Scythe

  “The remaining apprentices may now come forward,” said Xenocrates. Rowan and Citra rose, ready to face whatever the Scythedom had in store for them.

  * * *

  I do believe people still fear death, but only one-one hundredth as much as they used to. I say that because, based on current quotas, a person’s chance of being gleaned within the next one hundred years is only 1 percent. Which means the chance that a child born today will be gleaned between now and their five thousandth year on Earth is only 50 percent.

  Of course, since we no longer count the years numerically, aside from children and adolescents, no one knows how old anyone is anymore—sometimes not even themselves. These days people roughly know within a decade or two. At the writing of this, I can tell you that I am somewhere between one hundred sixty and one hundred eighty years old, although I don’t enjoy looking my age. Like everyone else, I turn the corner on occasion and set my biological age back substantially—but like many scythes, I don’t set it back past the age of forty. Only scythes that are actually young like to look young.

  To date, the oldest living human being is somewhere around three hundred, but only because we are still so close to the Age of Mortality. I wonder what life will be like a millennium from now, when the average age will be nearer to one thousand. Will we all be renaissance children, skilled at every art and science, because we’ve had the time to master them? Or will boredom and slavish routine plague us even more than it does today, giving us less of a reason to live limitless lives? I dream of the former, but suspect the latter.

  —From the gleaning journal of H.S. Curie

  * * *

  14

  A Slight Stipulation

  Rowan stepped on Citra’s toes on his way to the aisle. She grunted slightly, but didn’t wisecrack about it.

  That was because Citra was too busy going over her weapons and poisons in her head. Rowan’s clumsiness was the least of her concerns.

  She thought they would be led to a room elsewhere in the building—a quiet place for their exam—but other apprentices who had been to conclave before were heading down the aisle toward the open space in front of the rostrum. They lined up in what seemed like no particular order, facing the conclave like a chorus line, so Citra joined the line next to Rowan.

  “What is this?” she whispered.

  “Not sure,” he whispered back.

  There were eight in total. Some stood with hard expressions, in control of their emotions, others were trying not to look terrified. Citra wasn’t sure what image she projected, and found herself annoyed that Rowan looked as casual as if he were waiting for a bus.

  “Honorable Scythe Curie will be the examiner today,” Xenocrates said.

  A hush fell over the chamber as Scythe Curie, the Grande Dame of Death, came forward. She walked down the line of apprentices twice, sizing them up. Then she said, “Each of you will be asked one question. You will have one opportunity to give an acceptable answer.”

  One question? What kind of exam could possibly consist of one question? How could they test anyone’s knowledge that way? Citra’s heart beat so violently, she imagined it bursting out of her chest. Then she would find herself waking up in a revival center tomorrow, a laughingstock.

  Scythe Curie began at the left end of the line. It meant Citra would be fourth to be questioned.

  “Jacory Zimmerman,” Scythe Curie said to the gangly boy on the end. “A woman hurls herself on your blade, offering herself as a sacrifice to prevent you from gleaning her child, and dies. What do you do?”

  The boy hesitated for just an instant, then said, “By resisting the gleaning, she has violated the third commandment. I therefore am obliged to glean the rest of her family.”

  Scythe Curie was silent for a moment, then said, “Not an acceptable answer!”

  “But . . . but . . . ,” said Jacory, “she resisted! The rule says—”

  “The rule says if one resists one’s own gleaning. Were she the chosen one, the third commandment would most certainly apply. But if we are ever unsure, we are obliged to err on the side of compassion. In this case you would glean the child and arrange for the woman to be brought to a revival center, granting her a year of immunity along with the rest of the family.” Then she gestured toward the assembly. “Step down. Your sponsoring scythe will choose your punishment.”

  Citra swallowed. Shouldn’t the punishment for failure be the awful knowledge of that failure? What sorts of punishments would scythes devise for their disgraced disciples?

  Scythe Curie moved on to a strong-looking girl with high cheekbones on a face that looked like it could weather a hurricane.

  “Claudette Catalino,” Scythe Curie said, “you have made a mistake in your poison—”

  “That would never happen,” Claudette said.

  “Do not interrupt me.”

  “But your premise is flawed, Honorable Scythe Curie. I know my poisons so well, I could never make a mistake. Ever.”

  “Well,” said Curie, with deadpan irony, “how proud your sponsoring scythe must be to have the first perfect pupil in human history.”

  It brought forth a smattering of chuckles from the room.

  “All right then,” continued Scythe Curie. “Let us say that someone irritated by your arrogance has sabotaged your poison. Your subject, a man who offered you no resistance, begins to convulse and it appears that his end will be slow and likely filled with much more pain than his nanites can suppress. What do you do?”

  And without hesitation Claudette said, “I draw the pistol that I always keep for emergencies, and end the subject’s suffering with a single well-placed bullet. But first I would order any family members to leave the room, sparing them the trauma of witnessing a ballistic gleaning.”

  Scythe Curie raised her eyebrows, considering the response, and said, “Acceptable. And thinking of the family is a nice touch—even in a hypothetical.” Then she grinned. “I’m disappointed I couldn’t prove you imperfect.”

  Next was a boy whose gaze was fixed on a spot on the back wall, clearly trying to find his happy place.

  “Noah Zbarsky,” said Curie.

  “Yes, Your Honor.” His voice quivered. Citra wondered what sort of response that might evoke from Curie. What sort of question might she ask a boy so frightened?

  “Name for me five species that generate neurotoxins powerful enough to be effective on a poison-tipped dart.”

  The boy, who had been holding his breath, exhaled with loud relief.

  “Well, Phyllobates aurotaenia, of course, better known as the poison dart frog,” he said. “The blue-ringed octopus, the marbled cone snail, the inland taipan snake, and . . . uh . . . the deathstalker scorpion.”

  “Excellent,” Scythe Curie said. “Can you name any more?”

  “Yes,” Noah told her, “but you said one question.”

  “And what if I tell you I’ve changed my mind, and I want six instead of five?”

  Noah took a deep breath, but didn’t hold it. “Then I would tell you in a most respectful way that you were not honoring your word, and a scythe is duty bound to honor their word.”

  Scythe Curie smiled. “Acceptable answer! Very good!”

  And then she moved on to Citra.

  “Citra Terranova.”

  She had realized the scythe knew everyone’s name, and yet it came as a shock to hear her say it.

  “Yes, Honorable Scythe Curie.”

  The woman leaned in close, peering deeply into Citra’s eyes. “What is the worst thing you have ever done?”

  Citra was prepared for just about any question. Any question but that one.

  “Excuse me?”

  “It’s a simple question, dear. What is the worst thing you’ve ever done?”

  Citra’s jaw clenched. Her mouth went dry. She knew the answer. She didn’t even have to think about it.

  “Can I have a moment?”

  “Take your time.”

  Then some random scythe in the a
udience heckled. “She’s done so many terrible things, she’s having trouble selecting just one.”

  Laughter everywhere. In that moment she hated them all.

  Citra held eye contact with Scythe Curie. Those all-seeing gray eyes. She knew she couldn’t back away from the question.

  “When I was eight,” she began, “I tripped a girl down the stairs. She broke her neck, and had to spend three days at a revival center. I never told her that it was me. That’s the worst thing I ever did.”

  Scythe Curie nodded and offered a sympathetic grin, then said, “You’re lying, dear.” She turned to the crowd, shaking her head perhaps a little bit sadly. “Unacceptable answer.” Then she turned back to Citra. “Step down,” she said. “Scythe Faraday will choose your punishment.”

  She didn’t argue, she didn’t insist that she was telling the truth. Because she wasn’t. She had no idea how Scythe Curie knew.

  Citra went back to her place, unable to look at Scythe Faraday, and he said nothing to her.

  Then Scythe Curie moved on to Rowan, who seemed so smug, Citra just wanted to hit him.

  “Rowan Damisch,” Scythe Curie asked. “What do you fear? What do you fear above all else?”

  Rowan did not hesitate in his response. He shrugged and said, “I don’t fear anything.”

  Citra wasn’t sure she heard him right. Did he say he didn’t fear anything? Had he lost his mind?

  “Perhaps you want to take some time before answering,” Scythe Curie prompted, but Rowan just shook his head.

  “I don’t need any more time. That’s my answer. Not gonna change it.”

  Absolute silence in the room. Citra found herself involuntarily shaking her head. And then she realized . . . he was doing this for her. So she wouldn’t have to suffer alone through whatever punishment was in store. So she wouldn’t feel she had fallen behind him. Although she still wanted to smack him, now it was for an entirely different reason.

  “So,” said Scythe Curie, “today we have one perfect apprentice and one fearless one.” She sighed. “But I’m afraid that no one is entirely fearless, so your answer, as I’m sure you must know, is unacceptable.”

  She waited, perhaps thinking Rowan might respond to that, but he did not. He just waited for her to say, “Step down. Scythe Faraday will choose your punishment.”

  Rowan returned to his place next to Citra as nonchalant as could be.

  “You’re an idiot!” she whispered to him.

  He gave her the same shrug he gave Scythe Curie. “Guess so.”

  “You think I don’t know why you did that?”

  “Maybe I did it so that I’ll look better at the next conclave. Maybe if I gave too good an answer today, my next question would be harder.”

  But Citra knew it was false, faulty logic. Rowan didn’t think that way.  And then Scythe Faraday spoke up—his voice quiet and measured, but somehow carrying an intensity that was chilling.

  “You shouldn’t have done that.”

  “I’ll accept whatever punishment you see fit,” Rowan said.

  “It’s not about the punishment,” he snapped.

  By now Scythe Curie had questioned a few more apprentices. One was sent to sit, two others stayed.

  “Maybe Scythe Curie will see what I did as noble,” Rowan suggested.

  “Yes, and so will everyone else,” Faraday said. “Motives can easily be beaten into weapons.”

  “Which proves,” Citra said to Rowan, “that you’re an idiot.” But he only grinned idiotically.

  She thought she had the last word on the matter and that it was over until they returned home, where, no doubt Scythe Faraday would inflict some annoying but fair punishment that fit the crime. She was mistaken.

  After the apprentices were done being traumatized, the focus of the scythes began to wear down. There was now a constant murmur as scythes discussed dinner plans as the hour approached seven. The remaining business was of little interest to anyone. Issues of building maintenance, and whether or not scythes should be required to announce the turning of a corner so it wasn’t so shocking when they looked thirty years younger at the next conclave.

  It was as things were wrapping up that one scythe stood up and loudly addressed Xenocrates. She was the one dressed in green with emeralds embroidered into her robe. One of Scythe Goddard’s bunch.

  “Excuse me, Your Excellency,” she began, although clearly she was speaking to the entire assembly, not just the High Blade. “I’m finding myself troubled by this set of new apprentices. More specifically the apprentices taken on by Honorable Scythe Faraday.”

  Both Citra and Rowan looked up. Faraday did not. He seemed frozen, looking downward almost in meditation. Or perhaps steeling himself for what was to come.

  “To the best of my knowledge, a scythe has never taken on two apprentices and set them in competition for the ring,” she continued.

  Xenocrates looked over to the Parliamentarian, who had jurisdiction in such matters. “There’s no law against it, Scythe Rand,” said the Parliamentarian.

  “Yes,” Scythe Rand continued, “but clearly the competition has turned into camaraderie. How will we ever know which is the better candidate if they continue to aid each other?”

  “Your complaint is duly noted,” said Xenocrates, but Scythe Rand was not done.

  “I propose that, to ensure this competition is truly a competition, we add a slight stipulation.”

  Scythe Faraday rose to his feet as if launched from his chair. “I object!” he shouted. “This conclave cannot stipulate how I train my apprentices! It is my sole right to teach them, train them, and discipline them!”

  Rand held up her hands in a gesture of mock magnanimity. “I merely seek to make your ultimate choice fair and honest.”

  “Do you think you can beguile this conclave with your baubles and vanity? We are not so base as to be dazzled by shiny things.”

  “What is your proposal, Scythe Rand?” asked Xenocrates.

  “I object!” shouted Faraday.

  “You can’t object to something she has not yet said!”

  Faraday bit down his objection, and waited.

  Citra watched, feeling almost detached, as if this were a tennis match and it was match point. But she wasn’t an observer, was she? She was the ball. And so was Rowan.

  “I propose,” said Scythe Rand, with the slickness of a deathstalker scorpion, “that upon the confirmation of the winner, the first order of business will be for that winner to glean the loser.”

  Gasps and grumbles from around the room. And—Citra couldn’t believe it—some laughter and affirmations as well. She wanted to believe the woman in green could not be serious. That this was yet another level of the test.

  Faraday was so beside himself, he said nothing at first. He couldn’t even find the words to object. Finally he thundered his fury, like a force of nature. A wave pounding the shore. “This flies in the face of everything we are! Everything we do! We are in the business of gleaning, but you and Scythe Goddard and all of his disciples—you would turn this into a blood sport!”

  “Nonsense,” said Rand. “It makes perfect sense. The threat of gleaning will ensure that the best applicant comes out on top.”

  And then rather than striking it down as ridiculous, to Citra’s horror, Xenocrates turned to the Parliamentarian.

  “Is there a rule against it?”

  The Parliamentarian considered and said, “Since there is no precedent for the treatment of a double apprenticeship, there are no rules as to how it should be dealt with. The proposal is within our guidelines.”

  “Guidelines?” shouted Scythe Faraday. “Guidelines? The moral fabric of the Scythedom should be our guidelines! To even consider this is barbaric!”

  “Oh, please,” said Xenocrates with an exaggerated sweep of his hand. “Spare us all the melodrama, Faraday.  This is, after all, the consequence of your decision to take on two apprentices when one would have been sufficient.”

  Then the
clock began to strike seven o’clock.

  “I demand a full debate and vote on this!” Scythe Faraday pleaded, but three bells had already rung, and Xenocrates ignored him.

  “As is my prerogative as High Blade, I so stipulate that in the matter of Rowan Damisch and Citra Terranova, whomsoever shall prevail will be required to glean the other upon receipt of his or her ring.”

  Then he banged his gavel heavily upon the rostrum, adjourning conclave and sealing their fate.

  * * *

  There are times I long for a relationship with the Thunderhead. I suppose we always want what we can’t have. Others can call on the Thunderhead for advice, ask it to resolve disputes. Some rely on it as a confidant, for it’s known to have a compassionate, impartial ear, and never gossips. The Thunderhead is the world’s best listener.

  But not for scythes. For us, the Thunderhead is eternally silent.

  We have full access to its wealth of knowledge, of course. The Scythedom uses the Thunderhead for countless tasks—but to us, it’s simply a database. A tool, nothing more. As an entity—as a mind—the Thunderhead does not exist for us.

  And yet it does, and we know it.

  Estrangement from the collective consciousness of humanity’s wisdom is just one more thing that sets scythes apart from others.

  The Thunderhead must see us. It must be aware of the Scythedom’s petty bickering, and growing corruption, even though it has pledged noninterference. Does it despise us scythes, but abides us because it has to? Or does it simply choose not to think of us at all? And which is worse—to be despised, or to be ignored?

  —From the gleaning journal of H.S. Curie

  * * *

  15

  The Space Between

  The night was bleak and rain streaked the windows of the train, distorting the lights beyond, until the lights were gone. Rowan knew they were slicing through the countryside now, but the darkness could have been the airless expanse of space.

  “I won’t do it,” Citra finally said, breaking the silence that had engulfed them since leaving conclave. “They can’t make me do it.”