Scythe (Arc of a Scythe #1) - Neal Shusterman Page 0,44

for a few moments, as if thinking it might be a joke—or maybe one final test. Then, his lips pursed, his face turned red and he strode quickly up the center aisle in silence, pushing through the heavy bronze doors, their hinges complaining at his exit.

“How awful,” said Citra. “At least they could applaud him for trying.”

“There are no accolades for the unworthy,” Faraday said.

“One of us will exit that way,” Rowan pointed out to her. He resolved that if it was him, he would take his time going down that aisle. He’d make eye contact and nod to as many scythes as he could on his way out. Were he to be ejected, he would leave that final conclave with dignity.

“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,