Scythe (Arc of a Scythe #1) - Neal Shusterman Page 0,37

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 Conclave.

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