Scythe (Arc of a Scythe #1) - Neal Shusterman Page 0,45
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 audience 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.”