Scythe (Arc of a Scythe #1)(19)
“I suggest you all return to your seats if you value the lives of your loved ones.”
It was standard procedure for scythes to glean the families of those who resist or run from being gleaned. Familial gleaning was a remarkable deterrent. But this was a full plane—if he jumped and ran, how would they know who he was?
As if reading his mind, the lead scythe said:
“We have the manifest from this plane. We know the names of everyone on board. Including the name of the flight attendant who displayed cowardice unbecoming to her position and left. Her entire family will pay the price, along with her.”
The businessman slid down to his knees and put his head in his hands. A man behind him pushed past and jumped anyway. He hit the ground and ran, more worried by what was happening in the moment than what might happen tomorrow. Perhaps he had no family he cared about, or perhaps he’d rather they journey with him into oblivion. But as for the businessman, he could not bear the thought of his wife and children gleaned because of him.
Gleaning is necessary, he told himself. Everyone knows, everyone has agreed this is a crucial necessity. Who was he to go against it? It only seemed terrible now that he was the one lined up in the cold crosshairs of death.
Then the lead scythe raised an arm and pointed at him. His fingernails seemed just the slightest bit too long.
“You,” he said, “the bold one. Come here.”
Others in the aisle stepped aside and the businessman found himself moving forward. He couldn’t even feel his legs doing it. It was as if the scythe were pulling him with an invisible string. His presence was that commanding.
“We should glean him first,” said the blond, brutish scythe in a bright orange robe, wielding what appeared to be a flamethrower. “Glean him first to set an example.”
But the lead scythe shook his head. “First of all, put that thing away; we will not play with fire on a plane. Secondly, setting an example presupposes that someone will be left to learn from it. It’s pointless when there’s no one to set an example for.”
He lowered his weapon and looked down, chastised. The other two scythes remained silent.
“You were so quick to leave your seat,” the lead scythe said to the businessman. “Clearly you’re the alpha of this plane, and as alpha I will allow you to choose the order in which these good folks shall be gleaned. You can be last if you choose, but first you must select the order of the others.”
“I . . . I . . .”
“Come now, no indecisiveness. You were decisive enough when you ran to the back of the plane. Bring that formidable will to bear on this moment.”
Clearly the scythe was enjoying this. He shouldn’t enjoy it—that’s one of the basic precepts of Scythedom. A random part of his mind thought, I should lodge a complaint. Which he realized would be very difficult to do if he was dead.
He looked to the terrified people around him—now they were terrified of him. He was the enemy too, now.
“We’re waiting,” said the woman in green, impatient to begin.
“How?” The man asked, trying to control his breathing, stalling for time. “How will you glean us?”
The lead scythe pulled back a fold of his robe to display an entire collection of weapons neatly concealed beneath. Knives of various lengths. Guns. Other objects that the man didn’t even recognize. “Our method will be as our mood suits us. Sans incendiary devices, of course. Now please start choosing people so we may begin.”
The female scythe tightened her grip on the handle of a machete and brushed back her dark hair with her free hand. Did she just actually lick her lips? This would not be a gleaning, it would be a bloodbath, and the businessman realized he wanted no part of it. Yes, his fate was sealed—nothing could change that. Which meant he didn’t have to play the scythe’s twisted game. Suddenly he found himself sublimating his fear, rising to a place where he could look the scythe in his dark eyes, the same deep shade of blue as his robe.
“No,” the man said, “I will not choose and I will not give you the pleasure of watching me squirm.” Then he turned to the other passengers. “I advise everyone here to end your own lives before these scythes get their hands on you. They take too much pleasure in it. They don’t deserve their rank any more than they deserve the honor of gleaning you.”
The lead scythe glared at him, but only for a moment. Then he turned to his three compatriots. “Begin!” he ordered. The others drew weapons and began the awful gleaning.
“I am your completion,” the lead scythe said loudly to the dying. “I am the last word of your lives well-lived. Give thanks. And thus farewell.”
The lead scythe pulled out his own blade, but the businessman was ready. The moment the blade was drawn, he thrust himself forward onto it—a final willful act, making death his own choice, rather than the scythe’s. Denying the scythe, if not his method, then his madness.
* * *
In my early years, I wondered why it was so rare to catch a scythe out of his or her robes and in common street clothes. It’s a rule in some places, but not in MidMerica. Here it is just an accepted practice, although rarely violated. Then, as I settled in, it occurred to me why it must be. For our own peace of mind, we scythes must retain a certain level of separation from the rest of humanity. Even in the privacy of my own home I find myself wearing only the simple lavender frock that I wear beneath my robes.