Thunderhead: Part Five

However, the scythedom is not bound by my laws, or my sense of ethical propriety. Which means that I must endure any abomination that it inflicts upon the world.

Then one night, she mentioned Scythe Powhatan. “He had a penchant for travel and geography,” she said. Apparently that hit the spot, because Faraday began to take a keen interest in the man’s work.

“The rhyme did not evolve the way others do,” Faraday postulated. “I believe it was intentionally planted.”

The scythedom’s software was crunching for days. Finally, it began to produce data...but the things it vomited forth were absurd. Things like “Profound Midnight-Green Cow,” and “Irascible Glass Chicken.”

Yes, it was random, but sometimes randomness led to moments of remarkable serendipity, and earthshaking discoveries.

Since the world’s digital storage resides in me, they have no choice but to access that information on their own, using me as a glorified database. I am aware each time they do so, and monitor their incursions, but I do my best to ignore the unpleasant sense of violation.

“They have nothing to offer you but hostility and harangues.”

Their leader paled, terrified that this turquoise harbinger of unnatural death might steal his entire flock away.

As with everything else, the scythes had polarized feelings about the added security measures.

Dissent fomented and hackles were raised even before the scythes entered the building.

There was the new order, with platitudes to justify its sadistic appetites, and the old guard, which blustered about how things were supposed to be but was unable to take action to do anything about it.

The new-order Scythes gave forth a vibe that was palpable—filled with a brazen egotism that was markedly different from the more subdued self-importance of the rest of the scythedom.

“I know you cared for Volta,” Scythe Curie said, “but grief is not an excuse for depravity.”

“We must maintain and exalt the virtues of the scythedom; stick to the highest ethical ground. We must always glean with wisdom and compassion, for it is at the core of what we are—and we must never take the ending of life for granted. It is a burden, not a delight. It is a privilege, not a pastime.”

“What rumblings?” she asked.
But Scythe Curie was blasé about it. “Every couple of years there are rumors that Xenocrates will step down as High Blade, but he never does. I think he starts those rumors himself to make sure he’s the center of everyone’s conversation.”

“It’s about time we found a way to give the junior scythes some meaningful direction,” she said. “Lately, they seem far too listless.”

Anastasia turned to Scythe Curie, but Marie stood so stiffly and was so taciturn, Anastasia didn’t dare to ask her a question.

The scythedom might berate the Tonists for their practices, but their own rituals are no different.

The new-order scythes were buzzing with schemes and subterfuges—but so was the old guard.

It was an honor to be invited to break bread with the High Blade, and part of his diplomatic strategy was to always invite scythes who despised one another, with the hope of creating friendships, or, at the very least, meaningful détentes.

Scythe Curie looked at her, a bit bemused. “Are you presuming to instruct me on how to present myself to the scythedom?”

How appropriate, he thought, that the copper effigy of his Patron Historic would play such an important roll in the naming of a new High Blade.

She glanced to Anastasia, standing stalwart beside her.

It would give everyone some time to digest the debate—but considering its contentious nature, it would take far longer than a few hours to truly process.

Scythe Mandela shook his head in consternation.

And then a new voice entered the conversation. Scythe Poe, who always seemed to be even more lugubrious than his Patron Historic.

The scythedom was on edge with an incendiary anxiety by the time the first- and second-term apprentices came forward for their trial; the vote for High Blade was all that was on anyone’s mind, but Xenocrates deemed that it would not happen until after the apprentice trials, because regardless of which way the vote fell, there’d be no bringing conclave back to order for more business after that.

“On what grounds do you call for an inquest? And it had better be good.”
“On the grounds that Mr. Goddard is not sufficiently enough of a scythe to hold the position of High Blade.”

At the rostrum, Xenocrates deferred to the Parliamentarian, who could do nothing but shrug.

“In that case, I shall appoint Scythe Paine, our illustrious Parliamentarian, as temporary High Blade.”

There were more than a dozen at the table; a veritable rainbow of scythes. Somehow, Scythe Morrison had finagled himself an invitation.

“I do hope you write about what transpired today in your journal,” Scythe Angelou said to her. “I suspect your account of this day will go down in antiquity as a key scythe writing—much like Marie’s account of her early gleanings.”

“Have you no shame? Show some decorum!”

Ayn had to admit she had found Tyger’s guileless, callow nature to be refreshing. But innocence will always be ground up in the gearwork of a greater design—and Goddard was, by Ayn’s estimation, forging a great design that truly excited her.

“A bracing match,” he said. “Next time, I’ll beat him.”

The first is a conversation I am not privy to. All I can do is make oblique inferences as to its subject matter.

He has a propensity for removing those who serve me through their work in the sciences—particularly individuals whose work relates to aerospace.

“And unlike Xenocrates, I won’t delegate my underscythes to the periphery to deal with minutiae,” says Curie.

I am particularly curious how he’ll broach the subject for which he has gathered them.

“So you found my secret dark history,” he says, not bothering to disabuse Cervantes of his erroneous notions.