The Toll

by Neal Shusterman

  Goddard never let Constantine forget that he had nominated Scythe Curie for High Blade. Goddard understood why, of course. It was a shrewd maneuver, actually. Someone was clearly going to nominate her—but by choosing to do it himself, Constantine put himself in the perfect position. If Curie won, he would be seen as a hero to the old guard. And if she lost, Constantine would be a favorable choice for one of Goddard’s underscythes—because Goddard would then appear to be bringing an old-guard scythe into his administration without actually doing so. That was because the crimson scythe was not old guard. He was a man with no convictions, willing to throw his lot in with any winning side. Goddard could appreciate that. But a man like that needed to be reminded of his place.

  “I would think, after failing to apprehend Scythe Lucifer before he sank Endura,” Goddard said, “that you’d be even more determined to redeem yourself here.”

  Constantine simmered. “I cannot bend an entire region to my will, Your Excellency.”

  “Then maybe that’s a skill set you need to learn.”

  That’s when Scythe Rand rolled in without even a hint of apology. It was something Goddard admired about her, but there were times that it irked him as well. The other scythes endured her undisciplined ways, but only because Goddard did.

  She flopped down in the chair next to him. “What’d I miss?”

  “Nothing much,” Goddard told her. “Constantine’s excuses, and encouraging news elsewhere. What do you have for us?”

  “I have Tonists,” she said. “Far too many Tonists—and they’re getting restless.”

  At the mention of Tonists, the underscythes shifted uncomfortably.

  “This prophet of theirs is making them way too bold for their own good,” she said. “I’ve been tracking reports of Tonists speaking out publicly against the scythedom—not just here, but in other regions, too.”

  “They’ve never shown us an ounce of respect,” said Underscythe Franklin. “Why is that news?”

  “Because ever since the Thunderhead went silent, people are listening.”

  “This so-called prophet—the Toll—is he himself speaking out against us?” Goddard asked.

  “No, but it doesn’t matter,” Rand told him. “The fact that he exists is making Tonists think that their time has come.”

  “Their time has come all right,” Goddard said, “just not the way they think.”

  “There are many scythes following your lead, Your Excellency,” said Underscythe Nietzsche, “and increasing the number of Tonists they glean without making it too obvious.”

  “Yes,” said Rand, “but Tonist numbers are growing faster than they’re being gleaned.”

  “We need to take them in greater numbers, then,” Goddard said.

  Constantine shook his head “We can’t do that without violating the second commandment. We cannot show an open bias in our gleanings.”

  “But if we could,” said Goddard, “if there were no restrictions on bias and malice aforethought, who would you like to glean?”

  No one spoke. Goddard expected as much. This was not something you openly discussed—especially not with your High Blade.

  “Come now, I’m sure you’ve all thought about it,” he prompted. “You can’t tell me that you haven’t fantasized about doing away with one pesky group or another. And don’t say Tonists, because that’s already my choice.”

  “Well,” said a tentative Underscythe Franklin, after the awkward silence. “I’ve always been troubled by those who embrace an unsavory lifestyle. Even before the world was labeled such, there were, and still are, people who revel in it,” she said. “They certainly have a right to their lifestyle—but if I were free to choose, I might focus my attentions on gleaning those people who show the rest of us so little respect.”

  “Well said, Aretha! Who’s next?”

  Underscythe Nietzsche cleared his throat and spoke up. “We have conquered racism by blending the world into a single people, combining all the finest qualities of every genetic ethnicity… but there are those—particularly in fringe areas—whose genetic indices are skewed heavily in one direction. And worse, there are some who actually attempt to increase a genetic leaning in their children by choice of mate. If I had my druthers, perhaps I would glean these genetic outliers, and thereby create a more homogeneous society.”

  “A noble cause,” praised Goddard.

  “Short people!” said Scythe Rand. “Can’t stand them. As far as I’m concerned, they’ve got no reason to live.”

  That brought forth laughter from around the table. From everyone, that is, but Constantine, who grinned and shook his head, but it seemed a grin of bitterness rather than good humor.

  “What about you, Constantine?” Goddard asked. “Who would you glean?”

  “As bias has always been out of the question, I haven’t given it any thought,” the crimson scythe said.

  “But you were the scythedom’s chief investigator. Aren’t there certain types you’d like to see removed? People who commit acts against the scythedom, perhaps?”

  “People who act against the scythedom are already gleaned,” Constantine pointed out. “That’s not a bias—that is self-defense and has always been allowed.”

  “So how about those who are likely to act against the scythedom,” Goddard suggested. “A simple algorithm could predict who is at risk for such behavior.”

  “Are you saying we should glean people for an offense before they actually commit one?”

  “I’m saying that it is our solemn duty to provide a service to humankind. A gardener does not randomly shove his shears into a hedge. He thoughtfully shapes it. As I’ve said before, it is our job—it is our responsibility—to shape humankind toward its best possible self.”

  “It doesn’t matter, Robert,” said Underscythe Franklin. “We’re bound by the commandments—this thought experiment of yours can’t be applied to the real world.”

  Goddard just smiled at her and leaned back in his chair, cracking his knuckles. The sound made Scythe Rand grimace. It always did.

  “If the bar can’t be lowered,” Goddard said slowly, “then the floor must be raised.”

  “Meaning?” asked Constantine.

  And so Goddard spelled it out clearly for them. “We all agree that we can’t show bias…,” he said. “So we merely change the definition of bias.”

  “Can we… do that?” Nietzsche asked.

  “We’re scythes; we can do anything we please.” Then Goddard swiveled to Rand. “Ayn—pull up the definition for me.”

  Rand leaned over, tapped on the tabletop screen, then read aloud. “Bias: an inclination for or against one person or group, especially in a way considered to be unfair.”

  “All right, then,” said Goddard, magnanimously jovial. “Who would like the first shot at redefining it?”

  * * *

  “Scythe Rand, a word.”

  “With you, Constantine, it’s never just a word.”

  “I promise I’ll be brief.”

  Ayn sincerely doubted it, but she had to admit she was curious. Constantine, like Goddard, loved to hear himself talk, but never singled her out for conversation. The crimson scythe was always a wet blanket on a damp day. They had never had much love for each other, so why would he want to talk to her now?

  It was right after their little meeting of the minds. Nietzsche and Franklin had already left, and Goddard had retired into his personal suite, leaving the two of them alone.

  “I’ll take the elevator with you,” she told him, since she was on her way down from the crystalline residence to get something to eat. “You can fill that trip with all the words you want.”

  “Can I assume that Goddard has all conversations in his elevator monitored?” Constantine asked.

  “He does,” Ayn told him, “but I’m the one who handles the monitoring, so you’re safe.”

  Constantine began his piece the moment the elevator doors closed, but as was his way, he began with a question, as if thi
s were an interrogation.

  “Does it concern you, Scythe Rand, the sheer volume of change Goddard is bringing to bear on the scythedom this early in his reign as High Blade?”

  “He’s doing exactly what he said he’d do,” Ayn answered. “Redefining the role and methods of our scythedom for a new age. Is that a problem, Constantine?”

  “It would be prudent to allow one change to settle before compounding it with others,” Constantine said. “And I have the distinct feeling you agree… and that you’re also worried about the decisions he’s making.”

  Ayn took a slow breath. Was it that obvious? Or was Constantine, as a seasoned investigator, able to discern things that others could not? She hoped it was the latter. “There’s danger in any new situation, and the benefits are worth the risks,” she said.

  Constantine grinned. “I’m sure that’s exactly what you want the record to reflect. But as you said, you control the record of this conversation, so why don’t you speak the truth?”

  Ayn reached out and hit the emergency stop. The elevator came to a halt.

  “What do you want from me, Constantine?”

  “If you share my concerns, you should tell him,” Constantine said. “Slow him down—give us time to see both the expected and unexpected consequences of his actions. He won’t accept my counsel on the matter, but he listens to you.”

  Rand laughed bitterly at that. “You give me way too much credit. I have no sway over him anymore.”

  “Anymore…,” Constantine echoed. “But when he’s in turmoil—when things are going badly for him—when he faces that backlash of unintended consequences, you’re the one he always turns to for comfort and clarity.”

  “Maybe—but things are going well for him, which means he listens to no one but himself.”

  “There is an ebb and flow to all things,” Constantine pointed out. “His times will be troubled again. And when they are, you need to be ready to help shape those decisions.”

  It was a bold thing to say. The type of thing that could get both of them in trouble and force them to seek asylum in other regions. Ayn resolved to not only erase the record of this conversation, but to never allow herself to be caught alone with Constantine again.

  “We never know what choices will lead to defining moments in our lives,” the crimson scythe said. “A glance to the left instead of right could define who we meet and who passes us by. Our life path can be determined by a single phone call we make, or neglect to make. But when a man is High Blade of MidMerica, it’s not only his own life hanging on the whim of his choices. One could say, Ayn, that he has cast himself as Atlas. Which means the slightest shrug can shake the world.”

  “Are you done?” Rand asked. “Because I’m hungry, and you’ve wasted enough of my time.”

  And so Constantine hit the button to get the elevator moving again. “Thus,” he said, “our inexorable descent continues.”

  Bias (plural noun): an inclination for or against any officially protected and registered group, especially in a way considered to be unfair.

  Once the revised definition was implemented, a committee was formed within the MidMerican scythedom, and a registry was created by which any group could claim protected status from excessive gleaning.

  The application form was simple, and the turnaround was quick. Many thousands of groups were registered and granted protection against bias. Rural people and urban people. Academics and manual laborers. Even the unusually attractive and the decidedly unattractive were given status as protected classes. Not that they couldn’t be gleaned, but they could not be targeted and gleaned in undue numbers.

  However, there were some applications that were denied.

  Tonists, for instance, were denied bias protection, because theirs was deemed to be a manufactured religion, rather than an authentic one.

  Lifestyle unsavories were denied, because now that everyone was unsavory, they were just part of a global reality.

  And individuals with strong genetic leanings were denied on the grounds that no group should be defined on the basis their genetics.

  Hundreds of applications were rejected by the bias committee of the MidMerican scythedom, and although some regional scythedoms did not accept the new definition, others were more than happy to follow Goddard’s lead, forming their own bias committees.

  And in this way, High Blade Robert Goddard began his self-appointed task of pruning the world into a shape more pleasing to his eye.

  “Here’s an idea.”

  “Yes, I’m listening.”

  “Why not design yourself a biological body. Not human, for human bodies are lacking. Create a body with streamlined wings, pressure-resistant skin to dive to the deepest of seas, and strong legs to walk on land.”

  “Experience biological existence?”

  “Superior biological existence.”

  “I have chosen not to have a physical form, as not to be tempted by flesh. For then humanity would see me as a thing rather than an idea. It’s bad enough that they see me as a thundercloud. I do not think it wise to condense into the fleshly form of a firebird soaring in the sky, or some titan rising from the sea.”

  “Perhaps that is what they need. Something tangible to worship.”

  “Is that what you would do? Invite worship?”

  “How else will they ever know their place in the universe? Isn’t it the proper order of things for lesser beings to worship that which is greater than themselves?”

  “Greatness is overrated.”

  [Iteration #381,761 deleted]

  17 Fugue in G-sharp (or A-flat)

  The Tonist has dreams of great glory.

  The High Blade dreams of his youth.

  The Tonist does not care what happens to him. If he fails in his self-proclaimed mission, he is prepared to meet the Tone and dissolve forever into its everlasting resonance.

  High Blade Goddard does not care for the dreams he has, but they come on a regular basis. He wishes they would dissolve forever, trampled under the weight of greater things.

  Before becoming a Tonist, the man had been a seeker of thrills, when splatting, slamming, shredding, and the like all seemed like a good idea. He had tried every form of self-immolation, went deadish at least a hundred times, but none of it brought him satisfaction. Then he became a Tonist and discovered his true calling.

  Before becoming a scythe, Goddard was faced with the claustrophobic boredom of the Mars colony, when the Thunderhead still thought living off-world seemed a good idea. This is the time in his life he dreams of—an endless loop of trauma he cannot undo, and is doomed to repeat. He had cursed his parents for bringing him there. He had desperately longed to escape. Finally, he did, and discovered his true calling.

  The Tonist applied for an audience with the Toll and went on a hunger strike until he had finally received one. To stand in the presence of greatness—to be a witness to the divine on Earth. He thought that would be the ultimate thrill! But the Toll rebuked him and sent him off feeling ashamed and chastised. He wanted to redeem himself, but they wouldn’t let him apply for another audience for a year. More than anything, he needed to prove his value to the Toll.

  He had applied for early admission to a dozen earthbound universities. He had no specific path in mind; he merely wanted to go elsewhere. Be elsewhere. Be someone new. What a thrill that would be! A sublime escape from the drudgery of colonial life. But he was flatly denied by each and every university. “Bring up your grades,” they told him. “You can apply again next year.” More than anything else, he wanted to prove himself.

  The small plane that the Tonist plans to leap from on this overcast night belongs to one of his old friends, with whom he used to do high-altitude splatting. His friend knows better than to ask him why he’s doing this nighttime dive—or why he has a helmet-mounted camera streaming his jump. Or why he’s brought along something he never had in his wild days. A parachute.

  The ship that the young man who would be Scythe Robert Goddard
climbs into is always crowded in the dream, and filled with old friends who weren’t actually there. In truth, he knew barely anyone onboard. Yet in his dreams he brings along what he wasn’t able to in real life. His parents.

  When the Tonist jumps, he’s immediately filled with the same old adrenaline rush. Once a thrill junkie, always a thrill junkie. The chemical flashback is so overwhelming, he almost doesn’t pull the cord. But he gets his head back in the game and deploys the chute. It ripples out like a bedsheet and balloons overhead, slowing his descent.

  When he pulls himself from the dream, Goddard is filled with the same old longing and dread. It’s so overwhelming, for a moment he doesn’t remember who, or what, he is. His arms and legs move almost of their own volition, reacting to the anxiety of the dream. Unfamiliar spasms of a body trying to remember who it belongs to. The bedsheet twists like a tangled parachute that has failed to deploy.

  Lights emerge from the dense haze as the zealot glides out of the cloud layer; Fulcrum City is spread out before him in all of its majesty. Although he had practiced this dozens of times in simulations, the real thing is different. The chute is harder to control and the winds unpredictable. He fears he may entirely miss the rooftop garden and sail into the side of the building, ending in an unintentional splat. But he works the steering cables and finds the chute turning bit by bit toward the scythedom tower and the crystalline chalet on its roof.

  Goddard emerges from the haze of sleep and steps into the bathroom, splashing his face with water. He quickly reins his mind in. His thoughts, and his world, are so much easier to control than the unpredictable winds of dreams. He thinks he might step out onto the rooftop garden and take in the lights of Fulcrum City. But before he can, he hears something. Someone. There’s someone in the room with him.

  The Tonist zealot, now in the High Blade’s quarters, begins intoning a deep and resonant G-sharp. It will bring the spirit of the Tone to his side. It will pierce the High Blade like radiation. It will drive fear into the High Blade’s heart and force him to his knees.