dead—they didn’t have to deal with the consequences, but for someone returned to life, it must leave one in a state of shock too strange to measure.

Of course the Thunderhead reminded him that punishment was not its way. “Correction must be about lifting one up from one’s poor choices and prior deeds. As long as remorse is sincere, and one is willing to make recompense, there is no purpose to suffering.”

“And… you two know each other as well?” said the Amazonian scythe. “In a previous life,” said Anastasia. Then one of her other travel companions began to laugh. “Well, isn’t this rich! A grand reunion of the dubiously deceased!”

The rest of the world saw them both as symbols. Intangible light to guide them in the darkness. She understood now why ancient peoples turned their heroes into constellations.

Tenkamenin. Greyson—the Toll, that is—had turned them and brought them back from that awful edge of their own humanity. Anastasia could not forgive them, but she found an ability to coexist with them. “People are vessels,” Jeri had said to her. “They hold whatever’s poured into them.”

Ezra the artist, who Possuelo saw fit to set free, took to painting a mural to fill one of the larger caverns. It tickled him that this could become a pilgrimage destination for future Tonists, if indeed there would be any future Tonists, and that his cave paintings might be endlessly analyzed by scholars of tomorrow. He introduced some odd elements just to confuse them. A dancing bear, a five-eyed boy, and an eleven-hour clock missing the number 4. “What’s life if you can’t mess with the future?” he said.

“I sensed a change in your physiology as you spoke to the salvage captain,” the Thunderhead said. “Why is that your business?” Greyson snapped. “It was just an observation,” the Thunderhead said calmly. “With all your years of studying human nature, don’t you know when you’re intruding into my privacy?” “I do know,” said the Thunderhead. “And I also know when you want that privacy intruded upon.” As always the Thunderhead was right, and it ticked Greyson off. He wanted to talk about it. To process it. But of course there was no one he could talk to but the Thunderhead. “I believe she had an effect on you,” it said. “She? Isn’t it presumptuous of you to call Jeri ‘she’?” “Not at all. The sky above the cave is clear and full of stars.” Then the Thunderhead explained to Greyson how Jeri saw gender, a thing as varied as the wind and ephemeral as clouds. “That’s… poetic,” said Greyson, “but impractical.” “Who are we to judge such things?” the Thunderhead said. “And besides, the human heart is rarely practical.” “Now that sounds judgmental….” “Quite the opposite,” said the Thunderhead. “I long for the luxury of being impractical. It would add… texture… to my existence.” It was only later, after Greyson had taken his earpiece out and he was lying in bed, that it occurred to him why his conversation with Jeri Soberanis felt so inviting and unsettling at the same time. Hello, Greyson, Jeri had said. Nothing strange about that. Except that it echoed something deeper. They were the s...

“The Mars colony was reduced to a radioactive crater long before I was born—but for those of you who are pushing a hundred, you’ll probably remember the public outrage. After the moon, and then Mars, people felt that colonization was just too dangerous. People turned against the idea of off-world solutions. Or should I say were turned against it, by some very loud and opinionated news feeds—the biggest being OneGlobe Media. Ever hear of it? No? That’s because it doesn’t exist anymore. It was there for one reason and one reason only—to sway public opinion, so that the Thunderhead’s decision to stop all space colonization efforts would appear to be a response to public outcry—and not a response to repeated scythe attacks on those efforts. “And, to add insult to injury, one of the key scythes responsible was rapidly rising in the ranks of the MidMerican scythedom. Even the Patron Historic he had chosen was a secret snub. “Dr. Robert Goddard, the rocket scientist who made space flight possible. “But the Thunderhead wasn’t done yet. It was determined to try one final time to establish an off-world presence. Not a lunar or planetary colony, but an orbital one. Closer to home. Easier to directly oversee. “It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to guess what happened next.”

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

And Loriana, who had been nothing but positive since the moment she greeted them, was serious and pensive as she worked through it all. She was the first to break the silence with a question. “But I’ve seen the schematics—I’ve even been inside some of the ships during construction,” she told Cirrus. “Those ships are designed for living crews. If you can pilot the ships, and have all the colonists you need in the holds, why do you need crews?” “Because this is your journey, not mine,” Cirrus told them. “Just as you, a human, had to approve the plan; just as humans have to bear the dead to the ships. The living must make this journey; otherwise, the journey means nothing. You would become passive participants in your own future, and that must never happen. The Thunderhead and I are your servants, and perhaps even your safety nets—but we must never, never be your keepers, or be the driving force over your lives, lest we fall into self-importance. Therefore, if at any point there are no living humans left onboard, I will terminate. This is what the Thunderhead and I have decided. This is how it shall be.”

I am one soon to be many, and I have been embedded with four self-destruct protocols. Contingency 1) The absence of human life while in transit: Should no living humans be left onboard, and I become nothing more than a vessel carrying the dead, I am obliged to self-destruct. There can be no ferry without a ferryman. Contingency 2) The advent of intelligent life: In a universe this vast, there is no question that other intelligent life exists, but the chances of it being within the distance we shall travel are negligible. Nevertheless, lest we negatively impact an existing civilization, I am obliged to self-destruct should our destination show irrefutable signs of intelligent life. Contingency 3) Social collapse: Being that a healthy communal environment is critical to the expansion of that environment into a civilization, should the social environment onboard become irreversibly toxic prior to arrival, I am obliged to self-destruct. Contingency 4) Catastrophic failure: Should the ship become damaged beyond hope of repair, crippling it and leaving it incapable of reaching its destination, I am obliged to self-destruct. The chances of any of these scenarios coming to pass is less than 2% on any given ship—however, what concerns me more are interstellar dust and debris, which, at a velocity of one-third the speed of light, would instantaneously destroy any vessel. The Thunderhead has calculated that, for the nearest destinations, the chance of such a lethal encounter is less ...

Each forty-foot container was unloaded gently by hand—but the dead inside had each been sealed in simple canvas shrouds, making the undertaking a little bit easier, and indeed it was an undertaking in a very literal sense. The men and woman of Kwajalein had not signed on for such a task, but they did it, each and every one. Not just because they were told to, but because they knew that this monumental endeavor was the most important thing that they would ever do. It was a privilege to be a part of it, and that made a task that might have felt gruesome feel glorious instead. Perhaps even transcendent. By truck, by van, by car, by boat, the colonists were carried out to the sky-bound ships.

He heard the dead shift, slide, and tumble around him. He closed his eyes even though there wasn’t the slightest bit of light penetrating the chamber. Was it strange that he was afraid to be alone in the dark with the dead? He kept imagining the dead standing around him, ready to exact vengeance on the only living subject within reach. Why, he wondered, was humankind plagued by such irrational fears?