Citra found herself getting increasingly anxious after lunch, as the weapons manufacturers touted their wares and various motions were hotly debated. Things like whether a scythe’s ring should be worn on the left or right hand, and whether or not a scythe should be allowed to endorse a commercial product, like running shoes or a breakfast cereal. It all seemed insignificant to Citra. Why should any of that matter when the hallowed act of gleaning was slowly devolving into mortal age murder?
Then at last it came time for the apprentice trials. As before, the candidates for Scythedom went first, having been tested the night before. Of the four candidates who made it through their final test, only two were ordained. The other two had to suffer the walk of shame, as they exited the chamber and went back to their old lives. Citra took guilty pleasure at the fact that the girl who had been sucking up to Rowan was one of those ejected.
Once the new scythes were given their rings and took their new names, the remaining apprentices were called down front.
“Today’s test,” announced Scythe Cervantes, “will be a competition in the martial art of Bokator. The candidates will be paired and judged on their performance.”
A mat was brought in and rolled out in the semicircular space in front of the rostrum. Citra took a deep breath. She had this. Bokator was a balance among strength, agility, and focus, and she had found her perfect balance. And then they stuck a blade right in the heart of her confidence.
“Citra Terranova will spar against Rowan Damisch.”
A murmur from the crowd. Citra realized this was no random draw. They were paired intentionally, doomed to be adversaries. How could it be any other way? Her eyes met Rowan’s, but his expression gave away nothing.
The other matches went first. Each apprentice gave their best, but Bokator was a bruising discipline and not everyone’s strength. Some victories were close, others were routs. And then it came time for Citra and Rowan’s match.
Still, Rowan’s expression gave her neither camaraderie nor sympathy, nor misery at having to be set against each other. “Okay, let’s do this,” is all he said, and they began to circle each other.
• • •
Rowan knew that today was his first true test, but not the one they had devised for him. Rowan’s test was to look convincing but still throw the match. Goddard, Xenocrates, Cervantes—and for that matter, all the scythes assembled—needed to believe he was doing his best, but that his best just wasn’t good enough.
It began with the ritualistic rhythmic circling. Then posturing and physical taunting. Rowan launched himself at Citra, threw a kick that he telegraphed with his body language, and missed her by a fraction of an inch. He lost his footing and fell down on one knee. A very good start. He turned quickly, rising, remained off balance, and she lunged toward him. He thought she would take him down with an elbow strike, but instead she grabbed him, pulling him forward even as she appeared to push him back. It brought him to balance and made it appear as if her move had failed—that she didn’t have the leverage to do the job. Rowan backed away and caught her gaze. She was grinning at him, her eyes intensely on his. It was part of the taunting that Bokator was known for, but this was so much more. He could read her just as clearly as if she were speaking aloud.
You’re not going to throw this match, her eyes said. Fight badly—I dare you—because no matter how poorly you try to fight, I will find a way to make you look good.
Frustrated, Rowan launched himself at her again, an open palm strike at her shoulder, intentionally two inches off from the perfect leverage point—but she actually moved into it. His palm connected, she spun back with the force of his strike, and went down.
Damn you, Citra. Damn you!
She could beat him at everything. Even at losing.
• • •
Citra knew from the moment Rowan made his first kick what he was up to, and it infuriated her. How dare he think he had to fight badly for her to win this match? Had he grown so arrogant under Scythe Goddard that he actually thought this wouldn’t be a fair fight? Sure, he had been training, but so had she. So what if he had grown stronger—that also meant he was bulkier and moved slower. A fair fight was the only way to keep their consciences clean. Didn’t Rowan realize that by sacrificing himself, he’d be dooming her as well? She would sooner glean herself as her first act as a scythe than accept his sacrifice.
Rowan glared at her now, furious, and it only made her laugh. “Is that the best you can do?” she asked.
He threw out a low kick, just slow enough for her to anticipate, and without any force behind it. All she needed to do was lower her stance and the kick would have no effect. Instead she responded by raising her center of gravity just enough for the kick to knock her feet out from under her. She fell to the mat, but righted herself quickly, so it wouldn’t look as if she had done it on purpose. Then she threw her shoulder against him and hooked her right leg around his, applying force, but not enough to make his knee buckle. He grabbed her, twisted, flipped them both down to the mat, landing with her in the dominant position over him. She countered by forcing him to roll over and pin her. He tried to release her, but she held his arms in place so he couldn’t.
“What’s the matter, Rowan?” she whispered. “Don’t know what to do when you’re on top of a girl?”
He finally pulled away and she got up. They faced each other one more time, circling in the familiar battle dance while Cervantes circled them in the other direction, like a satellite, completely missing what was really going on between them.
• • •
Rowan knew the match was almost over. He was about to win, and by winning he would lose. He must have been crazy thinking Citra would allow him to willingly throw the match. They both cared too much about each other. That was the problem. Citra would never willingly accept the scythe’s ring as long as her feelings for him got in the way.
And all at once Rowan knew exactly what he had to do.
• • •
With only ten seconds left to the match, all Citra had to do was keep up the dance. Rowan was clearly the victor. Ten more seconds of guarded circling and Cervantes would blow the whistle.
But then Rowan did something Citra hadn’t anticipated at all. He threw himself forward with lightning speed. Not clumsy, not feigning false incompetence, but with perfect, practiced skill. In an instant he had put her in a headlock, squeezing her neck tight—tight enough for her pain nanites to kick in. And then he leaned close and snarled into her ear.
“You fell right into my trap,” he said. “Now you get what you deserve.” Then he flung her body into the air, twisting her head the other way. Her neck broke with a loud and horrible snap, and darkness came over Citra like a landslide.
• • •
Rowan dropped Citra to the ground as the crowd drew a collective gasp. Cervantes blew his whistle violently. “Illegal move! Illegal move!” Cervantes shouted, just as Rowan knew he would. “Disqualification!”
The gathering of scythes began to roar. Some were furious at Cervantes, others were spouting vitriol at Rowan for what he had done. Rowan stood stoic, letting no emotions show. He forced himself to look down at Citra’s body. Her head was twisted practically backward. Her eyes were open, but no longer seeing. She was deadish as deadish could be. He bit down on his tongue until it began to bleed.
The chamber door swung open and guards raced in, hurrying toward the deadish girl in the middle of the room.
The High Blade came up to Rowan. “Go back to your scythe,” he said, not even trying to hide his disgust. “I’m sure he’ll discipline you accordingly.”
“Yes, Your Excellency.”
Disqualification. None of them realized that, to Rowan, it was the perfect victory.
He watched as the guards picked Citra up and carried her, limp as a sack of potatoes, outside where, no doubt, an ambu-drone was already waiting to take her to the nearest revival center.
You’ll be fine, Citra. You’ll be back with Scyth
e Curie in no time—but you won’t forget what happened today. And I hope you never forgive me.
* * *
I fought against the purge. There are things I’ve done that I am not proud of, but I am very proud that I fought against that.
I can’t recall which scythe began that odious campaign to glean only those who were born mortal, but it spread throughout each regional Scythedom, a viral idea in a post-viral time. “Shouldn’t those who were born to expect death be the sole subjects of gleaning?” went the popular wisdom. But it was bigotry masquerading as wisdom. Selfishness posing as enlightenment. And not enough scythes argued—because those born in the post-mortal age found mortal-borns to be too uncomfortably different in the way they thought, and in the way they lived their lives. “Let them die with the age that bore them,” cried the post-mortal purists in the Scythedom.
In the end it was deemed a gross violation of the second commandment, and all those scythes who participated in the purge were severely disciplined—but by then it was too late to undo what had been done. We lost our ancients. We lost our elders. We lost our living lifeline to the past. There are still mortal-borns around, but they hide their age and their history, for fear of being targeted again.
Yes, I fought the purge—but the Thunderhead did not. By its own law of noninterference in scythe affairs, it could do nothing to stop the purge. All it could do was bear witness. The Thunderhead allowed us to make that costly mistake, leaving the Scythedom to wallow in its own regret to this very day.
I often wonder, should the Scythedom run entirely off the rails and decide to glean all of humanity in a grand suicide of global gleaning, would the Thunderhead break its noninterference law and stop it? Or would it bear witness again as we destroyed ourselves, leaving nothing behind but a living cloud of our knowledge, accomplishments, and so-called wisdom?
Would the Thunderhead grieve our passing, I wonder? And if so, would it grieve as the child who has lost a parent, or as the parent who could not save a petulant child from its own poor choices?
—From the gleaning journal of H.S. Curie
* * *
28
Hydrogen Burning in the Heart of the Sun
Citra Terranova, said a voice both powerful yet gentle. Citra Terranova, can you hear me?
Who’s that? Is someone there?
Curious, said the voice. Very curious. . .
• • •
Being deadish was a pain in the ass. No question about it.
When she was once more pronounced legally alive, she awoke to the unfamiliar but professionally friendly face of a revival nurse checking her vitals. She tried to look around her, but her neck was still in a brace.
“Welcome back, honey,” the nurse said.
The room seemed to spin every time she moved her eyes. It was more than just pain nanites, she must have had all sorts of numbing, rejuvenating chemicals and microbots inside her.
“How long?” she rasped.
“Just two days,” the nurse said cheerily. “Simple spinal severing. Nothing too hard for us to handle.”
Two days were robbed from her life; two days she didn’t have to spare.
“My family?”
“Sorry, honey, but this was a scythe matter. They weren’t notified.” The nurse patted her hand. “You can tell them all about it when you next see them. Now the best thing for you to do is relax. You’ll be here one more day, and then you’ll be good as new.” Then she offered Citra ice cream that was the best she’d ever tasted.
• • •
That evening, Scythe Curie came and filled her in on all she had missed. Rowan had been disqualified and severely reprimanded for his poor sportsmanship.
“Are you telling me that because he was disqualified, I won?”
“Unfortunately, no,” Scythe Curie said. “He was clearly going to beat you. It was decided that both of you lose. We really need to work on your martial art skills, Citra.”
“Well, that’s just great,” Citra said, exasperated for a very different reason than Scythe Curie thought. “So now Rowan and I are both zero for two at conclave.”
Scythe Curie sighed. “The third time’s the charm,” she said. “Now it will all come down to how well you do at Winter Conclave. And I have faith that you will shine in your final test.”
Citra closed her eyes, remembering the look on Rowan’s face when he held her in that headlock. There was something cold there. Calculating. In that moment, she saw a side of him she had never seen before. It was as if he was looking forward to what he was about to do to her. As if he was going to enjoy it. She was so confused! Did he really plan that move from the beginning? Did he not know he’d be disqualified, or was disqualification his plan?
“What was Rowan like after it happened?” Citra asked Scythe Curie. “Did he seem shocked at all about what he had done? Did he kneel down to me? Did he help carry me out to the ambudrone?”
Scythe Curie took a moment before she answered. Then finally she said, “He just stood there, Citra. His face was like stone. Defiant, and as unrepentant as his scythe.”
Citra tried to turn away, but even though the brace was now gone, her neck was still too stiff to move.
“He’s not who you think he is anymore,” Scythe Curie said slowly, so that it would sink in.
“No,” Citra agreed, “he’s not.” But for the life of her she had no idea who he was now.
• • •
Rowan thought he would receive another brutal beating when he returned to the mansion. That couldn’t be further from the truth.
Scythe Goddard was all flamboyance and bright chatter. He called for the butler to bring champagne and glasses for everyone, right there in the foyer, so they could toast Rowan’s audacity.
“That took more nerve than I thought you had, boy,” Goddard said.
“Here, here,” seconded Scythe Rand. “You can come to my room and break my neck any time.”
“He didn’t just break her neck,” Scythe Goddard pointed out. “He unflinchingly snapped her spine! Everyone heard it. I’m sure it woke up the scythes sleeping in the back row!”
“Classic!” said Scythe Chomsky, guzzling his champagne down, not waiting for the toast.
“It was a powerful statement you made,” said Goddard. “It reminded everyone that you are my apprentice, and you are not to be trifled with!” Then he became a little quieter. Almost gentle. “I know you had feelings for that girl, yet you did what needed to be done, and more.”
“I was disqualified,” Rowan reminded them.
“Officially, yes,” Goddard agreed, “but you gained the admiration of quite a few important scythes.”
“And made enemies of others,” Volta pointed out.
“Nothing wrong with drawing a line in the sand,” Goddard responded. “It takes a strong man to do that. The kind of man I’m happy to raise a glass to.”
Rowan looked up to see Esme sitting at the top of the grand staircase watching them. He wondered if she knew what he had done, and the thought that she might made him feel ashamed.
“To Rowan!” said Scythe Goddard, holding his glass high. “The scourge of the stiff-necked, and the shatterer of spines.”
It was the most bitter glass Rowan had ever had to swallow.
“And now,” said Goddard, “I do believe a party is in order.”
• • •
The party that followed the Harvest Conclave was one for the record books, and no one was immune to Goddard’s contagious energy. Even before guests started to arrive and the first of five DJs cranked up the music, Goddard threw his arms wide in the mansion’s ornate living room as if he could reach from wall to wall, and said to no one in particular, “I am in my element, and my element is hydrogen burning in the heart of the sun!”
It was so outrageous a thing to say, it even made Rowan laugh.
“He’s so full of crap,” Scythe Rand whispered to Rowan, “but you gotta love it.”
As the rooms, and th
e terraces, and the pool deck began to fill with partiers, Rowan began to rise from the funk he had been left in after his awful bout with Citra.
“I checked for you,” Scythe Volta told him. “Citra’s conscious and has one more day in the revival center. She’ll go back home fully recovered with Scythe Curie; no harm, no foul. Well, plenty of foul, but that’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?”
Rowan didn’t answer him. He wondered if anyone else was insightful enough to know why he did what he did. He hoped not.
Then Volta got serious in the midst of the revelry around them. “Don’t lose the scythehood to her, Rowan,” he said. “At least not on purpose. If she beats you fair and square that’s one thing, but submitting yourself to her blade because of raging hormones is just plain stupid.”
Maybe Volta was right. Perhaps he should do his best in their final trial, and if his best outshined Citra’s, he would accept the scythe ring. And then maybe he would glean himself as his first and only act. Then he’d never be faced with having to glean Citra. It comforted Rowan that he had a way out, even though it was a worst-case scenario.
• • •
The rich and famous arrived by helicopter, by limousine, and in one bizarre but memorable entrance, by jet pack. Goddard made a point to introduce Rowan to them all, as if Rowan were a prize worth showing off. “Watch this boy,” Goddard told his high-profile guests. “He’s going places.”
Rowan had never felt so valued and validated. It was hard to hate a man who treated him like the meat rather than the lettuce.
“This is how life was meant to be lived,” Goddard told Rowan as they luxuriated in his open-face cabana, looking out over the festivities. “Experiencing all there is to experience, and enjoying the company of others.”
“Even when some of those others are paid to be here?”
Goddard looked out at the crowded pool deck that would have been far less dense, and far less beautiful, had it not been for the presence of professional party guests.
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