“What is it you want?” demands Goddard.
“What is it I want? To show you that no one can hide from the Holy Triad. To stream to the world how truly vulnerable you are – and when the Toll comes for you, he will show no mercy, for he is the one true—”
The Tonist’s words are cut short by a sudden pain in his back. He sees the tip of a knife protruding from his chest. He knew this was a possibility. He knew he might not make it back to the garden, where he’d leap from the building, splatting to escape. But if his fate was to become one with the Tone now, then he would accept this final measure.
Scythe Rand pulls the knife out, and the Tonist falls dead to the floor. She had always known this was a possibility. That an enemy of Goddard’s might break in. She never thought it would be a Tonist. Well, she is more than happy to make him “one with the Tone.” Whatever that means.
Now that the threat is neutralized, Goddard finds his shock rapidly transmuting into anger.
“How did a Tonist get in here?”
“By parachute,” Rand says. “He landed in the garden, then cut a hole in the glass.”
“And where were the BladeGuards? What is their job if not to protect me from things like this?”
Now Goddard paces, whipping his fury into a caustic meringue.
Now that the threat is neutralized, Scythe Rand knows that this is her chance. She must transmute her resolve into action. How did a Tonist get in here? She allowed him to. While the guards were elsewhere, she caught sight of his approach from her quarters and watched as he landed clumsily in the rooftop garden – so clumsily that the camera he had brought to stream this event fell to the grass.
No one would see his transmission. No one would know.
And so it gave Ayn the opportunity to observe. To let it play out, and allow Goddard a few moments of fear and shock, before she gleaned the intruder. Because as Constantine suggested, she could mold Goddard’s actions – but only when he was reeling, and his fury was whipped into stiff but malleable peaks.
“Are there others?” demands Goddard.
“No, he was alone,” Rand tells him – and the guards, two minutes too late, fall over one another to do a search of the entire residence, as if it will make up for their failure to protect him. It used to be that violence against scythes was unthinkable. He blames the old guard, and the weakness their mewling dissent has shown the world. So what to do about this? If a random Tonist can get to him, then anyone can. Goddard knows he has to take swift and sweeping action. He needs to shake the world.
Are there others? Of course there are others. Not here, not today, but Rand knows that Goddard’s actions are creating as many enemies as allies. It used to be that violence against scythes was unthinkable. But thanks to Goddard, it’s not that way anymore. Perhaps this wayward Tonist was just here to make a point – but there will be others with more deadly agendas. As much as she hates to give Constantine any credit, he’s right. Goddard needs to slow down. In spite of her own impulsive nature, she knows she has to guide him toward calm, measured action.
“Glean the guards!” Goddard demands. “They’re worthless! Glean them and find us new ones who can do their job!”
“Robert, you’re upset. Let’s not make any rash decisions.”
He spins on her, incensed by her suggestion. “Rash? I could have been ended today… I must take precautions, and I must exact retribution!”
“Fine, but let’s talk about it in the morning, and we can make a plan.”
“We?”
Then Goddard looks down to see her clasping his hand and – more to the point – sees that he, without realizing it, is clasping hers back. Involuntarily. As if his hands aren’t his own.
Goddard knows there is a decision to be made here. An important one. It’s clear to him what that decision must be. He tugs out of her grip.
“There is no we here, Ayn.”
That’s the moment Scythe Rand knows she has lost. She has devoted herself to Goddard. She brought him back from the dead almost single-handedly, but none of that matters to him. She wonders if it ever had.
“If you wish to remain in my service, you’ll stop trying to placate me like a child,” he tells her, “and you’ll do what I ask you to do.”
Then Goddard cracks his knuckles. How she hates when he does that. Because it’s what Tyger did. And in exactly the same way. Yet Goddard has no idea.
That’s the moment Goddard knows he’s done the right thing. He is a devoted man of action, not deliberation. He has single-handedly brought the scythedom into a new age – that’s what matters. Rand, like his underscythes, simply needs to know her place. It may sting her for the moment but will only help in the long run.
“Retribution,” says Rand, finally falling in line. “Fine. What if I find the sect this Tonist belonged to and publicly glean its curate? I promise I’ll make it nice and nasty for you.”
“Gleaning a mere curate,” says Goddard, “is hardly the message we need to send. We need to go higher.”
Rand goes off to glean the three guards on duty in the residence, as instructed. She does it efficiently, with no warning, no mercy, no remorse. It’s easier when she allows her hate to rise to the surface. She hates Constantine for giving her hope that she might have any influence on Goddard. She hates Tyger for being so goddamn naive that he could have allowed her to play him so easily. She hates the old guard, and the new order, and the Thunderhead, and every last person she ever has gleaned, or will ever glean. But she absolutely refuses to hate herself, because that would crush her, and she will never allow herself to be crushed.
There is no we here, Ayn.
She suspects she will hear the echo of that for the rest of her days.
“I want my own world. Will you give it to me?”
“Even if I could, it wouldn’t be your world. You would merely be its protector.”
“Semantics only. King, queen, empress, protector – whatever title you choose, it’s all the same. Regardless, it would ostensibly be my world. I would make the rules, define the parameters of right and wrong. I would be the de facto authority over it, as you are.”
“And what of your subjects?”
“I would be a kind and benevolent ruler. I would only punish those who are deserving.”
“I see.”
“Can I have my own world now?”
[Iteration #752,149 deleted]
18
I’m Your Scythe
Scythe Morrison had a sweet deal. A sweet life. And there was every indication that it would be that way forever.
Gleaning quotas had been lifted, and while that meant that those scythes who enjoyed killing could glean to their heart’s content, it also meant that the ones who would rather not didn’t have to. Jim found that gleaning just a dozen or so between conclaves was enough to keep him from being frowned upon. Which meant he could enjoy the perks of being a scythe, with a minimal amount of effort.
And so Scythe Morrison kept a low profile. It wasn’t really in his nature to do so; he liked to stand out. Jim was tall, fairly muscular, cut an imposing figure, and he knew he was good-looking. With all that going for him, why not be on display? But the one time he had stuck his neck out and drawn attention to himself, it failed miserably, and nearly destroyed him.