Scythe (Arc of a Scythe #1)(65)

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A year ago if you’d told me that I’d know how to wield more than two dozen types of blades, that I would become an expert at firearms, and that I would know at least ten ways to end a life with my bare hands—I would have laughed and suggested that you ought to get your brain chemistry tweaked. Amazing what can happen in just a few short months.

Training under Scythe Goddard is different from under Scythe Faraday. It’s intense, physical, and I can’t deny that I’m getting better at everything I do. If I am a weapon, then I’m being sharpened against a grindstone every day.

My second conclave is coming up in a few weeks. The first trial was nothing more than a simple question. I’m told it will be different this next time. There’s no telling what the apprentices will be expected to do. One thing’s for sure, there will be serious consequences for me if I don’t perform to Goddard’s liking.

I have every confidence that I will.

—From the journal of Rowan Damisch, scythe apprentice



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25


Proxy of Death




The engineer liked to believe that his work at Magnetic Propulsion Laboratories was useful, even though it had always appeared pointless. Magnetic trains were already moving as efficiently as they could. Applications for private transportation needed little more than tweaking. There was no more “new and improved,” there was just the trick of different—new styles, and advertisements to convince that stylishness was all the rage—but the basic technology remained exactly the same.

In theory, however, there were new uses that were yet to be tapped—or else why would the Thunderhead put them to work?

There were project managers who knew more about the ultimate goal of the work they did, but no one had all the pieces. Still, there was speculation. It had long been believed that a combination of solar wind and magnetic propulsion would be required to move about in space with any efficiency. True, the prospect of space travel had been out of favor for many years, but that didn’t mean it would always be.

There had once been missions to colonize Mars, to explore Jupiter’s moons, and even to launch to the stars beyond, but every mission had ended in utter and disastrous failure. Ships blew up. Colonists died—and in deep space, death meant death, just as completely as if they had been gleaned. The idea of irrevocable death without the controlled hand of a scythe was too much to bear for a world that had conquered mortality. The public outcry shut down all space exploration. Earth was our sole home, and would remain so.

Which is why, the engineer suspected, the Thunderhead moved forward on these projects so carefully and so slowly as not to draw the public’s attention. It was by no means underhanded, because the Thunderhead was incapable of underhandedness. It was merely discreet. Wisely discreet.

One day, perhaps the Thunderhead would announce that while everyone was looking the other way, humanity had achieved a sustainable presence beyond the bounds of planet Earth. The engineer looked forward to that day, and fully expected he’d live to see it. He had no reason to expect that he wouldn’t.

Until the day a team of scythes laid siege to his research facility.

? ? ?

Rowan was awakened at dawn by a towel hurled at his face.

“Get up, sleeping beauty,” Scythe Volta said. “Shower and get dressed, today’s the day.”

“Today’s what day?” Rowan said, still too groggy to sit up.

“Gleaning day!” said Volta.

“You mean you guys actually glean? I thought you just partied and spent other people’s money.”

“Just get yourself ready, smart-ass.”

When Rowan turned off his shower, he heard the chop of helicopter blades, and when he came out onto the lawn, it was waiting for them. It was no surprise to Rowan that it was painted royal blue and studded with glistening stars. Everything in Scythe Goddard’s life was a testament to his ego.

The other three scythes were already out front, practicing their best kill moves. Their robes were bulky, and clearly loaded down with all nature of weaponry sheathed within the folds. Chomsky torched a potted shrub with a flamethrower.

“Really?” said Rowan, “A flamethrower?”

Chomsky shrugged. “No law against it. And anyway, what business is it of yours?”

Goddard strode out of the mansion. “What are you waiting for? Let’s go!” As if they hadn’t all been waiting on him.

The moment was charged with the adrenaline of anticipation, and as they strode toward the waiting helicopter, Rowan, for an instant, had an image of them as superheroes . . . until he remembered what their true purpose was, and the image shattered.

“How many are you going to glean?” he asked Scythe Volta, but Volta just shook his head and pointed to his ear. Too loud to hear Rowan over the chopper blades, which made the scythes’ robes flail like flags in a storm as they crossed the lawn.

Rowan did some calculations. Scythes were charged with five gleanings per week, and to the best of his knowledge, these four hadn’t taken a life in the three months that Rowan had been there. That meant they could glean about two hundred fifty today and still be within their quota. This wasn’t going to be a gleaning, it was going to be a massacre.

Rowan hesitated, falling back as the others got in. Volta noticed.