Scythe (Arc of a Scythe #1) - Neal Shusterman Page 0,27

mother.

A guy with a bad case of bed-hair.

A man who looked like he hadn’t shaved in three days.

Four people. And Rowan was about to decide which one would die tomorrow.

He immediately found himself leaning toward the unshaven man, but realized he was showing a bias. A person shouldn’t be discriminated against because he hadn’t shaved for a picture. And was he ruling out the woman just because she was a woman?

Okay then, the guy with the smile. But was Rowan overcompensating now by choosing the most pleasant-looking of them?

He decided to learn more about each of them, using Faraday’s access code to dig up more personal information than he really should have been allowed to; but this was a person’s life he was dealing with—shouldn’t he use any means necessary to make his decision fair?

This one had run into a burning building in his youth to save a family member. But this one has three young kids. But this one volunteers at an animal shelter. But this one’s brother was gleaned just two years ago. . . .

He thought each fact would help him, but the more he came to know about each of them, the harder the decision became. He kept digging into their lives, getting more and more desperate, until the front door opened and Scythe Faraday returned. It was dark out. When had night fallen?

The scythe looked weary, and his robes were splattered with blood.

“Today’s gleaning was . . . more troublesome than expected,” he said. Citra came out of the weapons den. “All blades are now polished to a perfect shine!” she announced.

Faraday gave her his nod of approval. Then he turned to Rowan, who still sat at the computer. “And who do we glean next?”

“I . . . uh . . . narrowed it down to four.”

“And?” said the scythe.

“All four fit the profile.”

“And?” said the scythe again.

“Well, this one just got married, and this one just bought a house—”

“Pick one,” said the scythe.

“—and this one received a humanitarian award last year—”

“PICK ONE!” yelled the scythe with a ferocity Rowan had never heard from the man. The very walls seemed to recoil from his voice. Rowan though he might get a reprieve, as he had when Faraday asked him to hand that woman the cyanide pill. But no; today’s test was very different. Rowan looked to Citra, who still stood in the doorway of the weapons den, frozen like a bystander at an accident. He was truly alone in this awful decision.

Rowan looked to the screen, grimacing, and pointed to the man with bed-hair. “Him,” Rowan said. “Glean him.”

Rowan closed his eyes. He had just condemned a man to death because he’d had a bad hair day.

Then he felt Faraday put a firm hand on his shoulder. He thought he’d get a reprimand, but instead, the scythe said, “Well done.”

Rowan opened his eyes. “Thank you, sir.”

“Were this not the hardest thing you’ve ever done, I’d be concerned.”

“Does it ever get easier?” Rowan asked.

“I certainly hope not,” the scythe said.

• • •

The following afternoon, Bradford Ziller returned from work to find a scythe sitting in his living room. The scythe stood up as Bradford entered. His instincts told him to turn and run, but before he did, a teenage boy with a green armband, who had been standing off to the side, closed the door behind him.

He waited with increasing dread for the scythe to speak, but instead the scythe gestured to the boy, who cleared his throat and said, “Mr. Ziller, you have been chosen for gleaning.”

“Tell him the rest, Rowan,” said the scythe patiently.

“I mean to say that . . . that I chose you for gleaning.”

Bradford looked between the two of them, suddenly deeply relieved, because this was clearly some sort of joke. “Okay, who the hell are you? Who put you up to this?”

Then the scythe held up his hand, showing his ring. And Bradford’s spirits fell again like the second drop of a roller coaster. That was no fake—it was the real thing “The boy is one of my apprentices,” the scythe said.

“I’m sorry,” said the boy. “It’s not personal—you just fit a certain profile. Back in the Age of Mortality lots of people died trying to perform rescues. A lot of them were people who jumped into flooded rivers to save their pets. Most of them were good swimmers, but that doesn’t matter in a flood.”

The dogs! thought Bradford. That’s right, the dogs! “You can’t hurt me!” he said. “You