So how old was he, if seven-eighths of him was someone else? The answer was: It didn’t matter. Robert Goddard was eternal, which meant that temporal concerns and the monotonous numbering of days were beneath him. He simply was, and would always be. And so many things could be accomplished in an eternity!
It was just over a year since the sinking of Endura. April, Year of the Ibex. The anniversary of the disaster had been memorialized all over the world by an hour of silence – an hour during which scythes strolled in their respective regions, gleaning anyone who dared to speak.
Of course, the old-guard scythes couldn’t get into the spirit of things.
“We will not honor the dead by inflicting more death in their name,” they lamented.
Fine, let them bluster. Their voices were fading. Soon they’d be as silent as the Thunderhead.
Once a week, on Monday mornings, Goddard held court in a glass conference room with his three underscythes, and anyone else he cared to honor with his company. Today it was just Underscythes Nietzsche, Franklin, and Constantine. Rand was supposed to be in attendance, but as usual, she was late.
The first order of business was North Merican relations. As MidMerica was the central region of the continent, Goddard had made unifying the continent a priority.
“Things are moving smoothly with East- and WestMerica – they’re falling nicely in line,” Underscythe Nietzsche said. “Still things to iron out, of course, but they’re willing to follow your lead on all the major issues – including the abolition of the gleaning quota.”
“Excellent!” Ever since Goddard had assumed the High Bladeship of MidMerica and announced an end to the quota, more and more regions were doing the same.
“NorthernReach and Mexiteca aren’t quite as far along,” said Underscythe Franklin, “but they can see which way the wind is blowing. There’ll be good news from them soon,” she assured him.
Underscythe Constantine was the last to speak. He seemed reluctant.
“My visits to the LoneStar region have not been fruitful,” he told Goddard. “While a few individual scythes might like to see a united continent, the leadership is not interested. High Blade Jordan still won’t even acknowledge you as the High Blade of MidMerica.”
“May they all fall upon their own bowie knives,” Goddard said with a dismissive wave. “They’re dead to me.”
“They know, and they don’t care.”
Goddard took a moment to study Constantine. He was an intimidating figure, which is why he had been assigned to troublesome Texas, but proper intimidation required a certain zeal for the job.
“I wonder, Constantine, if your heart is in your diplomacy.”
“My heart has nothing to do with it, Your Excellency,” the crimson scythe said. “I’ve been honored with this position as third underscythe, and all that it entails. I intend to continue doing my job to the best of my ability.”
Goddard never let Constantine forget that he had nominated Scythe Curie for High Blade. Goddard understood why, of course. It was a shrewd maneuver, actually. Someone was clearly going to nominate her – but by choosing to do it himself, Constantine put himself in the perfect position. If Curie won, he would be seen as a hero to the old guard. And if she lost, Constantine would be a favorable choice for one of Goddard’s underscythes – because Goddard would then appear to be bringing an old-guard scythe into his administration without actually doing so. That was because the crimson scythe was not old guard. He was a man with no convictions, willing to throw his lot in with any winning side. Goddard could appreciate that. But a man like that needed to be reminded of his place.
“I would think, after failing to apprehend Scythe Lucifer before he sank Endura,” Goddard said, “that you’d be even more determined to redeem yourself here.”
Constantine simmered. “I cannot bend an entire region to my will, Your Excellency.”
“Then maybe that’s a skill set you need to learn.”
That’s when Scythe Rand rolled in without even a hint of apology. It was something Goddard admired about her, but there were times that it irked him as well. The other scythes endured her undisciplined ways, but only because Goddard did.
She flopped down in the chair next to him. “What’d I miss?”
“Nothing much,” Goddard told her. “Constantine’s excuses, and encouraging news elsewhere. What do you have for us?”
“I have Tonists,” she said. “Far too many Tonists – and they’re getting restless.”
At the mention of Tonists, the underscythes shifted uncomfortably.
“This prophet of theirs is making them way too bold for their own good,” she said. “I’ve been tracking reports of Tonists speaking out publicly against the scythedom – not just here, but in other regions, too.”
“They’ve never shown us an ounce of respect,” said Underscythe Franklin. “Why is that news?”
“Because ever since the Thunderhead went silent, people are listening.”
“This so-called prophet – the Toll – is he himself speaking out against us?” Goddard asked.
“No, but it doesn’t matter,” Rand told him. “The fact that he exists is making Tonists think that their time has come.”
“Their time has come all right,” Goddard said, “just not the way they think.”
“There are many scythes following your lead, Your Excellency,” said Underscythe Nietzsche, “and increasing the number of Tonists they glean without making it too obvious.”
“Yes,” said Rand, “but Tonist numbers are growing faster than they’re being gleaned.”
“We need to take them in greater numbers, then,” Goddard said.
Constantine shook his head “We can’t do that without violating the second commandment. We cannot show an open bias in our gleanings.”
“But if we could,” said Goddard, “if there were no restrictions on bias and malice aforethought, who would you like to glean?”
No one spoke. Goddard expected as much. This was not something you openly discussed – especially not with your High Blade.
“Come now, I’m sure you’ve all thought about it,” he prompted. “You can’t tell me that you haven’t fantasized about doing away with one pesky group or another. And don’t say Tonists, because that’s already my choice.”
“Well,” said a tentative Underscythe Franklin, after the awkward silence. “I’ve always been troubled by those who embrace an unsavory lifestyle. Even before the world was labeled such, there were, and still are, people who revel in it,” she said. “They certainly have a right to their lifestyle – but if I were free to choose, I might focus my attentions on gleaning those people who show the rest of us so little respect.”
“Well said, Aretha! Who’s next?”
Underscythe Nietzsche cleared his throat and spoke up. “We have conquered racism by blending the world into a single people, combining all the finest qualities of every genetic ethnicity … but there are those – particularly in fringe areas – whose genetic indices are skewed heavily in one direction. And worse, there are some who actually attempt to increase a genetic leaning in their children by choice of mate. If I had my druthers, perhaps I would glean these genetic outliers, and thereby create a more homogeneous society.”