Scythe (Arc of a Scythe #1)(104)

Before her was a table covered with a clean white tablecloth. And on that tablecloth, evenly spaced, were weapons: a pistol, a shotgun, a scimitar, a bowie knife, and a vial with a poison pill.

“What are these for?” Citra asked. Then she realized it was a stupid question. She knew what they were for. So she rephrased it. “What is it, exactly, that you want me to do?”

“Look to the other end of the room,” Scythe Mandela told her, pointing. A spotlight came up on another chair at the far end of the long room that had been hidden in shadows; one not as comfortable as theirs. Someone sat in it, hands and legs bound, with a canvas hood covering his or her head.

“We want to see how you might glean,” Scythe Meir said. “For this purpose we’ve prepared a unique subject for you to demonstrate.”

“What do you mean, ‘unique?’”

“See for yourself,” said Scythe Mandela.

Citra approached the figure. She could hear faint snuffling from beneath the hood. She pulled it off.

Nothing could have prepared her for what she saw. Now she understood why Scythe Curie did not tell her.

Because bound to that chair, gagged, terrified, and tearful, was her brother, Ben.

He tried to speak, but nothing but muffled grunts came from behind the gag.

She backed away, then ran back to the five scythes.

“No! You can’t do this! You can’t make me do it.”

“We can’t make you do anything,” said one of the scythes she didn’t know, a woman in violet with PanAsian leanings. “If you do this, you do it by choice.” Then the woman stepped forward and held a small box out to Citra. “Your weapon will be random. Choose a slip of paper from the box.”

Citra reached in and pulled out a folded piece of paper. She dared not open it. She turned to look at her brother, sitting so helpless in the chair.

“How can you do this to people?” she screamed.

“My dear,” said Scythe Meir with practiced patience, “it’s not a gleaning, because you are not yet a scythe. You merely have to render him deadish. An ambudrone will take him to be revived as soon as you complete the task we’ve put before you.”

“But he’ll remember!”

“Yes,” said Scythe Mandela. “And so will you.”

One of the other scythes she did not know crossed his arms and huffed, much the way she had done on the drive here. “She’s too resistant,” he said. “Let her go. This night’s already gone on too long.”

“Give her time,” said Scythe Mandela sternly.

The fifth scythe, a short man with an odd frown about him, stood and read from a sheet of parchment that could have been hundreds of years old. “You may not be coerced into doing this. You may take all the time you need. You must use the weapon assigned. When you are done, you will leave the subject and approach the committee to be assessed on your performance. Is all of this clear to you?”

Citra nodded.

“A verbal response, please.”

“Yes, it’s clear.”

He sat back down, and she unfolded the slip of paper. On it was a single word.

Knife.

She dropped the paper to the floor. I can’t do this, she told herself, I can’t. But Scythe Curie’s voice came gently to her. Yes, Citra, you can.

It was then it occurred to her that every scythe, since the Scythedom began, had to take this test. Every single one of them was forced to take the life of someone they loved. Yes, that person would be revived, but it didn’t change the cold-blooded act. A person’s subconscious mind can’t differentiate between permanent and temporary killings. Even after he’s revived, how could she bear to face her brother again? Because if she kills Ben, she will always have killed him.

“Why?” she asked. “Why must I do this?”

The irritable scythe gestured to the door. “There’s the exit. If it’s too much for you, then leave.”

“I think she means it as a legitimate question,” said Scythe Meir.

The irritable scythe scoffed, the short one shrugged. The PanAsian one tapped her foot, and Scythe Mandela leaned forward.

“You must do this so that you can move forward as a scythe,” Scythe Mandela said, “knowing in your heart that the most difficult thing you’ll ever have to do . . . has already been done.”

“If you can do this,” added Scythe Meir, “then you have the inner strength needed to be a scythe.”

Even though a big part of Citra wanted to bolt through the door and run from this, she squared her shoulders, stood tall, reached down, and took the bowie knife. Concealing it in her waist, she approached her brother. Only when she was close to him did she pull it out.

“Don’t be afraid,” she said. She knelt down and used the knife to cut the bonds on his legs, then the ones that held his wrists to the chair. She tried to untie his gag, but couldn’t, so she cut that as well.

“Can I go home now?” asked Ben with a helpless voice that was more than enough to break her heart.

“Not yet,” she told him, still kneeling beside him. “Soon, though.”

“Are you going to hurt me, Citra?”

Citra couldn’t control her tears, and didn’t even try. What was the point? “Yes, Ben. I’m sorry.”