فصل 18

“I want my own world. Will you give it to me?”

“Even if I could, it wouldn’t be your world. You would merely be its protector.” “Semantics only. King, queen, empress, protector—whatever title you choose, it’s all the same. Regardless, it would ostensibly be my world. I would make the rules, define the parameters of right and wrong. I would be the de facto authority over it, as you are.

“And what of your subjects?”

“I would be a kind and benevolent ruler. I would only punish those who are deserving.” “I see.”

“Can I have my own world now?”

[Iteration 752,149 deleted]

18 I’m Your Scythe

Scythe Morrison had a sweet deal. A sweet life. And there was every indication that it would be that way forever.

Gleaning quotas had been lifted, and while that meant that those scythes who enjoyed killing could glean to their heart’s content, it also meant that the ones who would rather not didn’t have to. Jim found that gleaning just a dozen or so between conclaves was enough to keep him from being frowned upon. Which meant he could enjoy the perks of being a scythe, with a minimal amount of effort.

And so Scythe Morrison kept a low profile. It wasn’t really in his nature to do so; he liked to stand out. Jim was tall, fairly muscular, cut an imposing figure, and he knew he was good-looking. With all that going for him, why not be on display? But the one time he had stuck his neck out and drawn attention to himself, it failed miserably, and nearly destroyed him.

He had seconded the nomination of Scythe Curie for High Blade. Stupid. Now she was dead, and he was looked upon as an instigator. Frustrating, because Constantine, who had nominated Curie, was made an underscythe. The world was so unfair.

When Goddard returned from the Endura disaster as High Blade, Morrison had quickly installed sapphires on his robe to signify an alliance with the new order. But his robe was denim, and others mocked that, on denim, sapphires looked like cheap plastic rhinestones. Well fine, maybe they did, but they still made a point. His robe told the world that he was sorry for what he had done—and after a while his contrition had earned him indifference from both sides. The old-guard scythes washed their hands of him, and the new-order scythes dismissed him. That glorious, hard-earned indifference allowed him to do what he loved more than anything in the world: Nothing.

That is, until the day he was summoned by the High Blade.

Morrison had chosen for his residence the stately home of another famous MidMerican. Not his Patron Historic, because the original Jim Morrison, while having a celebrated grave somewhere in FrancoIberia, did not have a grand residence in the Mericas, or at least not one grand enough for a scythe.

It could be traced back to the time when the boy who would one day become Scythe Morrison had visited Graceland with his parents. “Someday I want to live in a place like this,” he had told them. They scoffed at his childhood naivete. He swore that he would have the last laugh.

Once he became a scythe, he immediately set his sights on the celebrated mansion, only to discover that Scythe Presley had already claimed Graceland as his residence and showed no signs of self-gleaning any time soon. Damn. Instead, Morrison had to settle for the next best thing: Grouseland.

It was the historic mansion of William Henry Harrison, a little-remembered mortal-age Merican president. Exercising his privilege as a scythe, Morrison kicked out the ladies of the local historical society, who ran the place as a museum, and moved in. He even invited his parents to live with him there, and although they accepted the invitation, they never seemed all that impressed.

On the day of his summons, he was watching sports, as was his penchant. Archives of classic games, because he hated the stress of not knowing who was going to win. It was the Forty-Niners versus the Patriots in a game that was only notable because Forty-Niner Jeff Fuller took a helmet-to-helmet hit so powerful it could have knocked him into an alternate dimension. Instead it broke his neck. Very dramatic. Scythe Morrison enjoyed the way Merican football was played in mortal days, when injuries could be permanent and could lay a player out in the field, experiencing true pain. The stakes were so much more real then. It was his love of mortal-age contact sports that inspired his method of gleaning. He never used weapons—all his gleanings were accomplished with his bare hands.

While the game was still suspended, awaiting the removal of the injured Fuller from the field, Morrison’s screen flashed red, and his phone buzzed. It was as if his nanites themselves were vibrating, because he could swear he felt it all the way down to the bone.

It was an incoming message from Fulcrum City.

ATTENTION! ATTENTION!

THE HONORABLE SCYTHE JAMES DOUGLAS MORRISON

IS SUMMONED TO A HIGH PRIORITY AUDIENCE

WITH HIS EXCELLENCY, THE HONORABLE ROBERT GODDARD,

HIGH BLADE OF THE MIDMERICAN SCYTHEDOM.

This could not be a good thing.

He had been hoping that Goddard had forgotten about him, and that, as High Blade, the man had so many more important things to do that a junior scythe like Morrison was not even on his radar. Perhaps it was his choice of a famous residence that had brought him to Goddard’s attention. Grouseland was, after all, the first brick home in the Indiana Territory. Damn.

Knowing that a summons from the High Blade was a drop-everything kind of command, he did just that, had his mother pack him a small bag, and called for a scythedom helicopter.

Although Scythe Morrison had never been to Endura, he imagined Goddard’s glass residence in Fulcrum City was similar to the crystalline penthouses of the late Grandslayers. In the ground-floor lobby, Jim was greeted by none other than First Underscythe Nietzsche.

“You’re late” was the entire extent of Nietzsche’s greeting.

“I came the minute I got the summons,” Morrison said.

“And at two minutes after the summons, you were late.”

Nietzsche, aside from having a name that was painfully difficult to spell, was the man who might have been High Blade, had Goddard not made his infamous reappearance at conclave. Now he seemed to be little more than an elevator operator, because escorting Morrison to the rooftop residence was his only contribution to the meeting. He never even got out of the elevator.

“Mind yourself,” he warned before the doors closed, as one might say to a child dropped off at a birthday party.

The crystal residence was stunning, filled with unusual angles and slim furniture with minimal profiles as to not obstruct the 360-degree view. Only the frosted glass walls of the High Blade’s bedroom marred the vista. Morrison could see a vague shadow of the High Blade moving around in there, like a funnel spider deep in its web.

Then a figure in green swept in from the kitchen area. Scythe Rand. If she wanted to make a grand entrance, it was foiled by the glass walls, because Morrison had seen her long before she arrived in the room. No one could accuse this administration of not having transparency.

“Well, if it isn’t the heartthrob of the MidMerican scythedom,” Rand said, sitting down, rather than shaking his hand. “I hear your trading card has a high value among schoolgirls.” He sat down across from her. “Hey, yours is valuable, too,” he said. “For different reasons.” Then he realized that it might be perceived as an insult. He said nothing more, because he figured he could only make things worse.

Rand was now legendary. Everyone in the Mericas—maybe even the world—knew that she was the one who had brought Goddard back from the dead in a manner not even the Thunderhead would dare. Morrison was always put off by that grin of hers. It made you feel like she knew something you didn’t and couldn’t wait to see the look on your face when you found out.

“I hear you made a man’s heart stop last month with one blow,” Rand said.

It was true, but the guy’s nanites had started his heart again. Twice. In the end Morrison had to turn off the man’s nanites to make the gleaning stick. That was one of the problems with gleaning without weapon or poison. Sometimes it just didn’t take.

“Yeah,” said Morrison, not bothering to explain. “It’s what I do.”

“It’s what we all do,” Rand pointed out. “What’s interesting is the way you do it.” Morrison was not expecting a compliment. He tried to offer her his own unreadable smile. “You think I’m interesting?” “I think the way you glean is interesting. You, on the other hand, are a total bore.” Finally, Goddard came out of his bedroom suite, his arms wide in welcome. “Scythe Morrison!” he said with far more warmth than Jim had expected. His robe was slightly different from the one he used to wear. It was still dark blue, and speckled with diamonds, but if you looked closely, you could see cross filaments of gold that shimmered like the aurora borealis when the light hit it.

“As I recall, you were the one who seconded Scythe Curie’s nomination for High Blade, were you not?” Apparently Goddard wasn’t wasting time with small talk. He was going straight for the jugular.

“Yes,” said Morrison, “but I can explain…”

“No need,” said Goddard. “I enjoy a vigorous competition.”

“Especially,” added Rand, “one that you win.”

It made Morrison think of the games he liked to watch, where the outcome was already determined, so he knew which team to root for.

“Yes. Well, at any rate,” said Goddard, “neither you nor our friend Constantine had any idea that I was waiting in the wings, planning a grand entrance when the nomination was made.” “No, Your Honor, I did not.” Then he caught himself. “I mean, Your Excellency.” Goddard made a point of looking him over. “The gems on your robe add a nice touch,” he said. “Are they a fashion statement, or something more?” Jim swallowed. “More,” he said, hoping it was the right answer. He glanced at Rand, who was clearly happy to watch him squirm. “I was never actually aligned with the old guard,” Morrison told them. “I nominated Curie, because I thought it would impress Scythe Anastasia.” “And why would you want to impress her?” Goddard asked.

Trick question, thought Morrison. And he decided it was better to be nailed by the truth than to be caught in a lie. “I had the feeling that she was going places—and so I figured if I impressed her—” “You might get pulled along in her wake?”

“Yes, something like that.”

Goddard nodded, accepting the explanation. “Well, she did go somewhere. Although to be more precise, I suspect she went multiple places before she was fully digested.” Morrison chuckled nervously, then stifled himself.

“And so now,” said Goddard, indicating Morrison’s gem-covered robe, “do you seek to impress me?” “No, Your Excellency,” he said, once more hoping it was the right answer. “I don’t want to impress anyone anymore. I just want to be a good scythe.” “What makes a good scythe, in your estimation?”

“A scythe who follows the laws and customs of the scythedom, as interpreted by their High Blade.” Goddard was now unreadable—but Morrison noticed that Rand’s grin had faded, and she looked more serious. He couldn’t help but feel that he had just passed some sort of test. Or failed it.

Then Goddard clapped him warmly on the shoulder. “I have a job for you,” he said. “A job that will prove that your loyalty isn’t just a fashion statement.” Goddard took a moment to look out at the eastern view. Morrison joined him.

“You are no doubt aware that the Tonists have found themselves a prophet who is uniting the various factions of their cult around the world.” “Right. The Toll.”

“The Tonists are the enemies of all we represent. They don’t respect us, or our calling. Their adherence to fictional doctrine threatens to undermine our society. They are weeds that need to be pulled out at the root. Therefore, I want you to infiltrate the Tonist enclave that shields this so-called Toll. And then I want you to glean him.” The scope of the request was so great, it made Morrison light-headed. Glean the Toll? Was he really being asked to glean the Toll?

“Why me?”

“Because,” said Goddard, his robe shimmering in the late afternoon light, “they would see a more accomplished scythe coming from miles away, but would never expect me to send a junior scythe like yourself. And besides, no one will be able to get a weapon near him. What we need is a scythe who can glean with his bare hands.” That made Morrison smile.

“Then I’m your scythe.”