فصل 30

30 Burnt Offering

“Hello, Tyger.”

“Hi,” said Tyger Salazar’s memory construct. “Do I know you?”

“Yes and no,” said Scythe Rand. “I’ve come to tell you that Scythe Lucifer’s been caught.” “Scythe Lucifer… isn’t that the one who’s been killing other scythes?” “It is,” said Rand. “And you know him.”

“Doubt it,” said the construct. “I know some twisted people, but nobody that twisted.” “It’s your friend, Rowan Damisch.”

The construct paused and then laughed. “Nice try,” it said. “Did Rowan put you up to this? Rowan!” it called. “Where are you hiding? Come on out.” “He’s not here.”

“Don’t try to tell me that he’s killing people—he never even got to be a scythe—they booted his ass out and gave it to that girl instead.” “He’s going to be executed tomorrow,” Rand said.

The construct hesitated, furrowed its brow. They were so well programmed, these constructs. They compiled the memories of every facial expression of the subject that had ever been recorded. The representation was sometimes so true to life, it was unnerving.

“You’re not kidding, are you?” said Tyger’s construct. “Well, you can’t let it happen! You have to stop it!” “It’s out of my hands.”

“Then put it back in your hands! I know Rowan better than anyone—if he did what you say he did, then he had a good reason. You can’t just glean him!” Then the construct began looking around as if it was aware it was in a limited world. A virtual box that it wanted to get out of. “It’s wrong!” it said. “You can’t do this!” “What do you know about right and wrong?” snapped Rand. “You’re nothing but a foolish dim-witted party boy!” It glared at her in fury. The micro-pixels of its image increased the percentage of red in its face. “I hate you,” it said. “Whoever the hell you are, I hate you.” Ayn quickly hit a button and ended the conversation. Tyger’s memory construct vanished. As always, it would not remember this conversation. As always, Ayn would.

“If you’re going to glean him, why not just glean him?” Scythe Rand asked Goddard, doing her best not to sound as frustrated as she was. There were many reasons for her frustration. First of all, a stadium was a difficult venue to secure from their enemies—and they did have enemies. Not just the old-guard scythes, but everyone from Tonists, to scythedoms who had shunned Goddard, to the disgruntled loved ones from mass gleanings.

It was just the two of them in Goddard’s private plane. Now that the motorcade was nearing its destination after nearly a week of winding through its prolonged victory lap, he and Rand were flying to meet it—a flight as short as Rowan Damisch’s journey was long. Like Goddard’s rooftop chalet, the plane was retrofitted with mortal-age weaponry. A series of missiles that hung from each wing. He would regularly fly low over communities that he deemed defiant. He never used the missiles to glean, but just like those rooftop cannons, they were a reminder that he could if he chose to.

“If you want a public display,” Ayn suggested, “make the gleaning more controlled. Maybe a broadcast from a small, undisclosed location. Why do you have to make a spectacle of everything?” “Because I enjoy spectacles—and there’s no reason needed beyond that.” But of course there was a bigger reason. Goddard wanted the world to know that he had personally apprehended and executed the greatest public enemy of the post-mortal age. Not only to raise Goddard’s image among common people, but to gain the admiration of scythes who might be on the fence about him. Everything with Goddard was either strategic or impulsive. This grand event was strategic. Turning the gleaning of Rowan Damisch into a show would make it impossible for anyone to ignore.

“There will be over a thousand scythes from around the world in that audience,” Goddard reminded her. “They wish to see it, and I wish to provide it. Who are we to deny them their catharsis?” Rand had no idea what that meant and didn’t really care. Goddard spouted erudite gibberish with such regularity, Rand had learned to turn her ears off to it.

“There are better ways to handle this,” Rand said.

Now Goddard’s expression began to sour. They hit a small pocket of turbulence, which Goddard probably believed was brought on by his mood. “Are you trying to tell me how to be a scythe—or worse—how to be an Overblade?” “How could I to tell you how to be something that didn’t exist until you made it up?” “Careful, Ayn,” he warned. “Don’t anger me at a time I should be feeling nothing but joy.” He let his warning sink in, then leaned back in his chair. “I would think you, of all people, would love to see Rowan suffer after what he did to you. He broke your back and left you for dead, and you want his gleaning to be a small, quiet thing?” “I want him gleaned just as much as you do. But gleaning should not be entertainment.” To which Goddard said with an infuriating grin, “It’s entertaining to me.” As Scythe Lucifer, Rowan had been very careful to make sure the scythes he ended never suffered. They were gleaned quickly. It was only after they were dead that he burned the bodies to render them unrevivable. It didn’t surprise him that Goddard was lacking in such mercy. Rowan’s agony would be prolonged for maximum effect.

There was only so much bravado that Rowan could muster. As the execution motorcade wove its way to his doom, he finally had to admit to himself that he truly did care about whether he lived or died. And while it didn’t bother him how history might remember him, he was troubled by how his family would. His mother, and his many brothers and sisters, must already know that he was Scythe Lucifer—because once blame for the sinking of Endura was foisted upon him, it made Rowan infamous. The crowds that turned out to get a glimpse of the motorcade was proof of that.

Would his family be there in the audience? If not, would they be watching from home? What happened to the families of notorious criminals back in mortal days, he wondered—for there was no equivalent to Scythe Lucifer in post-mortal times. Would they have been damned by association, and gleaned? Rowan’s father had been gleaned before Endura sank, so he never knew what his son had become, and how the world hated him. There was a mercy in that. But if his mother and siblings were still alive, they must have despised him, for how could they not? That realization was more demoralizing than anything else.

He had plenty of time to be alone with his own thoughts during the motorcade’s winding journey. His thoughts were not his friends—at least not anymore, because all they did was remind him of the choices he had made, and how they had led him here. What once felt justified, now felt foolhardy. What once seemed brave, now just seemed sad.

It could have been different. He could have just disappeared like Scythe Faraday when he had the chance. Where was Faraday now, he wondered. Would he be streaming the event and weeping for him? It would be nice to know that someone wept for him. Citra would, wherever she was. That would have to be enough.

The gleaning was scheduled for seven in the evening, but people had arrived early. There were scythes and ordinary citizens in the crowd—and although the scythes did have a special entrance, they had been encouraged by Goddard to sit in among the rabble.

“This is a golden public relations opportunity,” Goddard had told them. “Smile and say kind things. Listen attentively to their twaddle and pretend to care—maybe even grant some immunity.” Many followed the directive; some could not bring themselves to and sat only with other scythes.

Rowan, under heavy guard, was taken directly to a large staging area with access directly onto the field. The woodpile they had prepared for him was a three-story pyramid that appeared to be made of gathered branches, like a random collection of stacked driftwood—but closer inspection proved everything to be part of an intricately engineered design. The branches weren’t just stacked, but nailed in place, and the whole thing was on a huge rolling platform, like a parade float. The very center was hollowed out, and in the hollow was a stone pillar to which Rowan was tightly secured by fire-resistant bindings. The pillar was on a lift that would raise Rowan to the top of the pyramid, revealing him to the crowd at the right moment. Then Goddard himself would light it.

“This baby is not your ordinary pyre!” explained the tech in charge as he wanded off Rowan’s pain nanites. “I was part of the team that designed this beauty! There are actually four kinds of wood here. Ash wood for an even burn, Osage orange for heat, rowan wood for—well—obvious reasons, and a few pockets of knotty pine for a nice crackle!” The tech checked the tweaker’s readout, confirming that Rowan’s pain nanites had been shut down, then got back to explaining the wonders of the death float, like a kid at the science fair.

“Oh, and you’re gonna love this!” he said. “The branches on the outer rim have been treated with potassium salts, so they’ll burn violet—then farther up, it’s calcium chloride, so they’ll burn blue, and so on and so forth, through all the colors of the spectrum!” Then he pointed at the black robe that the guards had forcibly put Rowan in. “And that robe has been infused with strontium chloride so it burns deep red. You’ll be better than New Year’s Eve fireworks!” “Gee, thanks,” Rowan said flatly. “Too bad I won’t get to see it.”

“Oh, you will,” the tech said cheerily. “There’s an exhaust fan built into the base that will suck all the smoke away, so everyone will get a good view—even you!” Then he took out a piece of brown cloth. “This is a guncotton gag,” the tech told him. “It’s quick burning, and’ll incinerate right off the moment it’s exposed to heat.” Then he stopped himself, finally realizing that Rowan didn’t need or want to know these things. A quick-burning gag that allowed people to hear him scream was not the kind of accessory he could get enthused about. Now Rowan was glad they hadn’t offered him a last meal, because he was way too nauseated to have held it down.

Behind the tech, Scythe Rand entered the snarl of branches. Even the prospect of her was better than a blow-by-blow description of his dazzling incineration.

“You’re not here to talk to him,” Rand snapped.

Immediately the tech caved like a scolded pup. “Yes, Your Honor. I’m sorry, Your Honor.” “Give me the gag and get lost.”

“Yes, Scythe Rand. Sorry again. Anyway, he’s good to go.” He gave her a thumbs-up, she grabbed the gag, and he retreated with his shoulders hunched.

“How much longer?” Rowan asked Rand.

“It’s about to start,” she told him. “A few speeches and you’re on.”

Rowan found he had no heart left to banter with her. He could not be cavalier about this anymore. “Will you watch,” he asked, “or look away?” He didn’t know why he cared, but he did.

Rand didn’t answer him. Instead she said, “I’m not sorry to see you die, Rowan. But I’m annoyed by how it’s going down. Frankly, I just want it to be over.” “So do I,” he told her. “I’m trying to figure out if it’s worse knowing what’s going to happen, or if it would have been better not to know.” He took a moment, then asked, “Did Tyger know?” She took a step back from him. “I’m not letting you play your little head games on me anymore, Rowan.” “No games,” he said honestly. “I just want to know. Did you tell him what was happening to him before you took his body? Did he have at least a few moments to make peace with it?” “No,” she told him. “He never knew. He thought he was about to be ordained as a scythe. Then we put him under, and that was that.” Rowan nodded “Kind of like dying in his sleep.”

“What?”

“It’s how they say all mortals wanted to go. In their sleep, peacefully, without ever knowing. I guess it makes sense.” Rowan supposed he said too much, because Rand put the gag on and tightened it.

“Once the flames reach you, try to breathe them in,” she told him. “It will go faster for you if you do.” Then she left without looking back.

Ayn could not get the image of Rowan Damisch out of her head. She’d seen him incapacitated before—tied up, tied down, shackled, and restrained any number of ways. But this time it was different. He wasn’t plucky or defiant; he was resigned. He didn’t look like the shrewd killing machine Goddard had turned him into. He looked like exactly what he was: a frightened boy who got in over his head.

Well, it serves him right, Ayn thought, trying to shake it off. What goes around comes around, isn’t that what mortals used to say?

As she walked out onto the field, a wind swooped through the bowl of the stadium, fluttering her robe. The stands were just about full now. More than one thousand scythes and thirty thousand citizens. A capacity crowd.

Rand sat beside Goddard and his underscythes. Constantine would not miss the gleaning of Rowan Damisch, but he didn’t seem any more pleased by this than Ayn did.

“Are you enjoying yourself, Constantine?” Goddard asked, clearly to goad him.

“I recognize the importance of an event around which to rally the public and present a unified North Merica,” Constantine said. “It’s a strong strategy and one that is likely to mark a turning point in scythe affairs.” It was complimentary but didn’t answer the question. A perfectly diplomatic response. Goddard read through it, though, as Ayn knew he would, picking up on Constantine’s disapproval.

“You are nothing, if not consistent,” Goddard told him. “Constantine the Consistent. I do believe that is how history will come to know you.” “There are worse attributes,” Constantine told him.

“Did you at least extend a personal invitation to our ‘friends’ in Texas to attend?” Goddard asked.

“I did. They didn’t respond.”

“No, I expect they wouldn’t. Shame—I would have much liked them to see the family they’ve chosen to exclude themselves from.” The agenda for the evening had the four other North Merican High Blades giving speeches—each one carefully written to hit a certain point that Goddard wanted hit.

High Blade Hammerstein of EastMerica would lament the many souls lost on Endura, and the other unlucky scythes so brutally ended by Scythe Lucifer.

High Blade Pickford of WestMerica would talk about North Merican unity and how the alliance of five out of the six North Merican scythedoms made life better for everyone.

High Blade Tizoc of Mexiteca would invoke the mortal age, point out how far the world had come, and leave the audience with a veiled warning to other scythedoms that not aligning with Goddard could bring back the bad old days.

High Blade MacPhail of NorthernReach would give credit to all those involved in putting this event together. She would also highlight members of the audience, scythes and ordinary people as well, whose favor it was worth currying.

And then finally Goddard would deliver an address that would wrap it all up in a nice bow before he set the pyre ablaze.

“This will not just be the gleaning of a public enemy,” he had told Ayn and his underscythes. “It’s a bottle of champagne smashed upon a ship. This shall mark the christening of a new time for the human race.” It was as if Goddard looked upon it religiously. A burnt offering to purify the path and appease the gods.

As far as Goddard was concerned, this day was just as important as the day he revealed himself at conclave and accepted his nomination for High Blade—even more important because of the reach. The event would stream out to billions, not just a gathering of scythes in conclave. The reverberations of tonight would be felt for a long, long time. And the scythedoms that had yet to align with him would have little choice but to do so.

Support was growing in leaps and bounds now that he focused most gleaning on the margins of society. Ordinary citizens had no great love of the fringe anyway, and as long as one wasn’t part of that frayed edge that needed trimming, one needn’t worry about gleaning in Goddard’s world. Of course, with the population ever growing, there was no shortage of people to push to the margins.

It was, he had come to realize, a matter of evolution. Not natural selection, because nature had become weak and toothless. Intelligent selection was more like it, with Goddard and his acolytes at the helm of the intelligentsia.

As the hour neared seven, and the sky became dark, Goddard cracked his knuckles repeatedly and bounced his knees, his body expressing a youthful impatience that didn’t show on his face.

Ayn put a hand on his knee to stop the motion. Goddard resented it, but obliged. Then the lights in the stands dimmed and brightened on the field, as the pyre began to roll out from the bull pen.

The anticipation of the crowd was palpable. Not so much cheers and whoops as gasps and a building rumble. Even unlit, the pyre was a sight to behold—the way its branches caught the light, a dead forest woven for an artist’s eye. A lit torch waited at a safe distance, ready to be touched to the corner of the pyre by Goddard at the proper moment.

As the other speeches began, Goddard ran his own speech through his mind. He had studied the greatest addresses in history: those of Roosevelt, King, Demosthenes, Churchill. His would be short and sweet, but full of quotable moments. The kind that would be engraved in stone. The kind that would become iconic and timeless, like those he had studied. He would then take the torch, light the fire, and, as the flames grew, he would recite Scythe Socrates’s poem “Ode to the Ageless,” a world anthem if ever there was one.

Hammerstein’s speech began. He was perfectly mournful and lugubrious. Pickford was regal and eloquent; Tizoc, direct and incisive; and MacPhail’s gratitude for those who made this day possible felt honest and real.

Goddard rose and approached the pyre. He wondered if Rowan knew the honor that Goddard was bestowing on him today. Cementing his place in history. From now until the end of all things, the world would know his name. He’d be studied by schoolchildren everywhere. Today he would die, yet in a very real sense, he would also become immortal, belonging to the ages in a way that few are.

Goddard touched the button, and the lift raised Rowan from within the pyre to its peak. The rumble of the crowd grew. People stood. Hands pointed. Goddard began.

“Honorable scythes and respected citizens, today we commit humanity’s last criminal to the cleansing fire of history. Rowan Damisch, who called himself Scythe Lucifer, stole the light of so many. But today we take that light back, and use it as a clear and ever-present beacon of our future—” There was a tap on his shoulder. He almost didn’t feel it.

“A new age where scythes, with measured joy, shape our great society, gleaning those who have no place in our glorious tomorrow—” Again, a tap at his shoulder, more insistent this time. Could it be that someone was interrupting his address? Who would dare do such a thing? He turned to see Constantine behind him, upstaging him with that eye-assaulting crimson robe, even more gaudy now that it bore rubies.

“Your Excellency,” he whispered. “There appears to be a problem….”

“A problem? In the middle of my speech, Constantine?”

“You should look for yourself.” Then Constantine drew his attention to the pyre.

Rowan squirmed and strained against his bonds. He tried to scream through the gag, but the screams would not be fully realized until the gag burned off. And then Goddard realized… The figure atop the unlit pyre was not Rowan.

The face was familiar, but it wasn’t until Goddard looked to the giant screens placed around the stadium, which showed the man’s anguished expression close up, that he realized who this was.

It was the technician. The one in charge of preparing Rowan for his execution.

Ten minutes earlier, before the pyre was rolled out, Rowan tried to relish the moments remaining in his life. Then a trio of scythes approached him, weaving through the forest of branches. None of their robes were familiar. Nor were their faces.

This visit was not on the program—and, all things considered, Rowan was relieved to see them. Because if they were here to exact personal revenge on him, unwilling to wait for him to burn, it would be an easier end. Sure enough, one of them pulled out a knife and swung it toward him. He braced for the sharp pain and the quick extinguishing of consciousness, but it didn’t come.

And it was only after the blade cut the bonds on his hands that he realized it was a bowie knife.