Scythe (Arc of a Scythe #1) - Neal Shusterman Page 0,47

done.

“I propose that, to ensure this competition is truly a competition, we add a slight stipulation.”

Scythe Faraday rose to his feet as if launched from his chair. “I object!” he shouted. “This conclave cannot stipulate how I train my apprentices! It is my sole right to teach them, train them, and discipline them!”

Rand held up her hands in a gesture of mock magnanimity. “I merely seek to make your ultimate choice fair and honest.”

“Do you think you can beguile this conclave with your baubles and vanity? We are not so base as to be dazzled by shiny things.”

“What is your proposal, Scythe Rand?” asked Xenocrates.

“I object!” shouted Faraday.

“You can’t object to something she has not yet said!”

Faraday bit down his objection, and waited.

Citra watched, feeling almost detached, as if this were a tennis match and it was match point. But she wasn’t an observer, was she? She was the ball. And so was Rowan.

“I propose,” said Scythe Rand, with the slickness of a deathstalker scorpion, “that upon the confirmation of the winner, the first order of business will be for that winner to glean the loser.”

Gasps and grumbles from around the room. And—Citra couldn’t believe it—some laughter and affirmations as well. She wanted to believe the woman in green could not be serious. That this was yet another level of the test.

Faraday was so beside himself, he said nothing at first. He couldn’t even find the words to object. Finally he thundered his fury, like a force of nature. A wave pounding the shore. “This flies in the face of everything we are! Everything we do! We are in the business of gleaning, but you and Scythe Goddard and all of his disciples—you would turn this into a blood sport!”

“Nonsense,” said Rand. “It makes perfect sense. The threat of gleaning will ensure that the best applicant comes out on top.”

And then rather than striking it down as ridiculous, to Citra’s horror, Xenocrates turned to the Parliamentarian.

“Is there a rule against it?”

The Parliamentarian considered and said, “Since there is no precedent for the treatment of a double apprenticeship, there are no rules as to how it should be dealt with. The proposal is within our guidelines.”

“Guidelines?” shouted Scythe Faraday. “Guidelines? The moral fabric of the Scythedom should be our guidelines! To even consider this is barbaric!”

“Oh, please,” said Xenocrates with an exaggerated sweep of his hand. “Spare us all the melodrama, Faraday.  This is, after all, the consequence of your decision to take on two apprentices when one would have been sufficient.”

Then the clock began to strike seven o’clock.

“I demand a full debate and vote on this!” Scythe Faraday pleaded, but three bells had already rung, and Xenocrates ignored him.

“As is my prerogative as High Blade, I so stipulate that in the matter of Rowan Damisch and Citra Terranova, whomsoever shall prevail will be required to glean the other upon receipt of his or her ring.”

Then he banged his gavel heavily upon the rostrum, adjourning conclave and sealing their fate.

* * *

There are times I long for a relationship with the Thunderhead. I suppose we always want what we can’t have. Others can call on the Thunderhead for advice, ask it to resolve disputes. Some rely on it as a confidant, for it’s known to have a compassionate, impartial ear, and never gossips. The Thunderhead is the world’s best listener.

But not for scythes. For us, the Thunderhead is eternally silent.

We have full access to its wealth of knowledge, of course. The Scythedom uses the Thunderhead for countless tasks—but to us, it’s simply a database. A tool, nothing more. As an entity—as a mind—the Thunderhead does not exist for us.

And yet it does, and we know it.

Estrangement from the collective consciousness of humanity’s wisdom is just one more thing that sets scythes apart from others.

The Thunderhead must see us. It must be aware of the Scythedom’s petty bickering, and growing corruption, even though it has pledged noninterference. Does it despise us scythes, but abides us because it has to? Or does it simply choose not to think of us at all? And which is worse—to be despised, or to be ignored?

—From the gleaning journal of H.S. Curie

* * *

15

The Space Between

The night was bleak and rain streaked the windows of the train, distorting the lights beyond, until the lights were gone. Rowan knew they were slicing through the countryside now, but the darkness could have been the airless expanse of space.

“I won’t do it,” Citra finally said, breaking the silence that had