Scythe (Arc of a Scythe #1)(38)

To date, the oldest living human being is somewhere around three hundred, but only because we are still so close to the Age of Mortality. I wonder what life will be like a millennium from now, when the average age will be nearer to one thousand. Will we all be renaissance children, skilled at every art and science, because we’ve had the time to master them? Or will boredom and slavish routine plague us even more than it does today, giving us less of a reason to live limitless lives? I dream of the former, but suspect the latter.

—From the gleaning journal of H.S. Curie



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14


A Slight Stipulation




Rowan stepped on Citra’s toes on his way to the aisle. She grunted slightly, but didn’t wisecrack about it.

That was because Citra was too busy going over her weapons and poisons in her head. Rowan’s clumsiness was the least of her concerns.

She thought they would be led to a room elsewhere in the building—a quiet place for their exam—but other apprentices who had been to conclave before were heading down the aisle toward the open space in front of the rostrum. They lined up in what seemed like no particular order, facing the conclave like a chorus line, so Citra joined the line next to Rowan.

“What is this?” she whispered.

“Not sure,” he whispered back.

There were eight in total. Some stood with hard expressions, in control of their emotions, others were trying not to look terrified. Citra wasn’t sure what image she projected, and found herself annoyed that Rowan looked as casual as if he were waiting for a bus.

“Honorable Scythe Curie will be the examiner today,” Xenocrates said.

A hush fell over the chamber as Scythe Curie, the Grande Dame of Death, came forward. She walked down the line of apprentices twice, sizing them up. Then she said, “Each of you will be asked one question. You will have one opportunity to give an acceptable answer.”

One question? What kind of exam could possibly consist of one question? How could they test anyone’s knowledge that way? Citra’s heart beat so violently, she imagined it bursting out of her chest. Then she would find herself waking up in a revival center tomorrow, a laughingstock.

Scythe Curie began at the left end of the line. It meant Citra would be fourth to be questioned.

“Jacory Zimmerman,” Scythe Curie said to the gangly boy on the end. “A woman hurls herself on your blade, offering herself as a sacrifice to prevent you from gleaning her child, and dies. What do you do?”

The boy hesitated for just an instant, then said, “By resisting the gleaning, she has violated the third commandment. I therefore am obliged to glean the rest of her family.”

Scythe Curie was silent for a moment, then said, “Not an acceptable answer!”

“But . . . but . . . ,” said Jacory, “she resisted! The rule says—”

“The rule says if one resists one’s own gleaning. Were she the chosen one, the third commandment would most certainly apply. But if we are ever unsure, we are obliged to err on the side of compassion. In this case you would glean the child and arrange for the woman to be brought to a revival center, granting her a year of immunity along with the rest of the family.” Then she gestured toward the assembly. “Step down. Your sponsoring scythe will choose your punishment.”

Citra swallowed. Shouldn’t the punishment for failure be the awful knowledge of that failure? What sorts of punishments would scythes devise for their disgraced disciples?

Scythe Curie moved on to a strong-looking girl with high cheekbones on a face that looked like it could weather a hurricane.

“Claudette Catalino,” Scythe Curie said, “you have made a mistake in your poison—”

“That would never happen,” Claudette said.

“Do not interrupt me.”

“But your premise is flawed, Honorable Scythe Curie. I know my poisons so well, I could never make a mistake. Ever.”

“Well,” said Curie, with deadpan irony, “how proud your sponsoring scythe must be to have the first perfect pupil in human history.”

It brought forth a smattering of chuckles from the room.

“All right then,” continued Scythe Curie. “Let us say that someone irritated by your arrogance has sabotaged your poison. Your subject, a man who offered you no resistance, begins to convulse and it appears that his end will be slow and likely filled with much more pain than his nanites can suppress. What do you do?”

And without hesitation Claudette said, “I draw the pistol that I always keep for emergencies, and end the subject’s suffering with a single well-placed bullet. But first I would order any family members to leave the room, sparing them the trauma of witnessing a ballistic gleaning.”

Scythe Curie raised her eyebrows, considering the response, and said, “Acceptable. And thinking of the family is a nice touch—even in a hypothetical.” Then she grinned. “I’m disappointed I couldn’t prove you imperfect.”

Next was a boy whose gaze was fixed on a spot on the back wall, clearly trying to find his happy place.

“Noah Zbarsky,” said Curie.

“Yes, Your Honor.” His voice quivered. Citra wondered what sort of response that might evoke from Curie. What sort of question might she ask a boy so frightened?

“Name for me five species that generate neurotoxins powerful enough to be effective on a poison-tipped dart.”