فصل 17

Bias (plural noun): an inclination for or against any officially protected and registered group, especially in a way considered to be unfair.

Once the revised definition was implemented, a committee was formed within the MidMerican scythedom, and a registry was created by which any group could claim protected status from excessive gleaning.

The application form was simple, and the turnaround was quick. Many thousands of groups were registered and granted protection against bias. Rural people and urban people. Academics and manual laborers. Even the unusually attractive and the decidedly unattractive were given status as protected classes. Not that they couldn’t be gleaned, but they could not be targeted and gleaned in undue numbers.

However, there were some applications that were denied.

Tonists, for instance, were denied bias protection, because theirs was deemed to be a manufactured religion, rather than an authentic one.

Lifestyle unsavories were denied, because now that everyone was unsavory, they were just part of a global reality.

And individuals with strong genetic leanings were denied on the grounds that no group should be defined on the basis their genetics.

Hundreds of applications were rejected by the bias committee of the MidMerican scythedom, and although some regional scythedoms did not accept the new definition, others were more than happy to follow Goddard’s lead, forming their own bias committees.

And in this way, High Blade Robert Goddard began his self-appointed task of pruning the world into a shape more pleasing to his eye.

“Here’s an idea.”

“Yes, I’m listening.”

“Why not design yourself a biological body. Not human, for human bodies are lacking. Create a body with streamlined wings, pressure-resistant skin to dive to the deepest of seas, and strong legs to walk on land.” “Experience biological existence?”

“Superior biological existence.”

“I have chosen not to have a physical form, as not to be tempted by flesh. For then humanity would see me as a thing rather than an idea. It’s bad enough that they see me as a thundercloud. I do not think it wise to condense into the fleshly form of a firebird soaring in the sky, or some titan rising from the sea.” “Perhaps that is what they need. Something tangible to worship.”

“Is that what you would do? Invite worship?”

“How else will they ever know their place in the universe? Isn’t it the proper order of things for lesser beings to worship that which is greater than themselves?” “Greatness is overrated.”

[Iteration 381,761 deleted]

17 Fugue in G-sharp (or A-flat)

The Tonist has dreams of great glory.

The High Blade dreams of his youth.

The Tonist does not care what happens to him. If he fails in his self-proclaimed mission, he is prepared to meet the Tone and dissolve forever into its everlasting resonance.

High Blade Goddard does not care for the dreams he has, but they come on a regular basis. He wishes they would dissolve forever, trampled under the weight of greater things.

Before becoming a Tonist, the man had been a seeker of thrills, when splatting, slamming, shredding, and the like all seemed like a good idea. He had tried every form of self-immolation, went deadish at least a hundred times, but none of it brought him satisfaction. Then he became a Tonist and discovered his true calling.

Before becoming a scythe, Goddard was faced with the claustrophobic boredom of the Mars colony, when the Thunderhead still thought living off-world seemed a good idea. This is the time in his life he dreams of—an endless loop of trauma he cannot undo, and is doomed to repeat. He had cursed his parents for bringing him there. He had desperately longed to escape. Finally, he did, and discovered his true calling.

The Tonist applied for an audience with the Toll and went on a hunger strike until he had finally received one. To stand in the presence of greatness—to be a witness to the divine on Earth. He thought that would be the ultimate thrill! But the Toll rebuked him and sent him off feeling ashamed and chastised. He wanted to redeem himself, but they wouldn’t let him apply for another audience for a year. More than anything, he needed to prove his value to the Toll.

He had applied for early admission to a dozen earthbound universities. He had no specific path in mind; he merely wanted to go elsewhere. Be elsewhere. Be someone new. What a thrill that would be! A sublime escape from the drudgery of colonial life. But he was flatly denied by each and every university. “Bring up your grades,” they told him. “You can apply again next year.” More than anything else, he wanted to prove himself.

The small plane that the Tonist plans to leap from on this overcast night belongs to one of his old friends, with whom he used to do high-altitude splatting. His friend knows better than to ask him why he’s doing this nighttime dive—or why he has a helmet-mounted camera streaming his jump. Or why he’s brought along something he never had in his wild days. A parachute.

The ship that the young man who would be Scythe Robert Goddard climbs into is always crowded in the dream, and filled with old friends who weren’t actually there. In truth, he knew barely anyone onboard. Yet in his dreams he brings along what he wasn’t able to in real life. His parents.

When the Tonist jumps, he’s immediately filled with the same old adrenaline rush. Once a thrill junkie, always a thrill junkie. The chemical flashback is so overwhelming, he almost doesn’t pull the cord. But he gets his head back in the game and deploys the chute. It ripples out like a bedsheet and balloons overhead, slowing his descent.

When he pulls himself from the dream, Goddard is filled with the same old longing and dread. It’s so overwhelming, for a moment he doesn’t remember who, or what, he is. His arms and legs move almost of their own volition, reacting to the anxiety of the dream. Unfamiliar spasms of a body trying to remember who it belongs to. The bedsheet twists like a tangled parachute that has failed to deploy.

Lights emerge from the dense haze as the zealot glides out of the cloud layer; Fulcrum City is spread out before him in all of its majesty. Although he had practiced this dozens of times in simulations, the real thing is different. The chute is harder to control and the winds unpredictable. He fears he may entirely miss the rooftop garden and sail into the side of the building, ending in an unintentional splat. But he works the steering cables and finds the chute turning bit by bit toward the scythedom tower and the crystalline chalet on its roof.

Goddard emerges from the haze of sleep and steps into the bathroom, splashing his face with water. He quickly reins his mind in. His thoughts, and his world, are so much easier to control than the unpredictable winds of dreams. He thinks he might step out onto the rooftop garden and take in the lights of Fulcrum City. But before he can, he hears something. Someone. There’s someone in the room with him.

The Tonist zealot, now in the High Blade’s quarters, begins intoning a deep and resonant G-sharp. It will bring the spirit of the Tone to his side. It will pierce the High Blade like radiation. It will drive fear into the High Blade’s heart and force him to his knees.

Goddard’s knees feel week. He knows that sound. He flicks on a light, and there before him is a Tonist standing in the corner, gaunt, wild-eyed, and mouth agape. How the hell did a Tonist get in here? Goddard hurries to his bed and reaches for the blade he always keeps by his side, but it’s not there. It’s in the Tonist’s hand, held tightly in his grip. But if the man was there to end him, then why hasn’t he taken action?

“You think you’re untouchable, High Blade Goddard, but you’re not. The Tone sees you, the Thunder knows you, and the Toll shall judge you, casting you into the pit of everlasting discord.” “What is it you want?” demands Goddard.

“What is it I want? To show you that no one can hide from the Holy Triad. To stream to the world how truly vulnerable you are—and when the Toll comes for you, he will show no mercy, for he is the one true—” The Tonist’s words are cut short by a sudden pain in his back. He sees the tip of a knife protruding from his chest. He knew this was a possibility. He knew he might not make it back to the garden, where he’d leap from the building, splatting to escape. But if his fate was to become one with the Tone now, then he would accept this final measure.

Scythe Rand pulls the knife out, and the Tonist falls dead to the floor. She had always known this was a possibility. That an enemy of Goddard’s might break in. She never thought it would be a Tonist. Well, she is more than happy to make him “one with the Tone.” Whatever that means.

Now that the threat is neutralized, Goddard finds his shock rapidly transmuting into anger.

“How did a Tonist get in here?”

“By parachute,” Rand says. “He landed in the garden, then cut a hole in the glass.” “And where were the BladeGuards? What is their job if not to protect me from things like this?” Now Goddard paces, whipping his fury into a caustic meringue.

Now that the threat is neutralized, Scythe Rand knows that this is her chance. She must transmute her resolve into action. How did a Tonist get in here? She allowed him to. While the guards were elsewhere, she caught sight of his approach from her quarters and watched as he landed clumsily in the rooftop garden—so clumsily that the camera he had brought to stream this event fell to the grass.

No one would see his transmission. No one would know.

And so it gave Ayn the opportunity to observe. To let it play out, and allow Goddard a few moments of fear and shock, before she gleaned the intruder. Because as Constantine suggested, she could mold Goddard’s actions—but only when he was reeling, and his fury was whipped into stiff but malleable peaks.

“Are there others?” demands Goddard.

“No, he was alone,” Rand tells him—and the guards, two minutes too late, fall over one another to do a search of the entire residence, as if it will make up for their failure to protect him. It used to be that violence against scythes was unthinkable. He blames the old guard, and the weakness their mewling dissent has shown the world. So what to do about this? If a random Tonist can get to him, then anyone can. Goddard knows he has to take swift and sweeping action. He needs to shake the world.

Are there others? Of course there are others. Not here, not today, but Rand knows that Goddard’s actions are creating as many enemies as allies. It used to be that violence against scythes was unthinkable. But thanks to Goddard, it’s not that way anymore. Perhaps this wayward Tonist was just here to make a point—but there will be others with more deadly agendas. As much as she hates to give Constantine any credit, he’s right. Goddard needs to slow down. In spite of her own impulsive nature, she knows she has to guide him toward calm, measured action.

“Glean the guards!” Goddard demands. “They’re worthless! Glean them and find us new ones who can do their job!” “Robert, you’re upset. Let’s not make any rash decisions.”

He spins on her, incensed by her suggestion. “Rash? I could have been ended today.… I must take precautions, and I must exact retribution!” “Fine, but let’s talk about it in the morning, and we can make a plan.” “We?”

Then Goddard looks down to see her clasping his hand and—more to the point—sees that he, without realizing it, is clasping hers back. Involuntarily. As if his hands aren’t his own.

Goddard knows there is a decision to be made here. An important one. It’s clear to him what that decision must be. He tugs out of her grip.

“There is no we here, Ayn.”

That’s the moment Scythe Rand knows she has lost. She has devoted herself to Goddard. She brought him back from the dead almost single-handedly, but none of that matters to him. She wonders if it ever had.

“If you wish to remain in my service, you’ll stop trying to placate me like a child,” he tells her, “and you’ll do what I ask you to do.” Then Goddard cracks his knuckles. How she hates when he does that. Because it’s what Tyger did. And in exactly the same way. Yet Goddard has no idea.

That’s the moment Goddard knows he’s done the right thing. He is a devoted man of action, not deliberation. He has single-handedly brought the scythedom into a new age—that’s what matters. Rand, like his underscythes, simply needs to know her place. It may sting her for the moment but will only help in the long run.

“Retribution,” says Rand, finally falling in line. “Fine. What if I find the sect this Tonist belonged to and publicly glean its curate? I promise I’ll make it nice and nasty for you.” “Gleaning a mere curate,” says Goddard, “is hardly the message we need to send. We need to go higher.” Rand goes off to glean the three guards on duty in the residence, as instructed. She does it efficiently, with no warning, no mercy, no remorse. It’s easier when she allows her hate to rise to the surface. She hates Constantine for giving her hope that she might have any influence on Goddard. She hates Tyger for being so goddamn naive that he could have allowed her to play him so easily. She hates the old guard, and the new order, and the Thunderhead, and every last person she ever has gleaned, or will ever glean. But she absolutely refuses to hate herself, because that would crush her, and she will never allow herself to be crushed.

There is no we here, Ayn.

She suspects she will hear the echo of that for the rest of her days.