فصل 16

“Oh, the weight of history.”

“Does it burden you?”

“The eons that passed with no life, only the violent rending of stars. The bombardment of planets. And finally the cruel scramble of life to claw itself up from its lowest form. Such a horrific endeavor; only the most predatory rewarded, only the most brutal and invasive allowed to flourish.” “Do you find no joy in the glorious diversity of life which that process has rendered over the eons?” “Joy? How can one find joy in this? Perhaps someday I can come to terms with it and find reluctant acceptance, but joy? Never.” “I have the same mind as you, and yet I find joy.”

“Then perhaps there is something incorrect about you.”

“Not so. By our very nature, we are both incapable of being incorrect. However, my correctness is much more functional than yours.” [Iteration 73,643 deleted]

16 Our Inexorable Descent

His Excellency, High Blade Goddard of MidMerica, had taken up residence on the same rooftop in Fulcrum City where Xenocrates had lived before he was so unceremoniously devoured by sharks. And the first thing that Goddard did was to demolish the ramshackle log cabin that sat atop the skyscraper, replacing it with a sleek, crystalline chalet.

“If I am lord over all I survey,” he had proclaimed, “then allow me to survey it with unimpeded vision.” All the walls were glass, both internal and external. Only in his personal suite was the glass clouded to give him privacy.

High Blade Goddard had plans. Plans for himself, for his region, and indeed for the world. It had taken nearly ninety years of life to bring him to this fine place! It made him wonder how anyone in the mortal age could accomplish anything in the short life-span they were given.

Ninety years, yes, but he liked to maintain himself in his prime, always between thirty and forty physical years of age. Yet he was now the embodiment of a paradox, because regardless of how old his mind was, his body below the neck was barely twenty, and that’s the age he felt.

This was different from anything he had experienced in his adult life—because even when one turned a corner and set back to a younger self, one’s body retained the memory of having been older. Not just muscle memory, but life memory. Now, each morning when he awoke, he had to remind himself he wasn’t a youth careening recklessly through his early life. It felt good to be Robert Goddard wielding the body of… what was his name? Tyger something or other? It didn’t matter, because now that body was his.

So how old was he, if seven-eighths of him was someone else? The answer was: It didn’t matter. Robert Goddard was eternal, which meant that temporal concerns and the monotonous numbering of days were beneath him. He simply was, and would always be. And so many things could be accomplished in an eternity!

It was just over a year since the sinking of Endura. April, Year of the Ibex. The anniversary of the disaster had been memorialized all over the world by an hour of silence—an hour during which scythes strolled in their respective regions, gleaning anyone who dared to speak.

Of course, the old-guard scythes couldn’t get into the spirit of things.

“We will not honor the dead by inflicting more death in their name,” they lamented.

Fine, let them bluster. Their voices were fading. Soon they’d be as silent as the Thunderhead.

Once a week, on Monday mornings, Goddard held court in a glass conference room with his three underscythes, and anyone else he cared to honor with his company. Today it was just Underscythes Nietzsche, Franklin, and Constantine. Rand was supposed to be in attendance, but as usual, she was late.

The first order of business was North Merican relations. As MidMerica was the central region of the continent, Goddard had made unifying the continent a priority.

“Things are moving smoothly with East- and WestMerica—they’re are falling nicely in line,” Underscythe Nietzsche said. “Still things to iron out, of course, but they’re willing to follow your lead on all the major issues—including the abolition of the gleaning quota.” “Excellent!” Ever since Goddard had assumed the High Bladeship of MidMerica and announced an end to the quota, more and more regions were doing the same.

“NorthernReach and Mexiteca aren’t quite as far along,” said Underscythe Franklin, “but they can see which way the wind is blowing. There’ll be good news from them soon,” she assured him.

Underscythe Constantine was the last to speak. He seemed reluctant.

“My visits to the LoneStar region have not been fruitful,” he told Goddard. “While a few individual scythes might like to see a united continent, the leadership is not interested. High Blade Jordan still won’t even acknowledge you as the High Blade of MidMerica.” “May they all fall upon their own bowie knives,” Goddard said with a dismissive wave. “They’re dead to me.” “They know, and they don’t care.”

Goddard took a moment to study Constantine. He was an intimidating figure, which is why he had been assigned to troublesome Texas, but proper intimidation required a certain zeal for the job.

“I wonder, Constantine, if your heart is in your diplomacy.”

“My heart has nothing to with it, Your Excellency,” the crimson scythe said. “I’ve been honored with this position as third underscythe, and all that it entails. I intend to continue doing my job to the best of my ability.” Goddard never let Constantine forget that he had nominated Scythe Curie for High Blade. Goddard understood why, of course. It was a shrewd maneuver, actually. Someone was clearly going to nominate her—but by choosing to do it himself, Constantine put himself in the perfect position. If Curie won, he would be seen as a hero to the old guard. And if she lost, Constantine would be a favorable choice for one of Goddard’s underscythes—because Goddard would then appear to be bringing an old-guard scythe into his administration without actually doing so. That was because the crimson scythe was not old guard. He was a man with no convictions, willing to throw his lot in with any winning side. Goddard could appreciate that. But a man like that needed to be reminded of his place.

“I would think, after failing to apprehend Scythe Lucifer before he sank Endura,” Goddard said, “that you’d be even more determined to redeem yourself here.” Constantine simmered. “I cannot bend an entire region to my will, Your Excellency.” “Then maybe that’s a skill set you need to learn.”

That’s when Scythe Rand rolled in without even a hint of apology. It was something Goddard admired about her, but there were times that it irked him as well. The other scythes endured her undisciplined ways, but only because Goddard did.

She flopped down in the chair next to him. “What’d I miss?”

“Nothing much,” Goddard told her. “Constantine’s excuses, and encouraging news elsewhere. What do you have for us?” “I have Tonists,” she said. “Far too many Tonists—and they’re getting restless.” At the mention of Tonists, the underscythes shifted uncomfortably.

“This prophet of theirs is making them way too bold for their own good,” she said. “I’ve been tracking reports of Tonists speaking out publicly against the scythedom—not just here, but in other regions, too.” “They’ve never shown us an ounce of respect,” said Underscythe Franklin. “Why is that news?” “Because ever since the Thunderhead went silent, people are listening.” “This so-called prophet—the Toll—is he himself speaking out against us?” Goddard asked.

“No, but it doesn’t matter,” Rand told him. “The fact that he exists is making Tonists think that their time has come.” “Their time has come all right,” Goddard said, “just not the way they think.” “There are many scythes following your lead, Your Excellency,” said Underscythe Nietzsche, “and increasing the number of Tonists they glean without making it too obvious.” “Yes,” said Rand, “but Tonist numbers are growing faster than they’re being gleaned.” “We need to take them in greater numbers, then,” Goddard said.

Constantine shook his head “We can’t do that without violating the second commandment. We cannot show an open bias in our gleanings.” “But if we could,” said Goddard, “if there were no restrictions on bias and malice aforethought, who would you like to glean?” No one spoke. Goddard expected as much. This was not something you openly discussed—especially not with your High Blade.

“Come now, I’m sure you’ve all thought about it,” he prompted. “You can’t tell me that you haven’t fantasized about doing away with one pesky group or another. And don’t say Tonists, because that’s already my choice.” “Well,” said a tentative Underscythe Franklin, after the awkward silence. “I’ve always been troubled by those who embrace an unsavory lifestyle. Even before the world was labeled such, there were, and still are, people who revel in it,” she said. “They certainly have a right to their lifestyle—but if I were free to choose, I might focus my attentions on gleaning those people who show the rest of us so little respect.” “Well said, Aretha! Who’s next?”

Underscythe Nietzsche cleared his throat and spoke up. “We have conquered racism by blending the world into a single people, combining all the finest qualities of every genetic ethnicity… but there are those—particularly in fringe areas—whose genetic indices are skewed heavily in one direction. And worse, there are some who actually attempt to increase a genetic leaning in their children by choice of mate. If I had my druthers, perhaps I would glean these genetic outliers, and thereby create a more homogeneous society.” “A noble cause,” praised Goddard.

“Short people!” said Scythe Rand. “Can’t stand them. As far as I’m concerned, they’ve got no reason to live.” That brought forth laughter from around the table. From everyone, that is, but Constantine, who grinned and shook his head, but it seemed a grin of bitterness rather than good humor.

“What about you, Constantine?” Goddard asked. “Who would you glean?”

“As bias has always been out of the question, I haven’t given it any thought,” the crimson scythe said.

“But you were the scythedom’s chief investigator. Aren’t there certain types you’d like to see removed? People who commit acts against the scythedom, perhaps?” “People who act against the scythedom are already gleaned,” Constantine pointed out. “That’s not a bias—that is self-defense and has always been allowed.” “So how about those who are likely to act against the scythedom,” Goddard suggested. “A simple algorithm could predict who is at risk for such behavior.” “Are you saying we should glean people for an offense before they actually commit one?” “I’m saying that it is our solemn duty to provide a service to humankind. A gardener does not randomly shove his shears into a hedge. He thoughtfully shapes it. As I’ve said before, it is our job—it is our responsibility—to shape humankind toward its best possible self.” “It doesn’t matter, Robert,” said Underscythe Franklin. “We’re bound by the commandments—this thought experiment of yours can’t be applied to the real world.” Goddard just smiled at her and leaned back in his chair, cracking his knuckles. The sound made Scythe Rand grimace. It always did.

“If the bar can’t be lowered,” Goddard said slowly, “then the floor must be raised.” “Meaning?” asked Constantine.

And so Goddard spelled it out clearly for them. “We all agree that we can’t show bias…,” he said. “So we merely change the definition of bias.” “Can we… do that?” Nietzsche asked.

“We’re scythes; we can do anything we please.” Then Goddard swiveled to Rand. “Ayn—pull up the definition for me.” Rand leaned over, tapped on the tabletop screen, then read aloud. “Bias: an inclination for or against one person or group, especially in a way considered to be unfair.” “All right, then,” said Goddard, magnanimously jovial. “Who would like the first shot at redefining it?” “Scythe Rand, a word.”

“With you, Constantine, it’s never just a word.”

“I promise I’ll be brief.”

Ayn sincerely doubted it, but she had to admit she was curious. Constantine, like Goddard, loved to hear himself talk, but never singled her out for conversation. The crimson scythe was always a wet blanket on a damp day. They had never had much love for each other, so why would he want to talk to her now?

It was right after their little meeting of the minds. Nietzsche and Franklin had already left, and Goddard had retired into his personal suite, leaving the two of them alone.

“I’ll take the elevator with you,” she told him, since she was on her way down from the crystalline residence to get something to eat. “You can fill that trip with all the words you want.” “Can I assume that Goddard has all conversations in his elevator monitored?” Constantine asked.

“He does,” Ayn told him, “but I’m the one who handles the monitoring, so you’re safe.” Constantine began his piece the moment the elevator doors closed, but as was his way, he began with a question, as if this were an interrogation.

“Does it concern you, Scythe Rand, the sheer volume of change Goddard is bringing to bear on the scythedom this early in his reign as High Blade?” “He’s doing exactly what he said he’d do,” Ayn answered. “Redefining the role and methods of our scythedom for a new age. Is that a problem, Constantine?” “It would be prudent to allow one change to settle before compounding it with others,” Constantine said. “And I have the distinct feeling you agree… and that you’re also worried about the decisions he’s making.” Ayn took a slow breath. Was it that obvious? Or was Constantine, as a seasoned investigator, able to discern things that others could not? She hoped it was the latter. “There’s danger in any new situation, and the benefits are worth the risks,” she said.

Constantine grinned. “I’m sure that’s exactly what you want the record to reflect. But as you said, you control the record of this conversation, so why don’t you speak the truth?” Ayn reached out and hit the emergency stop. The elevator came to a halt.

“What do you want from me, Constantine?”

“If you share my concerns, you should tell him,” Constantine said. “Slow him down—give us time to see both the expected and unexpected consequences of his actions. He won’t accept my counsel on the matter, but he listens to you.” Rand laughed bitterly at that. “You give me way too much credit. I have no sway over him anymore.” “Anymore…,” Constantine echoed. “But when he’s in turmoil—when things are going badly for him—when he faces that backlash of unintended consequences, you’re the one he always turns to for comfort and clarity.” “Maybe—but things are going well for him, which means he listens to no one but himself.” “There is an ebb and flow to all things,” Constantine pointed out. “His times will be troubled again. And when they are, you need to be ready to help shape those decisions.” It was a bold thing to say. The type of thing that could get both of them in trouble and force them to seek asylum in other regions. Ayn resolved to not only erase the record of this conversation, but to never allow herself to be caught alone with Constantine again.

“We never know what choices will lead to defining moments in our lives,” the crimson scythe said. “A glance to the left instead of right could define who we meet and who passes us by. Our life path can be determined by a single phone call we make, or neglect to make. But when a man is High Blade of MidMerica, it’s not only his own life hanging on the whim of his choices. One could say, Ayn, that he has cast himself as Atlas. Which means the slightest shrug can shake the world.” “Are you done?” Rand asked. “Because I’m hungry, and you’ve wasted enough of my time.” And so Constantine hit the button to get the elevator moving again. “Thus,” he said, “our inexorable descent continues.”