“He will pretend like it never happened,” Scythe Curie told her as the two of them drove home from the airport. “That’s the closest the man will ever come to an apology.”
“But it did happen,” Citra said. “I had to hurl myself from a building to escape from it.”
“And I had to blow up two perfectly good cars,” Scythe Curie said wryly.
“I won’t forget what he did.”
“And you shouldn’t. You have every right to judge Xenocrates harshly—but not too harshly. I suspect there are more variables in play than we know.”
“That’s what Scythe Faraday said.”
Scythe Curie smiled at the mention of his name. “And how is our good friend Gerald?” she asked with a wink.
“Reports of his death have been greatly exaggerated,” said Citra. “Mostly, he gardens and takes long walks on the beach.”
The fact that he was still alive was a secret they both planned to keep. Even Scythe Mandela believed that Citra was staying with a relative of Scythe Curie in Amazonia, and he had no reason to suspect it wasn’t true.
“Perhaps I’ll join him on his beach in a hundred years or so,” said Scythe Curie. “But for now there’s too much to do in the Scythedom. Too many crucial battles to fight.” Citra could see her gripping the steering wheel tighter as she thought of it. “The future of everything we believe as scythes is at stake, Citra. There is even talk of abolishing the quota. Which is why you must win the ring. I know the scythe you’ll be, and it’s exactly what we need.”
Citra looked away. Without daily gleaning, her training with Scythe Faraday over the past few months had been about honing her mind and body—but more importantly, contemplating the moral and ethical high ground that a traditional scythe must always take. There was nothing “old guard” about it. It was simply right. She knew such high ideals were absent from Rowan’s training, but it didn’t mean he didn’t hold onto them in his heart, despite his bloodthirsty mentor.
“Rowan could be a good scythe as well,” Citra offered.
Scythe Curie sighed. “He can’t be trusted anymore. Look what he did to you at Harvest Conclave. You can make all the excuses in the world for him, but the fact is, he’s an unknown quantity now. Training under Goddard is bound to twist him in ways that no one can predict.”
“Even if that’s true,” said Citra, finally getting to the point they both knew she’d been dancing around, “I don’t know how I could glean him.”
“It will be the second most painful thing you’ll ever do,” admitted Scythe Curie. “But you’ll find a way to accomplish it, Citra. I have faith in you.”
If gleaning Rowan would be the second most painful thing she’d ever do, Citra wondered what the most painful thing would be. But she was afraid to ask, because she really didn’t want to know.
* * *
So many of our archaic traditions and rules need to be challenged. The founders, as well-meaning as they were, still suffered from a mortal mentality, having been so close to the Age of Mortality. They could not foresee the needs of the Scythedom.
I would first take on the concept of a quota. It’s absurd that we are free to determine our method and criteria for gleaning, but not the number of gleanings we accomplish. We are hamstrung every minute of every day, because we must always consider whether we are gleaning too much or too little. Better to allow us to glean at our own complete discretion. That way, scythes who glean too little will not be punished, because scythes who have a healthier gleaning appetite will make up for their shortcomings. In this way, we can help one another, and isn’t helping our fellow scythes a good thing for all of us?
—From the gleaning journal of H.S. Goddard
* * *
35
Obliteration Is Our Hallmark
On the last day of the year, just three days before Winter Conclave, Scythe Goddard led one more gleaning expedition.
“But we’ve already reached our quota for the year,” Scythe Volta was quick to remind him.
“I will NOT be constrained by a technicality!” Goddard shouted. Rowan thought Goddard might actually hit Volta, but then he took a moment to calm himself, and said, “By the time we begin our gleaning run, it will already be the Year of the Capybara in PanAsia. As far as I’m concerned, that gives us permission to count our kills as part of the new year. Then we shall return in time for our New Year’s Eve gala!”
Scythe Goddard decided it was a day for samurai swords, although Chomsky refused to part with his flamethrower. “It’s what I’m known for. Why mess with my image?”
Rowan had been on four gleaning expeditions with Goddard so far. He found he could escape to a place within himself where he was less of an accomplice—even less than an observer. He became the lettuce again. Nonsentient and secondary. Easily ignored and forgotten. It was the only way to keep his sanity in the midst of Goddard’s blood sport. Sometimes he was so forgotten in the midst of the melee that he could help people escape. Other times, he had to be at Goddard’s side, loading or switching out his weapons. He didn’t know what his role would be this time. If Goddard was just using his samurai blade, he didn’t need Rowan to be his weapons caddy. Still, he told Rowan to bring a spare sword.
Preparations for the party were already in full swing as they got ready to leave for the gleaning run that morning. The catering truck had arrived, and tables were being set up all over the grounds. The New Year’s Eve gala was one of Goddard’s few preplanned parties, and the guest list was stellar.
The helicopter landed on the front lawn, blowing away a tent that was being erected for the party as if it were nothing more than a napkin tumbled by the wind.
“Today we shall provided a much-needed public service,” Goddard told them, with far too much glee. “Today we dispense with some rabble.” But he didn’t explain what he meant. Even so, as the helicopter took off, Rowan had a sinking feeling deep in the pit of his stomach that had nothing to do with their ascent.
? ? ?
They landed in a public park, in the center of a vacant soccer field lightly dusted with snow. There was a playground at the edge of the park where some toddlers, unfazed by the weather, climbed and swung and dug in the sand, bundled up against the cold. The instant their parents saw scythes stepping out of the helicopter, they gathered their children and hurried away, ignoring their children’s wails of protest.
“Our destination is several blocks away,” Scythe Goddard told them. “I didn’t want to set down too close and ruin the element of surprise.” Then he put a paternal arm around Rowan’s shoulder. “Today is Rowan’s inauguration,” he said. “You will perform your first gleaning today!”
Rowan recoiled. “What? Me? I can’t! I’m just an apprentice!”
“Proxy, my boy! Just as I allowed you to grant immunity with my ring, so will you glean someone today, and it will be tallied as mine. Consider it a gift. You don’t have to thank me.”
“But . . . but that’s not allowed!”
Goddard was unperturbed. “Then let someone complain. Oh, what’s that I hear? Silence!”
“Don’t worry,” Volta told Rowan. “It’s what you’ve trained for. You’ll do fine.”
Which is what Rowan was worried about. He didn’t want to do “fine.” He wanted to be miserable at it. He wanted to be a failure, because only by failing would he know that he held on to a shred of his humanity. His brain felt about ready to burst out through his nose and ears. He hoped it would, because then he’d glean nobody today. If I must do this, I will be merciful like Scythe Faraday, he told himself. I will not enjoy it. I will NOT enjoy it!
They came around a corner and Rowan saw their destination: some sort of compound made to look like an old adobe mission, completely out of place in the cold of MidMerica. The iron symbol atop the tallest steeple was a two-pronged fork. This was a tone cult cloister.
“Nearly a hundred Tonists reside behind those walls,” Goddard announced. “Our goal is to glean them all.”