“A noble cause,” praised Goddard.
“Short people!” said Scythe Rand. “Can’t stand them. As far as I’m concerned, they’ve got no reason to live.”
That brought forth laughter from around the table. From everyone, that is, but Constantine, who grinned and shook his head, but it seemed a grin of bitterness rather than good humor.
“What about you, Constantine?” Goddard asked. “Who would you glean?”
“As bias has always been out of the question, I haven’t given it any thought,” the crimson scythe said.
“But you were the scythedom’s chief investigator. Aren’t there certain types you’d like to see removed? People who commit acts against the scythedom, perhaps?”
“People who act against the scythedom are already gleaned,” Constantine pointed out. “That’s not a bias – that is self-defense and has always been allowed.”
“So how about those who are likely to act against the scythedom,” Goddard suggested. “A simple algorithm could predict who is at risk for such behavior.”
“Are you saying we should glean people for an offense before they actually commit one?”
“I’m saying that it is our solemn duty to provide a service to humankind. A gardener does not randomly shove his shears into a hedge. He thoughtfully shapes it. As I’ve said before, it is our job – it is our responsibility – to shape humankind toward its best possible self.”
“It doesn’t matter, Robert,” said Underscythe Franklin. “We’re bound by the commandments – this thought experiment of yours can’t be applied to the real world.”
Goddard just smiled at her and leaned back in his chair, cracking his knuckles. The sound made Scythe Rand grimace. It always did.
“If the bar can’t be lowered,” Goddard said slowly, “then the floor must be raised.”
“Meaning?” asked Constantine.
And so Goddard spelled it out clearly for them. “We all agree that we can’t show bias…” he said. “So we merely change the definition of bias.”
“Can we … do that?” Nietzsche asked.
“We’re scythes; we can do anything we please.” Then Goddard swiveled to Rand. “Ayn – pull up the definition for me.”
Rand leaned over, tapped on the tabletop screen, then read aloud. “Bias: an inclination for or against one person or group, especially in a way considered to be unfair.”
“All right, then,” said Goddard, magnanimously jovial. “Who would like the first shot at redefining it?”
“Scythe Rand, a word.”
“With you, Constantine, it’s never just a word.”
“I promise I’ll be brief.”
Ayn sincerely doubted it, but she had to admit she was curious. Constantine, like Goddard, loved to hear himself talk, but never singled her out for conversation. The crimson scythe was always a wet blanket on a damp day. They had never had much love for each other, so why would he want to talk to her now?
It was right after their little meeting of the minds. Nietzsche and Franklin had already left, and Goddard had retired into his personal suite, leaving the two of them alone.
“I’ll take the elevator with you,” she told him, since she was on her way down from the crystalline residence to get something to eat. “You can fill that trip with all the words you want.”
“Can I assume that Goddard has all conversations in his elevator monitored?” Constantine asked.
“He does,” Ayn told him, “but I’m the one who handles the monitoring, so you’re safe.”
Constantine began his piece the moment the elevator doors closed, but as was his way, he began with a question, as if this were an interrogation.
“Does it concern you, Scythe Rand, the sheer volume of change Goddard is bringing to bear on the scythedom this early in his reign as High Blade?”
“He’s doing exactly what he said he’d do,” Ayn answered. “Redefining the role and methods of our scythedom for a new age. Is that a problem, Constantine?”
“It would be prudent to allow one change to settle before compounding it with others,” Constantine said. “And I have the distinct feeling you agree … and that you’re also worried about the decisions he’s making.”
Ayn took a slow breath. Was it that obvious? Or was Constantine, as a seasoned investigator, able to discern things that others could not? She hoped it was the latter. “There’s danger in any new situation, and the benefits are worth the risks,” she said.
Constantine grinned. “I’m sure that’s exactly what you want the record to reflect. But as you said, you control the record of this conversation, so why don’t you speak the truth?”
Ayn reached out and hit the emergency stop. The elevator came to a halt.
“What do you want from me, Constantine?”
“If you share my concerns, you should tell him,” Constantine said. “Slow him down – give us time to see both the expected and unexpected consequences of his actions. He won’t accept my counsel on the matter, but he listens to you.”
Rand laughed bitterly at that. “You give me way too much credit. I have no sway over him anymore.”
“Anymore…” Constantine echoed. “But when he’s in turmoil – when things are going badly for him – when he faces that backlash of unintended consequences, you’re the one he always turns to for comfort and clarity.”
“Maybe – but things are going well for him, which means he listens to no one but himself.”
“There is an ebb and flow to all things,” Constantine pointed out. “His times will be troubled again. And when they are, you need to be ready to help shape those decisions.”
It was a bold thing to say. The type of thing that could get both of them in trouble and force them to seek asylum in other regions. Ayn resolved to not only erase the record of this conversation, but to never allow herself to be caught alone with Constantine again.
“We never know what choices will lead to defining moments in our lives,” the crimson scythe said. “A glance to the left instead of right could define who we meet and who passes us by. Our life path can be determined by a single phone call we make, or neglect to make. But when a man is High Blade of MidMerica, it’s not only his own life hanging on the whim of his choices. One could say, Ayn, that he has cast himself as Atlas. Which means the slightest shrug can shake the world.”
“Are you done?” Rand asked. “Because I’m hungry, and you’ve wasted enough of my time.”
And so Constantine hit the button to get the elevator moving again. “Thus,” he said, “our inexorable descent continues.”
Bias (plural noun): an inclination for or against any officially protected and registered group, especially in a way considered to be unfair.
Once the revised definition was implemented, a committee was formed within the MidMerican scythedom, and a registry was created by which any group could claim protected status from excessive gleaning.
The application form was simple, and the turnaround was quick. Many thousands of groups were registered and granted protection against bias. Rural people and urban people. Academics and manual laborers. Even the unusually attractive and the decidedly unattractive were given status as protected classes. Not that they couldn’t be gleaned, but they could not be targeted and gleaned in undue numbers.