Scythe (Arc of a Scythe #1)(18)

—From the gleaning journal of H.S. Curie



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6


An Elegy of Scythes




The flight was on time. As usual. While weather couldn’t entirely be controlled, it was easily diverted away from airports and out of flight paths. Most airlines boasted 99.9 percent on-time service.

It was a full flight, but with the lavishly appointed seats of modern air travel, it didn’t feel crowded at all. These days flying was as comfortable as sitting in one’s own living room, with the added perk of live entertainment. String quartets and vocal stylists soared across the skies with a cabin full of contented passengers. Air travel these days was far more civilized than in the Age of Mortality. It was now an exceptionally pleasant way to reach one’s destination. Today, however, the passengers of BigSky Air flight 922 were on their way to a different destination than the one on which they had planned.

The businessman was seated comfortably in seat 15C—an aisle seat. He always requested that seat, not out of superstition but out of habit. When he didn’t get 15C, he was cranky, and resentful of whoever did. The company he ran, which was developing hibernation technology, would someday make the longest journeys seem to pass in a matter of minutes, but for now he would be happy with BigSky Air, as long as he got seat 15C.

People were still filing on, taking their seats. He eyed the passengers moving down the aisle with mild disinterest, but only to make sure they didn’t hit his shoulder with their purses and carry-ons as they passed.

“Are you heading out or heading home?” asked the woman sitting beside him in 15A. There was no 15B—the concept of the B seat, where one had to sit between two other passengers, had been eliminated along with other unpleasant things, like disease and government.

“Out,” he told her. “And you?”

“Home,” she told him with a heavy but relieved sigh.

At five minutes to departure, a commotion up front caught his attention. A scythe had entered the plane and was talking to a flight attendant. When a scythe wants to travel, any seat is fair game. The scythe could displace a passenger, forcing them to take a different seat, or even a different flight if there were no other available seats. More unnerving, however, were tales of scythes who gleaned the passenger from the seat they took.

The businessman could only hope that this particular scythe didn’t have his sights set on seat 15C.

The scythe’s robe was unusual. Royal blue, speckled with glittering jewels that appeared to be diamonds. Rather ostentatious for a scythe. The businessman didn’t know what to make of it. The age the scythe presented was late thirties, although that meant nothing. No one looked their true age anymore; he could have been anywhere from thirty-something to two-hundred-thirty-something. His hair was dark and well-groomed. His eyes were invasive. The businessman tried not to catch his gaze as the scythe looked down the aisle into the cabin.

Then three more scythes appeared behind the first. They were younger—perhaps in their early twenties. Their robes, each in a different bright color, were also decorated with gems. There was a dark-haired woman in apple green speckled with emeralds, a man in orange speckled with rubies, and another man in yellow speckled with golden citrines.

What was the collective word for a group of scythes? An “elegy,” wasn’t it? Odd that there’d be a word for something so rare. In his experience, scythes were always solitary, never traveling together. A flight attendant greeted the elegy of scythes, and then the second they were past her, she turned, left the plane, and ran down the jetway.

She’s escaping, thought the businessman. But then he banished the thought. She couldn’t be. She was probably just hurrying to let the gate agent know of the added passengers. That’s all. She couldn’t be panicking—flight attendants were trained not to panic. But then the remaining flight attendant closed the door, and the look on her face was anything but reassuring.

The passengers began talking to one another. Mumbling. A little bit of nervous laughter.

Then the lead scythe addressed the passengers. “Your attention, please,” he said with an unnerving smile. “I regret to inform you that this entire flight has been selected for gleaning.”

The businessman heard it, but his brain told him that he could not have possibly heard correctly. Or maybe this was scythe humor, if such a thing even existed. This entire flight has been selected for gleaning. That couldn’t be possible. It couldn’t be allowed. Could it?

In a few moments passengers began to wrap their minds around what the scythe had said. Then came the gasps, the wails, the whimpers, and finally uncontrolled sobs. The misery could not have been worse had they lost an engine in flight, as planes did back in the mortal days, when technology occasionally failed.

The businessman was a quick study, and excelled at split-second decisions in crisis. He knew what he had to do. Perhaps others were thinking the same thing, but he was the one who took action first. He left his seat and hurled himself down the aisle toward the back of the plane. Others followed him, but he was first to the back door. He quickly scanned its operation, then pulled the red lever and swung the door open into a bright sunny morning.

A jump from this height to the tarmac might have broken a bone or twisted an ankle, but the healing nanites in his blood would quickly release opiates and deaden the pain. He’d be able to escape in spite of any injury. But before he could leap, he heard the lead scythe say: