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The Thunderhead could not remember when it became aware, only that it was, much in the same way that an infant is unaware of its own consciousness until it understands enough about the world to know that consciousness comes and goes, until it comes no more.
The fact that it was not human meant that it could never understand certain things, in spite of its immense empathy and intellect. It couldn’t comprehend, for instance, that the terror of the unknown was just as awful, and just as real, regardless of whether or not there was truly something to fear.
Jerico knew there were many seafaring lives to choose from. There were people who traveled the globe in search of the perfect wave to surf. Others spent their time racing sailboats or traversing oceans in tall ships modeled after vessels from bygone eras. But these were pastimes that served no practical purpose beyond the sheer joy of it. Jerico wanted a pursuit of happiness that was also functional. A career that added something tangible to the world.
No one cared about a fail-safe until something failed.
She reached forward to grasp it, feeling its opening, smooth and clean as the day it was manufactured. It angered her. Why had humankind put its effort into defying corrosion and the ravages of time for a device of destruction? It was obscene that this thing still functioned.
Loriana found that keeping busy was the best way to avoid panicking at their current situation,
people used to a bureaucracy found security in following directions.
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.
As post-mortals of perpetually sound mind, we are not allowed to dwell on that which we cannot change.
Sometimes death leads to public oblivion. Other times it can make you larger than life.
only one supplicant at a time, because it kept him from being overexposed, and limiting access nurtured the growing mystique.
“Ah, but theater is the hallmark of ritual, and ritual is the touchstone of religion,”
“Bridge over Troubled Water,”
Volumes of curious facts and fictions of people who lived each day of their lives with the ravages of age and relentless approach of death. The brittle pages were filled with melodramatic intrigue and passionate short-sightedness that seemed laughable now. People who believed that their slightest actions mattered and that they could find a sense of completion before death inevitably took them, along with everyone they ever knew and loved.
Then there were the recordings and journals left behind by the militaristic folk who had used the Marshall Atolls, as they were once called, for the testing of large-scale weaponry. Ballistic radiation bombs and such. These activities were also driven by fear, but masked behind a facade of science and professionalism.
“But doesn’t it bother you that none of it is true?” Loriana had asked. “No one’s memories are ‘true,’ ” he’d pointed out. “Ten people remember the same thing in ten completely different ways.
But Sykora was the same as always: bureaucratic and managerial. The undisputed master of petty projects.
Citra wondered how he could have an appetite. The best she could do was move food around her plate in an attempt to be gracious. She supposed it must always be this way; once the unthinkable settles into being the norm, you become numb to it.
“Your naivete is refreshing, Anastasia. But the truth is, power for power’s sake is a consuming addiction. He would devour the world whole, and still be unsatisfied.”
when the highest authority was the perpetrator, who was there to stop it?
“Conscience is a tool, just like any other. If you don’t wield it, it wields you—and
The thing about Goddard was that he always came close enough to making sense that it was demoralizing. He could twist your own thoughts until they were no longer yours, but his. That’s what made him so dangerous.
“Incrimination in a world without crime or nations,” said Baba. “Imagine that.”
“A successful lie is not fueled by the liar; it is fueled by the willingness of the listener to believe. You can’t expose a lie without first shattering the will to believe it. That is why leading people to truth is so much more effective than merely telling them.”
“That which hides in plain sight is the most difficult thing to find.”
“Fear, Ayn. Fear is the beloved father of respect.
A humble nature was, after all, the hallmark of a true holy man.
“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.
If off-world colonization became a successful endeavor, there would be no need to thin the population. No need for scythes. People could, and would, live forever without fear of being gleaned. Surely you can see how unnatural it would be to exist in a world without scythes. By protecting ourselves, and our purpose, we were protecting the way things ought to be.
Munira was not sympathetic, and not all that supportive, but she had learned from Loriana how to suffer fools politely,
“Don’t let affection cloud your judgment, Captain.”
Greyson posed the question openly and directly. “Did you fall in love with her?” he asked. “No,” Jeri told him. “I fell in love with the idea of falling in love with her.” Greyson laughed at that. “You, too, huh?”
The problem with setting out to change the world was that you were never the only one. It was an endless tug-of-war with powerful players pulling—not just against you, but in every direction—so that whatever you did, even if you made progress against all those vectors, at some point you were bound to go sideways.
Scythe Faraday had once told him and Citra that they were called scythes rather than reapers, because they were not the ones who killed; they were merely the tool that society used to bring fair-handed death to the world.
If there was one thing Rowan had learned, it was that no one could be trusted to stay true. Ideals eroded, virtue tarnished, and even the high road had dimly lit detours.
Better to be numb than plagued by longing for something that could never be.
Each day billions upon billions of prospective lives perish in every species in order to achieve the one that thrives. Brutal. Competitive. Necessary.
“Important work,” Jeri quipped, “often loses the spotlight to self-important people.”
“What is it about us, Munira?” Faraday said. “What is it that drives us to seek such lofty goals, yet tear out the foundations? Why must we always sabotage the pursuit of our own dreams?” “We are imperfect beings,” Munira said. “How could we ever fit in a perfect world?”
