Scythe

  “The MidMerican Conclave is an important one,” Scythe Faraday told them, “because we tend to set the trend for much of the world. There’s an expression, ‘As goes MidMerica, so goes the planet.’ The Grandslayer scythes of the Global Conclave always have their eyes on us.”

  Scythe Faraday explained that at each conclave they would be tested. “I do not know the nature of this first test, which is why you need to be as prepared as possible in all aspects of your training.”

  Rowan found he had a million questions about conclave, but kept them to himself. He let Citra do all the asking—mainly because the questions irritated Scythe Faraday, and he never answered them.

  “You’ll find out all you need to know when you get there,” the scythe told them. “For now all your attention must be on your training and your studies.”

  Rowan had never been an exceptional student—but that was by design. To be either too good or too bad drew attention. As much as he hated being the lettuce, it was his comfort zone.

  “If you apply yourself, I have no doubt you could be at the top of your class,” his science teacher told him after getting the highest grade on his midterm last year. He had done it just to see if he could. Now that he knew, he saw no great need to do it again. There were many reasons, not the least of which was his own ignorance about scythes in those days before his apprenticeship. He assumed that being a stellar student would make him a target. Supposedly, a friend of a friend was gleaned at eleven because he was the smartest kid in fifth grade. It was nothing more than an urban myth, but Rowan believed it just enough that it kept him from wanting to stand out. He wondered if other kids held back for fear of being gleaned.

  He had little experience with being so studious. He found it exhausting, and there was more than just poison chemistry, post-mortal history, and journaling. There was metallurgy as it applies to weapons, the philosophy of mortality, the psychology of immortality, and the literature of the Scythedom, from poetry to the wisdom found in famous scythes’ journals. And of course, the mathematical statistics that Scythe Faraday relied upon so heavily.

  There was no room for mediocrity, especially now with conclave coming up.

  Rowan did ask him one question about conclave. “Will we be disqualified if we fail the test?”

  Faraday took a moment before answering. “No,” he told them, “but there is a consequence.” Although he would not tell them what that consequence was. Rowan concluded that not knowing was more terrifying than knowing.

  With just a few days before conclave, he and Citra stayed up late studying in the weapons den. Rowan found himself dozing, but was quickly awakened when Citra slammed a book.

  “I hate this!” she announced. “Cerberin, aconite, conium, polonium—the poisons are all running together in my head.”

  “That would sure make a person die faster,” Rowan said with a smirk.

  She crossed her arms. “Do you know your poisons?”

  “We’re only supposed to know forty by conclave,” he pointed out.

  “And do you know them?”

  “I will,” he told her.

  “What’s the molecular formula for tetrodotoxin?”

  He wanted to ignore her, but found he couldn’t back away from the challenge. Perhaps a bit of her competitive nature was rubbing off on him. “C11H17N3O6.”

  “Wrong!” she said, pointing a finger at him. “It’s O8, not O6. You fail!”

  She was trying to rile him up, so she wouldn’t be the only one riled. He wasn’t going to oblige. “Guess so,” he said, and tried to return to his studies.

  “Aren’t you the least bit worried?”

  He took a breath and closed his book. When Faraday first began teaching them, Rowan found the use of actual old-school books very off-putting, but over time, he’d learned there was something very satisfying to the turning of pages, and—as Citra had already discovered—the emotional catharsis of slamming a book shut.

  “Of course I’m worried, but here’s the way I look at it. We know they won’t disqualify us, and we already know we can’t be gleaned, and we’ll have two more chances to make up for any screw-ups before one of us is chosen. Whatever the consequence of failing the first round of tests, if either of us fail, we’ll deal with it.”

  Citra slumped in her chair. “I don’t fail,” she said, but didn’t sound too convinced of it. There was this pouty look on her face that made Rowan want to smile, but he didn’t because he knew that would infuriate her. He actually liked how she would get infuriated—but they had too much work to do to indulge in emotional distraction.

  Rowan put away his toxicology book and pulled out his volume on weapons identification. They were required to be able to identify thirty different weapons, how to wield them, and their detailed history. Rowan was more worried about that than the poisons. He spared a glance at Citra, who noticed the glance, so he tried not to look at her again.

  Then out of nowhere she said, “I would miss you.”

  He looked up, and she looked away. “How do you mean?”

  “I mean that if disqualification was part of the rules, I’d miss having you around.”

  He considered reaching out to take her hand, which rested gently on the table. But the table was big, and her hand was too far away for it to be anything other than insanely awkward. Then again, even if they sat closer, it would be an insane thing to do.

  “But it’s not part of the rules,” he said. “Which means that no matter what, you’re stuck with me for eight more months.”

  She grinned. “Yeah. I’m sure I’ll really be sick of you by then.”

  It was the first time it occurred to Rowan that she might not hate him as much as he thought she did.

  * * *

  The quota system has worked for over two hundred years, and although it fluctuates region to region, it makes it crystal clear what each scythe’s responsibility to the world is. Of course it’s all based on averages—we can go days or even weeks without gleaning—but we must meet our quota before the next conclave. There are those eager ones who glean early, and find themselves with little to do as conclave draws near. There are those who procrastinate and have to hurry toward the end. Both those approaches lead to sloppiness and unintentional bias.

  I often wonder if the quota will ever change, and if so, how much. Population growth is still off the charts, but it’s balanced by the Thunderhead’s ability to provide for an ever-increasing population. Renewable resources, subsurface dwellings, artificial islands, and all without there ever being any less green or a sense of overcrowding. We have mastered this world, and yet protected it in a way that our forefathers could scarcely have dreamed.

  But all things are limited. While the Thunderhead does not interfere with the Scythedom, it does suggest the number of scythes there should be in the world. Currently there are approximately five million people gleaned per year worldwide—a tiny fraction of the death rate in the Age of Mortality, and nowhere near enough to balance population growth. I shudder to think how many more scythes it would take, and how many gleanings would be required, if we ever need to curb population growth altogether.

  —From the gleaning journal of H.S. Curie

  * * *

  13

  Vernal Conclave

  Fulcrum City was a post-mortal metropolis toward the very center of MidMerica. There, by the river, set low between the skysoaring spires of graceful city living, was a venerable structure of stone, impressive if not in height then in solidity. Marble columns and arches supported a great copper dome. It was an unyielding homage to ancient Greece and Imperial Rome, the birthing grounds of civilization. It was still called the Capitol Building, for it was once a state capital, back when there were still states—in those days before government became obsolete. Now it had the honor of holding the administrative offices of the MidMerican Scythedom, as well as hosting its conclave three times a year.

  • • •

  It was pouring rain the day of the Vernal Conc
lave.

  Citra rarely minded the rain, but a day of gloom coupled with a day of pure tension did not sit well with her. But then, a bright sunny day would feel mocking. Citra realized there was no good day to be presented to an intimidating elegy of scythes.

  Fulcrum City was only an hour away by hypertrain, but of course, Scythe Faraday saw hypertrains as an unnecessary extravagance. “Besides, I want scenery rather than a windowless subterranean tunnel. I’m a human being, not a mole.”

  A standard train took six hours, and Citra did enjoy the scenery along the way, although she spent most of the trip studying.

  Fulcrum City was on the Mississippi River. She recalled that there was once a giant silver arch on the riverbank, but it was gone now. Destroyed back in the Age of Mortality by something called “terrorism.” She’d have learned more about the city if she weren’t so focused on her poisons and weapons.

  They had arrived the evening before conclave, and stayed in a downtown hotel. Morning came much too quickly.

  As Citra, Rowan, and Scythe Faraday walked from their hotel at the awful hour of six thirty a.m., people in the streets ran to them and handed them umbrellas, choosing to get wet rather than see a scythe and his apprentices go without one.

  “Do they know you’ve taken two apprentices instead of just one?” Citra asked.

  “Of course they know,” said Rowan. “Why wouldn’t they?”

  But Scythe Faraday’s silence on the matter was a clear red flag to Citra.

  “You did clear it with the High Blade, didn’t you, Scythe Faraday?”

  “I have found that with the Scythedom, it is better to ask forgiveness than permission,” he told them.

  Citra gave Rowan an I-told-you-so look, and he cocked his umbrella slightly so he didn’t have to see it.

  “It will not be a problem,” Faraday said, but he didn’t sound very convincing.

  Citra looked to Rowan again, who was no longer eclipsed by his umbrella. “Am I the only one who’s worried about that?”

  Rowan shrugged. “We have immunity until Winter Conclave, and it can’t be revoked—everyone knows that. What’s the worst they could do?”

  • • •

  Some scythes arrived at the Capitol Building on foot, as they had; others in publicars, some in private cars, and several in limousines. There were ropes to hold back spectators on either side of the wide marble staircase leading up to the building, as well as peace officers and members of the BladeGuard—the Scythedom’s elite security force. The arriving scythes were protected from their adoring public, even if the public was not protected from them.

  “I despise ‘running the gauntlet.’” Scythe Faraday said, referring to climbing the steps to conclave. “It’s even worse when it’s not raining. The crowd on either side is a dozen people deep.”

  Now it was only half that. It never occurred to Citra that people would come out to see scythes arriving at conclave, but then, all celebrity events drew onlookers, so why not a gathering of scythes?

  Some of the arriving scythes gave obligatory waves, others played to the crowd, kissing babies and randomly granting immunity. Citra and Rowan followed Faraday’s lead, which was to ignore the crowd completely.

  There were dozens of other scythes in the entry vestibule. They removed their raincoats to reveal robes of all colors, all textures. It was a rainbow that summoned forth anything but thoughts of death. This, Citra realized, was intentional. Scythes wished to be seen as the many facets of light, not of darkness.

  Through a grand arch lay a grander chamber beneath the central dome—a rotunda where hundreds of scythes greeted one another, engaging in casual conversation around an elaborate breakfast spread in the center. Citra wondered what it was that scythes talked about. The tools of gleaning? The weather? The chafing of their robes? It was intimidating enough to be in the presence of a single scythe. To be surrounded by hundreds was enough to make one crumble.

  Scythe Faraday leaned over and spoke to them in a hushed voice. “See there?” He pointed to a bald, heavily bearded man. “Scythe Archimedes—one of the world’s oldest living scythes. He’ll tell you he was there in the Year of the Condor, when the Scythedom was first formed, but it’s a lie. He’s not that old! And over there . . .” He pointed to a woman with long silver hair in a pale lavender robe. “That’s Scythe Curie.”

  Citra gasped. “The Grande Dame of Death?”

  “So they say.”

  “Is it true she gleaned the last president, before the Thunderhead was given control?” Citra asked.

  “And his cabinet, yes.” He looked at her—perhaps a bit wistfully, Citra thought. “Her actions were quite controversial back in the day.”

  The woman caught them glancing her way and turned to them. Citra chilled when her piercing gray eyes zeroed in on her. Then the woman smiled at the three of them, nodded, and returned to her conversation.

  There was a group of four or five scythes closer to the assembly chamber entrance, the doors of which were still closed. They wore bright robes studded with gems. The center of their attention was a scythe in royal blue whose robe contained what appeared to be diamonds. He said something and the others laughed a little too heartily for it to be anything but sycophantic.

  “Who’s that?” Citra asked.

  Scythe Faraday’s expression took a turn toward sour.

  “That,” he said, not even trying to hide his distaste, “is Scythe Goddard, and his company is best avoided.”

  “Goddard . . . isn’t he the master of mass gleanings?” Rowan asked.

  Faraday looked at him a bit concerned. “Where did you hear that?”

  Rowan shrugged. “I have a friend who’s obsessed with that kind of stuff, and he hears things.”

  Citra gasped, realizing she had heard of Goddard, not by name, just by deed. Or, more accurately, rumor because there was never any official report. But like Rowan said, you hear things. “Is he the one who gleaned an entire airplane?”

  “Why?” asked Faraday, giving her a cold, accusing eye. “Does that impress you?”

  Citra shook her head. “No, the opposite.” But she couldn’t help but be a bit dazzled by the way the man’s robe caught the light. Everyone was—which must have been his intent.

  And yet his was not the most ostentatious robe on display. Moving through the crowd was a scythe in a lavishly gilded robe. The man was so large, his robe seemed a bit like a golden tent.

  “Who’s the fat guy?” Citra asked.

  “He looks important,” said Rowan.

  “Indeed,” said Scythe Faraday. “‘The fat guy,’ as you call him, is the High Blade. The most powerful man in the MidMerican Scythedom. He presides over conclave.”

  The High Blade worked the crowd like a great gaseous planet bending space around it. He could have tweaked his nanites to eliminate at least some of his girth, but clearly he had chosen not to. The choice was a bold statement and his size made him an imposing figure. When he saw Faraday, he excused himself from his current conversation and made his way toward them.

  “Honorable Scythe Faraday, always a pleasure to see you.” He used both his hands to grip Faraday’s in what was meant to be a heartfelt greeting, but felt forced and artificial.

  “Citra, Rowan, I’d like you to meet High Blade Xenocrates,” Faraday said, then turned back to the large man. “These are my new apprentices.”

  He took a moment to appraise them. “A double apprenticeship,” he said jovially. “I believe that’s a first. Most scythes have trouble with just one.”

  “The better of the two shall receive my blessing for the ring.”

  “And the other,” said the High Blade, “will be sorely disappointed, I’m sure.”  Then he moved on to greet other scythes that were just now coming in from the rain.

  “See?” Rowan said. “And you were worried.”

  But to Citra, nothing about the man seemed sincere.

  • • •

  Rowan was nervous, he just didn’t want t
o admit it. He knew admitting it would make Citra more worried, which would make him more worried. So he bit back his fears and misgivings, and kept his eyes and ears open, taking in everything that happened around him. There were other apprentices there. He overheard two talking about how this was the “big day.” A boy and a girl—both older than him, maybe eighteen or nineteen, would be getting their rings today and become junior scythes. The girl lamented about how, for the first four years, they would have to get approval from the selection committee for their gleanings.

  “Every single one,” she complained. “Like we’re babies.”

  “At least the apprenticeship isn’t four years long,” Rowan interjected, as a way to get into the conversation. The two looked at him with mild disgust.

  “I mean, it takes four years to get a college degree, right?” Rowan knew he was just digging himself deeper, but he had already committed. “At least it doesn’t take that long to get a license to glean.”

  “Who the hell are you?” the girl asked.

  “Ignore him, he’s just a spat.”

  “A what?” Rowan had been called many things, but never that.

  They both smirked at him. “Don’t you know anything?” said the girl. “‘Spat,’ as in ‘spatula.’ It’s what they call new apprentices, because you’re not good for anything but flipping your scythe’s burgers.”

  Rowan laughed at that, which just irritated them.

  Then Citra came up next to them. “So if we’re spatulas, what does that make you? Safety scissors? Or are you just a couple of tools?”

  The boy looked like he might slug Citra. “Who’s your mentor scythe?” he asked her. “He should be told of this disrespect.”

  “I am,” said Faraday, putting his hand on Citra’s shoulder. “And you don’t warrant anyone’s respect until after you receive your ring.”

  The boy seemed to shrink by about three inches. “Honorable Scythe Faraday! I’m sorry, I didn’t know.” The girl took a step away as if to distance herself from him.

  “Best of luck today,” he told them with a magnanimous gesture that they didn’t deserve.