فصل 37

37

The Many Deaths of Rowan Damisch

Rowan Damisch? . . . Rowan Damisch!

Where am I? Who is this?

This is the Thunderhead, Rowan.

Are you speaking to me the way you spoke to Citra?

Yes.

I must still be deadish.

You are in between.

Will you step in? Will you stop what Goddard is doing to the scythedom?

I cannot. It would be breaking the law, which I am incapable of doing.

Then will you tell me what I can do?

That would also be a violation.

Then what’s the point of this conversation? Leave me alone and go take care of the world.

I wish to tell you not to lose hope. I have calculated that there is a chance you will have as profound an effect on the world as Citra Terranova. Either as Scythe Lucifer, or as your former self.

Really. How much of a chance?

Thirty-nine percent.

What about the other 61 percent?

My algorithms show that you have a 61 percent chance of permanently dying in the near future, without having any effect of note.

I don’t feel comforted.

You should. A 39 percent chance of changing the world is exponentially greater than most people can ever hope to have.

• • •

Rowan kept a tally on his bedroom wall. It wasn’t a tally of days, it was a tally of deaths. Each time he sparred with Goddard, he won, and each time, Goddard summarily killed him in his fury at losing. It was turning into a rather old joke. “How will you do it today, Your Honor?” he said, turning “Your Honor” into a term of derision. “Can’t you come up with something clever this time?” The count had reached fourteen. Blade, bullet, blunt force—Goddard had used all methods to kill him. All but poison, which Goddard so despised. Goddard had dialed Rowan’s pain nanites down, so he would feel the full measure of agony. Even so, Goddard was always so infuriated when he lost a match that he couldn’t stop himself from killing Rowan quickly, which meant Rowan’s suffering was never drawn out. He would steel himself against the pain, count to ten, and he was always deadish before he got there.

The Thunderhead spoke to him before his fourteenth revival at the off-grid revival center that was apparently not as off-grid as they thought. Rowan knew it wasn’t a dream, because it had a clarity and intensity different from dreams. He was rude to the Thunderhead. He regretted it, but there was nothing he could do about it now. It would understand. The Thunderhead was all about understanding and empathy.

His biggest takeaway from his brief conversation with the Earth’s governing entity was not that he might change the world, but the realization that he hadn’t done so already. All the corrupt scythes whose lives he ended—none of that changed anything. Scythe Faraday was right. You can’t change the tide by spitting in the sea. You can’t weed a field that’s already gone to seed. Perhaps Faraday’s search for the founders’ failsafe would bring about the change that the slaying of bad scythes couldn’t.

When he opened his eyes after that fourteenth revival, Scythe Rand was waiting for him. Until now, there had been no one. A nurse would arrive eventually, check his vitals, pretend politeness, then call for the guards to retrieve him. But not this time.

“Why are you here?” he asked. “Is it my birthday?” and then he realized that it might well have been. He’d been losing so many days between revivals, he had no idea of the date anymore.

“How do you keep doing this?” she asked. “You come back time after time so ready for the next match, it disgusts me.” She stood up. “You should be crushed! I can’t stand that you’re not!” “It’s my pleasure to be your displeasure.”

“Let him win!” she insisted. “That’s all you have to do!”

“And then what?” Rowan said, sitting up. “Once he wins, he has no reason not to end me.” Then Rand got quiet. “He needs you alive,” she told him, “so he can throw you at the mercy of the Grandslayers during his inquest.” Rand had kept her promise after his first revival—she told him what had happened in conclave. About the vote for High Blade, and how Citra had thrown a monkey wrench into the works.

“The Grandslayers’ only mercy,” said Rowan, “will be to glean me quickly.” “Yes,” agreed Rand. “So in the meantime, these last days of yours will be better for you if you let. Goddard. Win.” Last days, thought Rowan. His death tally really must not have marked an accurate passage of time if there were only days left until the inquest. It was scheduled for the first of April.  Were they already approaching that?

“Would you have asked me to let Tyger win?” he put to her—and for a moment, Rowan thought he caught something in Scythe Rand. A twinge of regret, perhaps? A spark of conscience? He didn’t think she was capable of that, but it was worth a deeper probe.

“Of course not,” Rand said. “Because Tyger didn’t slit your throat or rip your heart out when he lost.” “Well, at least Goddard hasn’t blown my brains out.”

“Because he wants you to remember,” said Rand. “He wants you to know everything he’s done to you.” Rowan actually found that amusing. Goddard couldn’t do his worst because Rowan’s memory construct, stored in the Thunderhead’s backbrain, hadn’t been backed up since he went off-grid. So if Goddard damaged Rowan’s brain, the last thing he’d remember once he was revived would be his capture by Scythe Brahms. All his suffering at Goddard’s hands would be erased—and suffering erased was the same as no suffering at all.

Now, as he looked at Rand, he wondered what sort of suffering she endured under Goddard’s hand. Certainly not the same as Rowan’s, but there was misery there nonetheless. An ache. A yearning. Tyger was long dead now, but he was still very much present.

“At first I blamed Goddard for what happened to Tyger,” Rowan said, calmly. “But it wasn’t Goddard’s choice, it was yours.” “You turned on us.  You broke my spine. I had to drag myself out of that burning chapel with nothing but my arms.” “Payback,” said Rowan, tamping down the anger he felt. “I understand payback. But you miss him, don’t you? You miss Tyger.” It was not a question, but an observation.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Rand.

“Yes, you do.” Rowan paused, letting it sink in. “Did you at least grant his family immunity?” “Didn’t have to. His parents surrendered him long before he turned eighteen. When I found him, he was living alone.” “Did you at least let them know that he was dead?”

“Why should I?” said Rand, getting defensive. “And why should I care?” Rowan knew he had her in a corner now, and wanted to gloat, but didn’t. As in a Bokator match, one didn’t gloat when an opponent was pinned. One merely asked the fallen foe to yield.

“It must be awful to look at Goddard now,” Rowan said, “and realize he’s no longer the one you love.” Rand became as icy as cryo. “The guards will bring you back,” she told him as she left. “And if you ever try to get into my head again, I’ll be the one who blows your brains out.” • • •

Rowan died six more times before the matches stopped. Not once did he let Goddard win. Not that Goddard didn’t come close to winning on his own, but there was still a disconnect between mind and body that Rowan was always able to exploit.

“You will suffer the greatest agony of all,” Goddard told him after he was revived from their final bout. “You will be gleaned in the presence of the Grandslayers, and you will disappear.  You won’t be a footnote in history, you will be erased from it. It will be as if you had never lived.” “I can see how that would be a horrifying thought for you,” Rowan told Goddard. “But I don’t have a burning need to make my existence the center of the universe. Disappearing is fine with me.” Goddard paused to look at him in abject disgust that for a moment decayed into regret. “You could have been among the greatest of scythes,” Goddard told him. “You could have been by my side, redefining our presence in this world.” He shook his head. “Few things are sadder than squandered potential.” Rowan had no doubt squandered his potential for many things, but what was done was done. He made his choices, and he lived by them. The Thunderhead had given him a 39 percent chance of making a difference in the world, so perhaps his choices were not all bad. Now he would be brought to Endura, and, if Goddard had his way, Rowan’s life would end.

But he knew that Citra would be there, too.

If there was nothing more to hope for, then he would cling to the hope that he might see her again before his eyes were closed forever.