No one knew how they were made, for any technology that wasn’t controlled by the Thunderhead was technology lost. Few people in the world truly knew how things worked anymore. All the scythes knew was that their rings were connected to one another, and to the scythe database, in some undisclosed manner. But as the scythedom’s computers were not under Thunderhead jurisdiction, they were subject to glitches and crashes and all the inconveniences that plagued human-machine relations in days gone by.
Yet the rings never failed.
They did precisely what they were meant to do: They catalogued the gleaned; they sampled DNA from the lips of those who kissed them, in order to grant immunity; and they glowed to alert scythes of that immunity.
But if you were to ask a scythe what the most important aspect of the ring was, that scythe would likely hold it to the light, watch it sparkle, and tell you that, above all else, the ring served as a symbol of the scythedom and of post-mortal perfection. A touchstone of a scythe’s sublime and elevated state … and a reminder of their solemn responsibility to the world.
But all those lost diamonds…
“Why do we need them?” many scythes now asked, knowing that the absence of them made their own rings all the more precious. “Do we need them to ordain new scythes? Why do we need more scythes? We have enough to do the job.” And without global oversight from Endura, many regional scythedoms were following MidMerica’s lead and abolishing gleaning quotas.
Now, in the middle of the Atlantic, where Endura once towered above the waves, a “perimeter of reverence” had been established by the consent of scythes around the world. No one was allowed to sail anywhere near the spot where Endura had sunk, out of respect for the many thousands whose lives had been lost. In fact, High Blade Goddard, one of the few survivors of that terrible day, argued that the Perimeter of Reverence should be a permanent designation, and that nothing beneath its surface should ever be disturbed.
But sooner or later those diamonds would have to be found. Things that valuable were rarely lost forever. Especially when everyone knew exactly where they were.
We of the SubSaharan region take extreme umbrage with High Blade Goddard’s removal of gleaning quotas. The quotas have stood since time immemorial as a way to regulate the taking of life – and, while not officially one of the scythe commandments, quotas have kept us on track. They have prevented us from being either too bloodthirsty, or too lax.
While several other regions have now abolished quotas as well, SubSahara stands with Amazonia, Israebia, and numerous other regions in resisting this ill-advised change.
Further, any and all MidMerican scythes are banned from gleaning on our soil – and we urge other regions to join us in resisting Goddard’s so-called new order from establishing a chokehold on the world.
—Official proclamation from
His Excellency, High Blade Tenkamenin of SubSahara
2
Late to the Party
“How much longer?”
“I’ve never known a scythe to be so impatient.”
“Then you do not know many scythes. We are an impatient and irascible lot.”
Honorable Scythe Sydney Possuelo of Amazonia was already present when Captain Jerico Soberanis arrived on the bridge, just after dawn. Jerico wondered if the man ever slept. Maybe scythes hired people to sleep for them.
“Half a day at full speed,” Jerico answered. “We’ll be there by 18:00, just as I said yesterday, Your Honor.”
Possuelo sighed. “Your ship is too slow.”
Jerico grinned. “All this time, and now you’re in a hurry?”
“Time is never of the essence until someone decides that it is.”
Jerico couldn’t argue the logic. “In the best of worlds, this operation would have happened a long time ago.”
To which Possuelo responded, “In case you haven’t noticed, this is no longer the best of worlds.”
There was truth in that. At the very least, it was not the world that Jerico had grown up in. In that world, the Thunderhead was a part of most everyone’s life. It could be asked anything, it always answered, and its answers were precise, informative, and just as wise as they needed to be.
But that world was gone. The Thunderhead’s voice had gone silent now that human beings were all unsavory.
Jerico had been marked unsavory once before. As a teenager. It wasn’t hard to accomplish – just three instances of shoplifting from a local grocery. Jerico was smug about it for less than a day. Then the consequences began to set in. Being denied communication with the Thunderhead wasn’t a big deal for Jerico – but there were other things about the experience that were irksome. Unsavories were last in line for food in the school cafeteria and were always left with the dishes no one else wanted. Unsavories were moved to the front of the classroom, where the teachers could keep a watchful eye on them. And while Jerico wasn’t cut from the soccer team, probational meetings were always scheduled in direct conflict with games. It was clearly intentional.
Jerico used to think the Thunderhead was being spitefully passive-aggressive, but in time Jerico came to realize that the Thunderhead was merely making a point. Unsavorism was a choice, and one must decide if the things lost were worth the things gained.
Lesson learned. A taste of being unsavory was enough. It took three months of toeing the line for the big red U to be removed from Jerico’s ID, and once it was gone, there was no desire to repeat the experience.
“I’m pleased your status has been lifted,” the Thunderhead had said, once it was free to speak again. In response, Jerico had told the Thunderhead to turn on the bedroom lights – because giving it an order put the Thunderhead back in its place. It was a servant. It was everyone’s servant. It had to do as Jerico commanded. There was comfort in that.
And then came the schism between humanity and its greatest creation. Endura sank into the sea, and the Thunderhead declared the entirety of humankind unsavory all in the same moment. At the time, no one exactly knew what the loss of the World Scythe Council would mean for people, but the Thunderhead’s silence hurled the world into a collective panic. Unsavorism was no longer a choice – it was now a judgment. And silence was all it took to turn servitude into superiority. The servant became the master, and the world became all about pleasing the Thunderhead.
What can I do to lift this judgment? people cried. What can I do so that the Thunderhead finds favor in me once more? The Thunderhead never asked for adoration, yet people now gave it, creating elaborate hoops to jump through, hoping that the Thunderhead would take notice. Of course the Thunderhead did hear the cries of humanity. It still saw everything, but now it kept its opinions to itself.
Meanwhile, planes still flew, ambudrones were still dispatched for people who went deadish, food was still grown and distributed – the Thunderhead kept the world functioning in the same fine-tuned precision as before; it did what it saw fit for the human race as a whole. But if you wanted your desk lamp turned on, you had to do it yourself.
Scythe Possuelo stayed on the bridge, monitoring their progress for a bit longer. It was smooth sailing – but smooth sailing was a monotonous endeavor, especially to one not accustomed to it. He left to take breakfast in his quarters, his forest-green robe billowing behind him as he went down the narrow stairs toward the lower decks.