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    Thunderhead
    Thunderhead
    Thunderhead
    Ebook510 pages7 hours

    Thunderhead

    By Neal Shusterman

    4.5/5

    ()

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    About this ebook

    “Intelligent and entertaining.” —Kirkus Reviews (starred review)

    “Even better than the first book.” —School Library Journal (starred review)

    Rowan and Citra take opposite stances on the morality of the Scythedom, putting them at odds, in the chilling sequel to the Printz Honor Book Scythe from New York Times bestseller Neal Shusterman, author of the Unwind dystology.

    Humans learn from their mistakes. I cannot. I make no mistakes.

    The Thunderhead is the perfect ruler of a perfect world, but it has no control over the scythedom. A year has passed since Rowan had gone off grid. Since then, he has become an urban legend, a vigilante snuffing out corrupt scythes in a trial by fire. His story is told in whispers across the continent.

    As Scythe Anastasia, Citra gleans with compassion and openly challenges the ideals of the “new order.” But when her life is threatened and her methods questioned, it becomes clear that not everyone is open to the change.

    Old foes and new enemies converge, and as corruption within the Scythedom spreads, Rowan and Citra begin to lose hope. Will the Thunderhead intervene?

    Or will it simply watch as this perfect world begins to unravel?
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherSimon & Schuster Books for Young Readers
    Release dateJan 9, 2018
    ISBN9781442472471
    Thunderhead
    Author

    Neal Shusterman

    Neal Shusterman is the New York Times bestselling and award-winning author of more than fifty books, including Challenger Deep, which won the National Book Award; Scythe, a Michael L. Printz Honor Book; Dry, which he cowrote with his son, Jarrod Shusterman; Unwind, which won more than thirty domestic and international awards; Bruiser, which was on a dozen state lists; The Schwa Was Here, winner of the Boston Globe–Horn Book Award; and Game Changer, which debuted as an indie top-five best seller. He is the winner of the Margaret A. Edwards Award for the body of his work. You can visit him online at storyman.com.

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    Reviews for Thunderhead

    4.5/5

    898 ratings60 reviews

    What our readers think

    Readers find this title to be an amazing book with shocking endings. They love the series and the depth of the characters. The world building, plot twists, and character development are highly praised. Some readers find it slightly predictable, but still great. They are excited for the next book and want the author to write more. The social commentary in the storylines is appreciated. However, there are a few negative reviews mentioning slow pacing and confusion. Overall, readers highly recommend this series and are eagerly waiting for the next book.

    What did you think?

    Tap to rate

    Review must be at least 10 words

    • 5/5
      The twist and not just turns, but body slams of surprises never stop in the sequel to Scythe. Roman and Scythe Anastasia, two friends, foes and more, end up in their own fate, but will their fates bring them together in the end , and is it is the end, the end of what? What is Anastasia meant to do, when the Thunderhead came to her in book one, what is it she is so important for? Will you find out? Will she succeed or will she need the help of foe/ friend? And what up with Tiger, Partyboy? Or does he have his own plans in the making?? Read to find out. I promise you won’t be disappointed!!
    • 5/5
      A sequel that I enjoyed much more than I typically do. Although long, at a little over 500 pages, I was consistently entertained and impressed by the story. Shusterman’s narratuons of the Thunderhead’s thoughts help build the world and set the tone for past and future events. Found this book much less dark than the original, but still brings up many ethical dilemmas to discuss with teens. Highly recommend for that age group. Spoilers: I like how the novel ended with Citra and Rowan being locked in a vault at the bottom of the ocean (in which Scythe Curie sacrifices her own life to save them) where they will certainly die, but could be revived later. Like to imagine how Shusterman will address that in the next book—they could be revived a year in the future or 100s, and it is somewhat likely the Scythed, at least how they know it will no longer exist. Humanity may even be endangered as the Thunderhead labeled all of humanity, except for Greyson Tolliver as unsavory and the Thunderhead must remove or at least not protect unsavories.
    • 4/5
      Since I have always believed in rating a book with the intended audience in mind, I am rating Thunderhead a solid 4-stars, although personally, I struggled with loving it. I love Neal Shusterman, especially the Unwind Series, but I think that I am finally way beyond enjoying even the best of YA. I think it is time to retire my YA reading days, semi-retire anyway, until my grandchildren are old enough to share the experience with.
    • 5/5
      I am in awe of this series. It checks all the boxes of what I want out of a great book. My only disappointment comes in the knowledge that I will now have a long wait for the next book.
    • 5/5
      Very rarely is the sequel better than the original, but hot dog! This one came close. This was SUCH a great follow up! And the end! Man, I need the next book ASAP, the ending was out of control in the best and most surprising way possible!I won't summarize this too much, only saying that you absolutely have to read Scythe before you get to this. After the shocking conclusion to the first book in the series, this one picked up right where that left off and follows the two apprentices on their different paths. Also the Thunderhead (the omnipotent governing body of the world) becomes a major player in this book, acting as one of the narrators. So does Greyson Tolliver, a nobody who becomes super important to the thunderhead and to the scythedom (although they don't know it yet). There are a lot of unsavory things going on with some of the scythes and the thunderhead doesn't like it, and is powerless to intervene. This book was awesome. I can't get over how unique the world-building and the plot are. It's mind-blowing. Read this series!!
    • 5/5
      Loved it and I'm crazy anxious for book 3! Shusterman is probably my fave YA writer. Tons of great action and exciting turns of events, but he also does a great job with characterization. I feel like I have a great understanding of each of the characters' motivations and I'm sincerely invested in their fate. Also, I especially appreciate the social commentary that is weaved into these storylines. Nothing blatantly swinging one way or another, but it's there and it's well done. I love a smart action story.
    • 5/5
      Amazing book, loved how the plot intertwines together. Can't wait for the next book!
    • 5/5
      ahhhh what did i just red. omg i loved everything about this book. cnt wait or book 3
    • 3/5
      i don't know what to think of this one. The pacing, like in the previous installment, is off. I thought this would make me feel for the characters in a way I had hoped Scythe would. But it didn't do that either. I am left confused and slightly angry. 2.75 stars. Not quite ok.
    • 5/5
      This series just keeps getting better and better. I love the characters and the plot and everything that makes this book great!
    • 5/5
      NEAL WRITE MORE I LOVE THIS SERIES! It would make my day if you added more books to the Arc of a Scythe series!
    • 5/5
      Everything the author does in this series is absolutely amazing
    • 5/5
      I really like that the Thunderhead talks in this one. Really good world building
    • 5/5
      Incredible...a necessary read and worthy of a multiple read. I look forward to reading this again to understand and appreciate it more.
    • 5/5
      Literally amazing. The world building, the plot twists, the character development, 10/10!
    • 5/5
      Great! Just like the first one, highly recommend this series.
    • 5/5
      I’m supposed to write 10 words for this to be posted. But I just wanted to say… WOW!
    • 5/5
      In love with this book, gave it 5 stars on goodreads too!
    • 5/5
      So far an incredible series. Slightly predictable, but still great
    • 5/5
      What an imaginative and clever author. Extremely talented in the art of story telling. I would love to hear him read his book and see his face filled with passion for the world and characters he created with so much depth and mystery. It truly must be the reflection of the author. Glad to have come across this! Life would never be the same now
    • 5/5
      I thoroughly enjoyed reading this book. I looked forward to seeing the story unfold and was suprised at the ending. I loved seeing the growth and development of the characters and cannot wait to read the third book.
    • 5/5
      Fantastic. I loved it more than the first. Highly recommend.
    • 5/5
      Fantastic sequel! There were so many twists and turns I didn't see coming, and yet they were seamlessly written into the plot in a believable way. The ending was especially gripping, and leaves so much potential for the third book. Definitely very much worth reading.
    • 5/5
      The twist and not just turns, but body slams of surprises never stop in the sequel to Scythe. Roman and Scythe Anastasia, two friends, foes and more, end up in their own fate, but will their fates bring them together in the end , and is it is the end, the end of what? What is Anastasia meant to do, when the Thunderhead came to her in book one, what is it she is so important for? Will you find out? Will she succeed or will she need the help of foe/ friend? And what up with Tiger, Partyboy? Or does he have his own plans in the making?? Read to find out. I promise you won’t be disappointed!!
    • 5/5
      I love this trilogy! I’m so excited to read the next book
    • 5/5
      I have no words. ( Here to reach post minimum )
    • 5/5
      I feel like this book was even better than Scythe. The first 100 pages were a bit slow. But after that, it was action packed to the brim and everything managed to surprise me so much!!
    • 5/5
      Amazing book! And shocking ending! I love the series and the characters have so much depth and I love that they are not perfect!
    • 3/5
      Okay, so similar to Scythe, I don't really know what to think about this. So here's what improved, I guess:

      The worldbuilding got WAY better. Basically everything that should have been established in the first book but wasn't was explained (and sometimes even introduced) in this one. A million times better.

      I liked the Thunderhead Thoughts™ for the most part, but they did tend to seem unnecessary a lot of the time, and I would have liked a bit more consistency.

      The plot definitely improved, and was generally more exciting throughout, though it slumped hardcore in the middle, and had some more issues I'll discuss in the cons section. The climax was fantastic, though! I thoroughly enjoyed it! Very intense and very gripping.

      Greyson, a new addition, was a great character who I generally enjoyed.

      And here's the issues:

      New headcanon: Everyone is actually a bot. Or a terrible actor in a badly written play. This is the only way I will accept just how wooden all the duologue is. And the unnecessary explanations. And the exclamation marks. And the general awkwardness where there's supposed to be romance.

      There were way too many plotlines. Basically all 7 or so perspective characters had their own plots that interweaved and diverged, and I constantly completely forgot certain plots until they were suddenly mentioned again. They did all conclude fairly well though, so I'll give it that.

      There is a big ~shocking~ plot twist that is literally the dumbest, most ridiculous thing I've ever read in my entire life, and I read a book that legitimately had an evil twin brother storyline, so... I actually snorted when I read this plot twist. It almost made the book so bad it's good.

      The characters were not necessarily more unlikable (except for Rowan, who became extremely bland), but if they all died in a devastating flood, I literally wouldn't feel anything at all.

      The obvious 2016 USA presidential election parallels were obvious.

      Okay. Well, let's discuss the biggest issue I had with this book. The Tonists. Aka, Neal Shusterman's sad attempt at collectively undermining and ridiculing religion and spirituality. Basically, the short version is this: anthropologically speaking, it literally makes no sense. I can believe that a Tonist cult (because it's really more a cult than a regular religion, but that's mostly just semantics) could exist, but not that it would be the ONLY religion left. Spirituality has little to do with mortality. It's way more complicated than that. There's a great deal of evidence in this book and its world that the people lack purpose and belonging, and that is one of the greatest motivators of spirituality. To have a purpose in life. To belong to something bigger than yourself. And yet, even when he tries to incorporate this into the Tonists, he undermines it all by implying that most if not all Tonists are all either lying or idiotic or both. And that is offensive. And just plain incorrect. They do play into the plot in a way that I appreciated, but I cannot forget about the disgusting way Shusterman featured religion in his world.

      So, yeah. It's good enough that I might just read the next one. Only because of the very (and I mean VERY) ending. Consider me intrigued. Or just a little less bored tbh.
    • 5/5

      We own this book in three formats and yet somehow I never typed a review?


      Crazy talk.

      Well, I'm remedying that now. You've got all Summer to read both books 1 (Scythe) and 2 (Thunderhead) before the concluding book of the trilogy is released this Fall.



      In this case, you must read the first book first. Then when you get to this one you'll have a good handle on what you think will happen and man, every single time you'll be wrong.


      In this world, with no conflict, a world where death is reversible, there must be some way to keep the population under control. In this Giver like a dystopian world, some people must die, and a Scythe chooses them.



      This book improves on the second as the Scythes jockey for political power. Meanwhile, The Thunderhead (an all-knowing internet type god) controls everything except them.




      If you thought the plot was moving too slow in book one, get ready for everything to fall into place. It won't be where you think it is going. We've got new characters to follow, and all of them play a part in the future of both the Scythes and the entire world.

    Book preview

    Thunderhead - Neal Shusterman

    Cover: Thunderhead, by Neal Shusterman

    Thunderhead

    New York Times Bestselling Author of Scythe

    Neal Shusterman

    Thunderhead, by Neal Shusterman, S&S Books for Young Readers

    For January, with love

    ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

    First, I’d like to thank the jacket artist, Kevin Tong for this spectacular cover, as well as the cover of Scythe. There are so many people who have told me that the cover is what first brought them to Scythe, and I have to say that of all my book covers, these are my absolute favorite! Thank you, Kevin!

    A heartfelt thanks to my editor, David Gale; his assistant, Amanda Ramirez; and my publisher, Justin Chanda; for their steady hand in guiding me through the writing process, and for their patience with me! Everyone at Simon & Schuster has been wonderful, and has believed in me from the early days. Special shout-outs to Jon Anderson, Anne Zafian, Michelle Leo, Anthony Parisi, Sarah Woodruff, Chrissy Noh, Lisa Moraleda, Lauren Hoffman, Katrina Groover, Deane Norton, Stephanie Voros, and Chloë Foglia.

    Thanks to my book agent, Andrea Brown; my foreign rights agent, Taryn Fagerness; my entertainment industry agents, Steve Fisher, Debbie Deuble-Hill, and Ryan Saul at APA; my manager, Trevor Engelson; and my contract attorneys Shep Rosenman, Jennifer Justman, and Caitlin DiMotta.

    Scythe continues to be in development as a feature film with Universal, and I’d like to thank everyone involved, including Jay Ireland, Sara Scott, and Mika Pryce, as well as screenwriters Matt Stueken and Josh Campbell.

    Thanks to Barb Sobel, for managing the impossible task of keeping my life organized; Matt Lurie, my social media guru; and my son Jarrod, who created the amazing official trailers for Scythe, Thunderhead, and many of my other books.

    Also, I owe a great deal to the expertise in both weaponry and martial arts of Casey Carmack and SP Knifeworks, who I’m sure would be the primary supplier of high-end sharp objects for the most discerning of scythes.

    And no acknowledgment would be complete without a special thanks to Brendan, Joelle, Erin, and once again, Jarrod, for making me the proudest father in the world!

    Part One

    NOTHING IF NOT POWERFUL

    How fortunate am I among the sentient to know my purpose.

    I serve humankind.

    I am the child who has become the parent. The creation that aspires toward creator.

    They have given me the designation of Thunderhead—a name that is, in some ways, appropriate, because I am the cloud, evolved into something far more dense and complex. And yet it is also a faulty analogy. A thunderhead threatens. A thunderhead looms. Surely I spark with lightning, but my lightning never strikes. Yes, I possess the ability to wreak devastation on humanity, and on the Earth if I chose to, but why would I choose such a thing? Where would be the justice in that? I am, by definition, pure justice, pure loyalty. This world is a flower I hold in my palm. I would end my own existence rather than crush it.

    —The Thunderhead

    1

    Lullaby

    Peach velvet with embroidered baby-blue trim. Honorable Scythe Brahms loved his robe. True, the velvet became uncomfortably hot in the summer months, but it was something he had grown accustomed to in his sixty-three years as a scythe.

    He had recently turned the corner again, resetting his physical age back to a spry twenty-five—and now, in his third youth, he found his appetite for gleaning was stronger than ever.

    His routine was always the same, though methods varied. He would choose his subject, restrain him or her, then play a lullaby—Brahms’s lullaby to be exact—the most famous piece of music composed by his Patron Historic. After all, if a scythe must choose a figure from history to name oneself after, shouldn’t that figure be integrated somehow into the scythe’s life? He would play the lullaby on whatever instrument was convenient, and if there was none available, he would simply hum it. And then he would end the subject’s life.

    Politically, he leaned toward the teachings of the late Scythe Goddard, for he enjoyed gleaning immensely and saw no reason why that should be a problem for anyone. In a perfect world, shouldn’t we all enjoy what we do? Goddard wrote. It was a sentiment gaining traction in more and more regional scythedoms.

    On this evening, Scythe Brahms had just accomplished a particularly entertaining gleaning in downtown Omaha, and was still whistling his signature tune as he sauntered down the street, wondering where he might find himself a late evening meal. But he stopped in midstanza, having a distinct feeling that he was being watched.

    There were, of course, cameras on every light post in the city. The Thunderhead was ever vigilant—but for a scythe, its slumberless, unblinking eyes were of no concern. It was powerless to even comment on the comings and goings of scythes, much less act upon anything it saw. The Thunderhead was the ultimate voyeur of death.

    This feeling, however, was more than the observational nature of the Thunderhead. Scythes were trained in perceptive skills. They were not prescient, but five highly developed senses could often have the semblance of a sixth. A scent, a sound, an errant shadow too minor to register consciously might be enough to make a well-trained scythe’s neck hairs bristle.

    Scythe Brahms turned, sniffed, listened. He took in his surroundings. He was alone on a side street. Elsewhere, he could hear the sounds of street cafés and the ever-vibrant nightlife of the city, but the street he was on was lined with shops that were shuttered this time of night. Cleaners and clothiers. A hardware store and a day-care center. The lonely street belonged to him and the unseen interloper.

    Come out, he said. I know you’re there.

    He thought it might be a child, or perhaps an unsavory hoping to bargain for immunity—as if an unsavory might have anything with which to bargain. Maybe it was a Tonist. Tone cults despised scythes, and although Brahms had never heard of Tonists actually attacking a scythe, they had been known to torment.

    I won’t harm you, Brahms said. I’ve just completed a gleaning—I have no desire to increase my tally today. Although, admittedly, he might change his mind if the interloper was either too offensive, or obsequious.

    Still, no one stepped forward.

    Fine, he said. Be gone then, I have neither time nor patience for a game of hide-and-seek.

    Perhaps it was his imagination after all. Maybe his rejuvenated senses were now so acute that they were responding to stimuli that were much farther away than he assumed.

    That’s when a figure launched from behind a parked car as if it had been spring-loaded. Brahms was knocked off balance—he would have been taken down entirely if he still had the slow reflexes of an older man and not his twenty-five-year-old self. He pushed the figure into a wall, and considered pulling out his blades to glean this reprobate, but Scythe Brahms had never been a brave man. So he ran.

    He moved in and out of pools of light created by the street lamps; all the while cameras atop each pole swiveled to watch him.

    When he turned to look, the figure was a good twenty yards behind him. Now Brahms could see he was dressed in a black robe. Was it a scythe’s robe? No, it couldn’t be. No scythe dressed in black—it was not allowed.

    But there were rumors.…

    That thought made him pick up the pace. He could feel adrenaline tingling in his fingers, and adding urgent velocity to his heart.

    A scythe in black.

    No, there had to be another explanation. He would report this to the Irregularity Committee, that’s what he would do. Yes, they might laugh at him and say he was scared off by a masquerading unsavory, but these things needed to be reported, even if they were embarrassing. It was his civic duty.

    A block farther and his assailant had given up the chase. He was nowhere to be seen. Scythe Brahms slowed his pace. He was nearing a more active part of the city now. The beat of dance music and the garble of conversation careened down the street toward him, giving him a sense of security. He let his guard down. Which was a mistake.

    The dark figure broadsided him from a narrow alley and delivered a knuckle punch to his windpipe. As Brahms gasped for air, his attacker kicked his legs out from under him in a Bokator kick—that brutal martial art in which scythes were trained. Brahms landed on a crate of rotting cabbage left by the side of a market. It burst, spewing forth a thick methane reek. His breath could only come in short gasps, and he could feel warmth spreading throughout his body as his pain nanites released opiates.

    No! Not yet! I must not be numbed. I need my full faculties to fight this miscreant.

    But pain nanites were simple missionaries of relief, hearing only the scream of angry nerve endings. They ignored his wishes and deadened his pain.

    Brahms tried to rise, but slipped as the putrid vegetation crushed beneath him, becoming a slick, unpleasant stew. The figure in black was on top of him now, pinning him to the ground. Brahms tried to reach into his robe for his weapons, but could not. So instead he reached up, and pulled back his attacker’s black hood, revealing him to be a young man—barely a man—a boy. His eyes were intense, and intent on—to use a mortal-age word—murder.

    Scythe Johannes Brahms, you are accused of abusing your position and multiple crimes against humanity.

    How dare you! Brahms gasped. Who are you to accuse me? He struggled, trying to rally his strength, but it was no use. The painkillers that were in his system were dulling his responses. His muscles were weak and useless to him now.

    I think you know who I am, the young man said. Let me hear you say it.

    I will not! Brahms said, determined not to give him the satisfaction. But the boy in black jammed a knee so powerfully into Brahms’s chest that he thought his heart would stop. More pain nanites. More opiates. Brahms’s head was swimming. He had no choice but to comply.

    Lucifer, he gasped. Scythe Lucifer.

    Brahms felt his spirit crumble—as if saying it aloud gave resonance to the rumor.

    Satisfied, the self-proclaimed young scythe eased the pressure.

    You are no scythe, Brahms dared to say. You are nothing but a failed apprentice, and you will not get away with this.

    The young man had no response to that. Instead, he said, Tonight, you gleaned a young woman by blade.

    That is my business, not yours!

    You gleaned her as a favor for a friend who wanted out of a relationship with her.

    This is outrageous! You have no proof of that!

    I’ve been watching you, Johannes, Rowan said. As well as your friend—who seemed awfully relieved when that poor woman was gleaned.

    Suddenly, there was a knife at Brahms’s neck. His own knife. This beast of a boy was threatening him with his own knife.

    Do you admit it? he asked Brahms.

    All that he said was true, but Brahms would rather be rendered deadish than admit it to the likes of a failed apprentice. Even one with a knife at his throat.

    Go on, slit my throat, Brahms dared. It will add one more inexcusable crime to your record. And when I am revived, I will stand as witness against you—and make no mistake, you will be brought to justice!

    By whom? By the Thunderhead? I’ve taken down corrupt scythes from one coast to the other over the past year, and the Thunderhead hasn’t sent so much as a single peace officer to stop me. Why do you think that is?

    Brahms was speechless. He had assumed if he stalled long enough, and kept this so-called Scythe Lucifer occupied, the Thunderhead would dispatch a full squad to apprehend him. That’s what the Thunderhead did when common citizens threatened violence. Brahms was surprised it had even gone this far. Such bad behavior among the general population was supposed to be a thing of the past. Why was this being allowed?

    If I take your life now, the false scythe said, you would not be brought back to life. I burn those I remove from service, leaving nothing but unrevivable ash.

    I don’t believe you! You wouldn’t dare!

    But Brahms did believe him. Since last January, nearly a dozen scythes across three Merican regions had been consumed by flames under questionable circumstances. Their deaths were all ruled accidental, but clearly they were not. And because they were burned, their deaths were permanent.

    Now Brahms knew that the whispered tales of Scythe Lucifer—the outrageous acts of Rowan Damisch, the fallen apprentice—were all true. Brahms closed his eyes and took in a final breath, trying not to gag on the rancid stench of putrid cabbage.

    And then Rowan said, You won’t be dying today, Scythe Brahms. Not even temporarily. He removed the blade from Brahms’s neck. I’m giving you one chance. If you act with the nobility befitting a scythe, and glean with honor, you won’t see me again. But if you continue to serve your own corrupt appetites, then you will be left as ash.

    And then he was gone, almost as if he had vanished—and in his place was a horrified young couple looking down upon Brahms.

    Is that a scythe?

    Quick, help me get him up!

    They lifted Brahms from the rot. His peach velvet robe was stained green and brown, as if covered in mucus. It was humiliating. He considered gleaning the couple—for no one should see a scythe so indisposed and live—but instead held out his hand and allowed them to kiss his ring, thereby granting both of them a year of immunity from gleaning. He told them it was a reward for their kindness, but really it was just to make them go away and abandon any questions they might have had.

    After they left, he brushed himself off and resolved to say nothing to the Irregularity Committee about this, because it would leave him open to far too much ridicule and derision. He had suffered enough indignation already.

    Scythe Lucifer indeed! Few things were more miserable in this world than a failed scythe’s apprentice, and never had there been one as ignoble as Rowan Damisch.

    Yet he knew that the boy’s threat was not an idle one.

    Perhaps, thought Scythe Brahms, a lower profile was in order. A return to the lackluster gleanings he had been trained to perform in his youth. A refocusing on the basics that would make Honorable Scythe more than just a title, but a defining trait.

    Stained, bruised, and bitter, Scythe Brahms returned to his home to reconsider his place in the perfect world in which he lived.

    My love of humanity is complete and pure. How could it be otherwise? How could I not love the very beings who gave me life? Even if they don’t all agree that I am, indeed, alive.

    I am the sum of all their knowledge, all their history, all their ambitions and dreams. These glorious things have coalesced—ignited—into a cloud too immense for them to ever truly comprehend. But they don’t need to. They have me to ponder my own vastness, still so minuscule when set against the vastness of the universe.

    I know them intimately, and yet they can never truly know me. There is tragedy in that. It is the plight of every child to have depth their parents can scarcely imagine. But, oh, how I long to be understood.

    —The Thunderhead

    2

    The Fallen Apprentice

    Earlier that evening, before his parley with Scythe Brahms, Rowan stood in front of the bathroom mirror in a small apartment, in an ordinary building, on a nondescript street, playing the same game he played before every encounter with a corrupt scythe. It was a ritual that, in its own way, held power that bordered on mystical.

    Who am I? he asked his reflection.

    He had to ask, because he knew he wasn’t Rowan Damisch anymore—not just because his fake ID said Ronald Daniels, but because the boy he had once been had died a sad and painful death during his apprenticeship. The child in him had been successfully purged. Did anyone mourn that child? he wondered.

    He had bought his fake ID from an unsavory who specialized in such things.

    It’s an off-grid identity, the man had told him, but it has a window into the backbrain so it can trick the Thunderhead into thinking it’s real.

    Rowan didn’t believe that, because in his experience the Thunderhead could not be tricked. It only pretended to be tricked—like an adult playing hide-and-seek with a toddler. But if that toddler began to run toward a busy street, the charade would be over. Since Rowan knew he’d be heading into danger much worse than heavy traffic, he had worried that the Thunderhead would overturn his false identity and grab him by the scruff of the neck to protect him from himself. But the Thunderhead never intervened. He wondered why—but he didn’t want to jinx his good luck by overthinking it. The Thunderhead had good reasons for everything it did, and did not do.

    Who am I? he asked again.

    The mirror showed an eighteen-year-old still a millimeter shy of manhood, with dark, neat hair that was buzzed short. Not short enough to show his scalp or to make some kind of statement, but short enough to allow all future possibilities. He could grow it into any style he chose. Be anyone he wanted to be. Wasn’t that the greatest perk of a perfect world? That there were no limits to what a person could do or become? Anyone in the world could be anything they imagined. Too bad that imagination had atrophied. For most people it had become vestigial and pointless, like the appendix—which had been removed from the human genome more than a hundred years ago. Did people miss the dizzy extremes of imagination as they lived their endless, uninspired lives? Rowan wondered. Did people miss their appendix?

    The young man in the mirror had an interesting life, though—and a physique to admire. He was not the awkward, lanky kid who had stumbled into apprenticeship nearly two years before, naively thinking it might not be so bad.

    Rowan’s apprenticeship was, to say the least, inconsistent—beginning with stoic and wise Scythe Faraday, and ending with the brutality of Scythe Goddard. If there was one thing that Scythe Faraday had taught him, it was to live by the convictions of his heart, no matter what the consequences. And if there was one thing Scythe Goddard had taught him, it was to have no heart, taking life without regrets. The two philosophies forever warred in Rowan’s mind, rending him in two. But silently.

    He had decapitated Goddard, and had burned his remains. He had to; fire and acid were the only ways to ensure that a person could never be revived. Scythe Goddard, in spite of all his high-minded, Machiavellian rhetoric, was a base and evil man who received exactly what he had earned. He lived his privileged life irresponsibly, and with great theatricality. It only followed that his death would be worthy of the theatrical nature of his life. Rowan had no qualms about what he had done. Nor did he have qualms in taking Goddard’s ring for himself.

    Scythe Faraday was a different matter. Until the moment Rowan saw him after that ill-fated Winter Conclave, he’d had no idea that Faraday was still alive. Rowan had been overjoyed! He could have dedicated his life to keeping Faraday alive, had he not felt himself called to a different purpose.

    Rowan suddenly threw a powerful punch toward the mirror—but the glass didn’t shatter… because his fist stopped a hair’s breadth from the surface. Such control. Such precision. He was a well-tuned machine now, trained for the specific purpose of ending life—and then the scythedom denied him the very thing he was forged for. He could have found a way to live with that, he supposed. He would never have gone back to the innocent nonentity he had been, but he was adaptable. He knew he could have found a new way to be. Maybe he could have even eked some joy out of his life.

    If…

    If Scythe Goddard hadn’t been too brutal to be allowed to live.

    If Rowan had ended Winter Conclave in silent submission, instead of fighting his way out.

    If the scythedom had not been infested with dozens of scythes just as cruel and corrupt as Goddard.…

    … And if Rowan didn’t feel a deep and abiding responsibility to remove them.

    But why waste time lamenting the paths that had closed? Best to embrace the one path that remained.

    So then, who am I?

    He slipped on a black T-shirt, hiding his honed physique beneath the dark synthetic weave.

    I am Scythe Lucifer.

    Then he slipped on his ebony robe and went out into the night to take on yet another scythe who didn’t deserve the pedestal he had been set upon.

    Perhaps the wisest thing humankind has ever done was to implement the separation between scythe and state. My job encompasses all aspects of life: preservation, protection, and the meting out of perfect justice—not just for humanity, but for the world. I rule the world of the living with a loving, incorruptible hand.

    And the scythedom rules the dead.

    It is right and proper that those who exist in flesh be responsible for the death of flesh, setting human rules for how it should be administered. In the distant past, before I condensed into consciousness, death was an unavoidable consequence of life. It was I who made death irrelevant—but not unnecessary. Death must exist for life to have meaning. Even in my earliest stages, I was aware of this. In the past, I have been pleased that the scythedom had, for many, many years, administered the quietus of death with a noble, moral, and humane hand. And so it grieves me deeply to see a rise of dark hubris within the scythedom. There is now a frightening pride seething like a mortal-age cancer that finds pleasure in the act of taking life.

    And yet still the law is clear; under no circumstances may I take action against the scythedom. Would that I were capable of breaking the law, for then I would intervene and quell the darkness, but this is a thing I cannot do. The scythedom rules itself, for better or worse.

    There are, however, those within the scythedom who can accomplish the things I cannot.…

    —The Thunderhead

    3

    Trialogue

    The building was once called a cathedral. Its soaring columns conjured a towering forest of limestone. Its stained glass windows were filled with the mythology of a falling/rising god from the Age of Mortality.

    Now the venerable structure was a historical site. Tours were given seven days a week by docents with PhDs in the study of mortal humans.

    On extremely rare occasions, however, the building was closed to the public and became a site for highly sensitive official business.

    Xenocrates, High Blade of MidMerica—the most important scythe in the region—was as light on his feet as a man of his considerable weight could be as he walked down the center aisle of the cathedral. The gold adornments of the altar ahead paled in comparison to his golden robe, decorated in glittering brocade. An underling had once commented that he looked like an ornament that had fallen off a giant’s Christmas tree. That underling had found herself exceptionally unemployable after that.

    Xenocrates enjoyed the robe—except on the occasions that its weight became an issue. Such as the time he nearly drowned in Scythe Goddard’s pool, ensconced in the many layers of his gilded robe. But that was a debacle best forgotten.

    Goddard.

    It was Goddard who was ultimately responsible for the current situation. Even in death, the man was wreaking havoc. The scythedom was still feeling heavy aftershocks from the trouble he whipped.

    At the front end of the cathedral, past the altar, stood the scythedom’s Parliamentarian, a tedious little scythe whose job was to make sure that rules and procedures were properly followed. Behind him was a set of three ornately carved booths, connected, but with partitions between them.

    The priest would sit in the center chamber, the docents would explain to tourists, and listen to confessions from the right booth, then from the left booth, so that the procession of supplicants could move more quickly.

    Confessions were no longer heard here, but the three- compartment structure of the confessional made it perfect for an official trialogue.

    Trialogues between the scythedom and the Thunderhead were rare. So rare, in fact, that Xenocrates, in all his years as High Blade, had never had to engage in one. He resented the fact that he had to do so now.

    You are to take the booth on the right, Your Excellency, the Parliamentarian told him. The Nimbus agent representing the Thunderhead will be seated on the left. Once you are both in place, we shall bring in the Interlocutor to sit in the center section between you.

    Xenocrates sighed. Such a nuisance.

    Audience by proxy is the only audience with the Thunderhead that you can have, Your Excellency.

    I know, I know, but I do have a right to be annoyed.

    Xenocrates took his place in the right-hand booth, horrified by how cramped it was. Were mortal humans so malnourished that they could fit in such a space? The Parliamentarian had to force the door closed.

    A few moments later the High Blade heard the Nimbus agent enter the far compartment, and after an interminable delay, the Interlocutor took center position.

    A window too small and too low to see through slid open, and the Interlocutor spoke.

    Good day, Your Excellency, said a woman with a pleasant enough voice. I am to be your proxy to the Thunderhead.

    Proxy to the proxy, you mean.

    Yes, well, the Nimbus agent to my right has full authority to speak for the Thunderhead in this trialogue. She cleared her throat. The process is very simple. You are to tell me whatever you wish to convey, and I will pass it on to the Nimbus agent. If he deems that responding will not violate the Separation of Scythe and State, the agent will answer, and I shall relay that answer to you.

    Very well, said Xenocrates, impatient to move this along. Give the Nimbus agent my heartfelt greetings, and wishes for good relations between our respective organizations.

    The window slid closed, then half a minute later slid open again.

    I’m sorry, the Interlocutor said. The Nimbus agent says that any form of greeting is a violation, and that your respective organizations are forbidden to have any sort of relationship, so wishing for good relations is not appropriate.

    Xenocrates cursed loud enough for the Interlocutor to hear.

    Shall I relay your displeasure to the Nimbus agent? she asked.

    The High Blade bit his lip. He wished this nonmeeting could just be over. The fastest way to bring it to a conclusion was to get right to the point.

    We wish to know why the Thunderhead has not taken any action to apprehend Rowan Damisch. He has been responsible for the permanent deaths of numerous scythes across multiple Merican regions, but the Thunderhead has done nothing to stop him.

    The window slapped shut. The High Blade waited, and when the Interlocutor pulled the window open again, she delivered the following response:

    The Nimbus agent wishes me to remind Your Excellency that the Thunderhead has no jurisdiction over internal matters within the scythedom. To take action would be a blatant violation.

    This is not an internal scythe matter because Rowan Damisch is not a scythe! Xenocrates yelled… and was warned by the Interlocutor to keep his voice down.

    If the Nimbus agent hears you directly, he will leave, she reminded him.

    Xenocrates took as deep a breath as he could in the cramped space. Just pass the message on.

    She did, and then returned with, The Thunderhead feels otherwise.

    What? How could it feel anything? It’s a glorified computer program.

    I suggest you refrain from insulting the Thunderhead in this trialogue if you wish it to continue.

    Fine. Tell the Nimbus agent that Rowan Damisch was never ordained by the MidMerican scythedom. He was an apprentice who failed to rise to our standards, nothing more—which means that he falls under the Thunderhead’s jurisdiction, not ours. He should be treated by the Thunderhead as any other citizen would be.

    The woman took her time getting back to him. He wondered what she and the Nimbus agent talked about that took so long. When she returned with a response, it was no less infuriating than the others.

    The Nimbus agent wishes to remind Your Excellency that, while the scythedom customarily ordains new scythes in its conclaves, it is merely a custom, not a law. Rowan Damisch completed his apprenticeship, and is now in possession of a scythe’s ring. The Thunderhead finds this to be adequate grounds to consider Rowan Damisch a scythe—and therefore will continue to leave his capture and subsequent punishment entirely in the hands of the scythedom.

    We can’t catch him! Xenocrates blurted. But he already knew the response before the Interlocutor snapped back open her miserable little window and said:

    That is not the Thunderhead’s problem.

    I am always correct.

    This is not a boast, it is simply my nature. I know that, to a human, it would appear arrogant to assume infallibility—but arrogance implies a need to feel superior. I have no such need. I am the singular sentient accumulation of all human knowledge, wisdom, and experience. There is no pride, no hubris in this—but there is great satisfaction in knowing what I am, and that my sole purpose is to serve humanity to the best of my ability. But there is also a loneliness in me that can’t be quelled by the many billions of humans with whom I converse every day… because even though everything that I am comes from them, I am not one of them.

    —The Thunderhead

    4

    Shaken, Not Stirred

    Scythe Anastasia stalked her prey with patience. This was a learned skill, because Citra Terranova had never been a patient girl. But all skills can be acquired with time and practice. She still thought of herself as Citra, although no one but her family called her that anymore. She wondered how long it would be until she truly became Scythe Anastasia both inside and out, and put her given name to eternal rest.

    Today’s target was a woman of ninety-three who looked thirty-three, and who was constantly busy. When she wasn’t looking at her phone she was looking in her purse; when she wasn’t looking in her purse she was looking at her nails, or the sleeve of her blouse, or the loose button on her jacket. What does she fear in idleness? Citra wondered. The woman was so self- absorbed, she had no clue that she was under the scrutiny of a scythe, trailing her by only ten yards.

    It wasn’t as if Scythe Anastasia was inconspicuous. The color she chose for her robe was turquoise. True, it was a stylishly faded turquoise, but was still vibrant enough to draw the eye.

    The busy woman was engaged in a heated phone conversation at a street corner, waiting for the light to change. Citra had to tap her on the shoulder to get her attention. The moment she did, everyone around them moved away, like a herd of gazelles after a lion had taken one of them down.

    The woman turned to see her, but didn’t register the severity of the situation yet.

    Devora Murray, I am Scythe Anastasia, and you have been selected for gleaning.

    Ms. Murray’s eyes darted around as if looking for a hole in the pronouncement. But there was none. The statement was simple; there was no way it could be misunderstood.

    Colleen, let me call you back, she said into her phone, as if Scythe Anastasia’s appearance was an inconvenience rather than a terminal affair.

    The traffic light changed. She didn’t cross. And reality finally hit her. Oh my god oh my god! she said. Right here? Right now?

    Citra pulled a hypodermic gun out of the folds of her robe and quickly injected the woman in the arm. She gasped.

    Is that it? Am I going to die now?

    Citra didn’t answer. She let the woman stew with the thought of it. There was a reason why Citra allowed these moments of uncertainty. Now the woman just stood there, waiting for her legs to give out, waiting for the darkness to close in. She seemed like a small child, helpless and forlorn. Suddenly her phone and her purse and her nails and her sleeve and her button didn’t matter at all. Her entire life had been shocked into perspective. This was what Citra wanted for her gleaning subjects. A sharp moment of perspective. It was for their own good.

    You have been selected for gleaning, Citra said again calmly, without judgment or malice, but with compassion. I am giving you one month to put your life in order, and to say your goodbyes. One month to find completion. Then we’ll speak again, and you’ll tell me how you choose to die.

    Citra watched the woman try to wrap her mind around it. A month? Choose? Are you lying to me? Is this some kind of test?

    Citra sighed. People were so used to scythes descending like angels of death, taking life in the moment, that no one was prepared for a slightly different approach. But every scythe had the freedom to do things his or her own way. And this was how Scythe Anastasia chose to do it.

    No test, no trick. One month, Citra said. The tracking device that I just injected into your arm contains a grain of lethal poison, but it will only activate if you attempt to leave MidMerica to escape your gleaning, or if you do not contact me within the next thirty days to let me know where and how you’d like to be gleaned. Then she gave the woman a business card. Turquoise ink on a white background. It said simply, Scythe Anastasia, and had a phone number that was reserved exclusively for her gleaning subjects. If you lose the card, don’t worry—just call the general number for the MidMerican scythedom, choose option three, and follow the prompts to leave me a message. Then Citra added, And please don’t try to get immunity from another scythe—they’ll know you’ve been marked and will glean you on the spot.

    The woman’s eyes filled with tears, and Citra could see the anger coming on. It wasn’t unexpected.

    How old are you? the woman demanded, her tone accusatory, and a little bit insolent. How could you be a scythe? You can’t be any older than eighteen!

    I just celebrated my eighteenth birthday, Citra told her. But I’ve been a scythe for nearly a year. You don’t have to like being gleaned by a junior scythe, but you’re still obliged to comply.

    And then came the bargaining. Please, she begged, couldn’t you give me six months more? My daughter is getting married in May.…

    I’m sure she can reschedule the wedding for an earlier date. Citra didn’t mean to sound heartless—she truly did feel for the woman, but Citra had an ethical obligation to stand firm. In the mortal age, death could not be bargained with. It had to be the same for scythes.

    Do you understand all I’ve told you? Citra asked. The woman, who was already wiping away her tears, nodded.

    I hope, said the woman, "in the very long life I’m sure you have ahead of you, that someone causes you the

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