Gerald Van Der Gans.
The Thunderhead had spoken to her, and now, so had Scythe Curie. There was a long journey ahead of Citra, and at the end of it, much work to be done. Citra couldn’t glean, but she could exact vengeance. She would find a way to deliver justice to this scythe-killer one way or another. Never was she so thankful to have a sack full of weapons.
? ? ?
This was a matter too delicate to be left to the BladeGuard—and although Scythe San Martín detested being used as a mere enforcement agent, he also knew that catching this MidMerican girl would be a feather in his cap. He knew the girl was there even before he knocked on the door. His associate, an over-enthusiastic junior scythe named Bello, had already turned on the DNA detector and picked up traces the moment they stepped out of the car.
San Martín drew his weapon as he approached the cabin—a pistol he’d had since the day he was ordained, given to him by his mentor. It was his weapon of choice for all gleanings—an extension of who he was—and although he didn’t expect there’d be anyone to glean today, it made him feel whole to have it drawn. Besides, gleaning aside, it might be necessary to incapacitate someone; although he had been warned not to render anyone—especially the girl—deadish, because that had created the very fiasco he was now attempting to resolve.
He pounded on the door and pounded again. He was ready to kick it in, when none other than Scythe Marie Curie herself came to the door. San Martín tried not to be starstruck. The Marquesa de la Muerte was well known throughout the world for her early achievements. A living legend everywhere, not just in the north.
“There is a doorbell, or didn’t you notice?” she said in Spanic so perfect it threw Scythe San Martín off his game. “Are you here for lunch?”
He stammered for a moment, deepening his disadvantage, then recovered as best he could. “We’re here for the girl,” he said. “No sense denying she’s here; we already know.” And he gestured toward Bello, whose DNA detector was pinging in the red.
She glanced at San Martín’s raised pistol and “hmmphed” with such authority, he found himself lowering it almost involuntarily.
“She was here,” Curie said, “but not anymore. She’s on her way to an Antarctic resort for some skiing. You might catch her flight if you hurry, though.”
The Chilargentine Scythedom was not known for its sense of humor, and Scythe San Martín was no exception. He would not be made a fool of, even by one of the greats. He pushed his way past her into the cabin, where a Chilargentine scythe whose name he couldn’t remember stood as defiantly as Scythe Curie.
“Search all you want,” said the second scythe, “but if you break anything—”
She never got to finish the thought, because Bello, overzealous as ever, jabbed her with a jolt baton that left her unconscious.
“Was that really necessary?” chided Scythe Curie. “It’s me you have a gripe with, not poor Eva.”
On a hunch, San Martín went out the back door and sure enough, found telltale footprints in the snow.
“She’s on foot!” he told Bello. “?Apurate! She can’t have gotten far.” Scythe Bello launched into pursuit like a bloodhound, heading down the snowy hillside, disappearing into the trees.
San Martín went back inside, hurrying to the front door. The road wound down that hill. If Bello couldn’t catch her on foot, perhaps San Martín could head her off in the car. Scythe Curie, however, stood in the doorway, barring his way. He raised his weapon again, and in response, she pulled out her own; a handgun with a stubby muzzle wide enough to fit a golf ball in the barrel. A mortar pistol. He might as well have had a pea shooter against that thing, but he didn’t lower his weapon, no matter how outclassed it was.
“I have special permission from our High Blade to fire on you if necessary,” he warned her.
“And I have no permission from anyone,” said Scythe Curie, “but I am more than happy to do the same.”
They held their standoff for more heartbeats than felt advisable, then Scythe Curie turned her gun aside and fired out the front door.
An explosion blew in the front windows of the cabin, the shock wave knocking San Martín to the ground. . . . And yet Scythe Curie, still in the doorway, barely flinched. San Martín scrambled to the door to see that the blast from the mortar pistol had turned his car into a bonfire.
Then she fired again, this time blowing up her own car.
“Well now,” she said, “I suppose you’ll have to stay for lunch.”
He looked at the two flaming vehicles and sighed, knowing he’d be a laughingstock for his failure today. He looked at Scythe Curie—her steely gray eyes, her calm control of the situation—and he realized he never really stood a chance against the Marquesa de la Muerte. There wasn’t much he could do but glare at her in heartfelt disapproval.
“Very bad!” he said, wagging a finger. “Very, very bad.”
* * *
. . . Yet even in dreams I often find myself gleaning.
I have one dream that recurs far too often. I am walking on an unfamiliar street that I feel I should know, but don’t. I have a pitchfork, which I’ve never used in real life; its awkward tines are not well suited for gleaning, and when it strikes it reverberates, giving off a sound that is something between ringing and moaning, like the numbing vibration of a Tonist bident.
There is a woman before me whom I must glean. I jab at her, yet the pitchfork fails to do the job. Her wounds heal instantaneously. She is not upset or frightened. Nor is she amused. She is simply resigned to stand there, allowing me to futilely attempt to end her life. She opens her mouth to speak, but her voice is soft and her words are drowned out by the fork’s ghastly moans, so I never hear her.
And I always wake up screaming.
—From the gleaning journal of H.S. Curie
* * *
32
Troubled Pilgrimage
All publicars are on the grid, but scythes can’t track their movements until their navigational data is dropped into the backbrain. That happens every sixty minutes, so that’s how often you’ll have to change cars.
Scythe Curie’s instructions had come at Citra quickly—she only hoped she could remember them all. She could do this. Her apprenticeship had taught her to be self-sufficient and resourceful. She ditched the first publicar at a small town right on time. She was worried that there might not be as many vacant publicars in the Chilargentine Region, especially this remote an area, but the Thunderhead was remarkable at projecting local need. In all things, there always seemed to be a supply to fit the demand.
She had already changed into the coarse Tonist frock and had pulled its hood over her head. It was remarkable how people avoided her.
Vehicle changes every hour meant that her pursuers were always right behind her. She realized she had to cut a weaving course, like cargo ships in mortal-age wartime, to throw them off her path and keep them from anticipating where she’d be next. For over a day she could never sleep for more than an hour at a time, and several instances when there was only road and no civilization for long stretches, she had to be crafty, ditching the car before arriving in town, where Chilargentine scythes and officers of the local BladeGuard were already waiting for her. She actually walked right past one scythe, certain she’d be caught, but she was smart enough to cross downwind of his DNA detector. The fact that the scythes themselves were supervising the hunt and not just leaving it to the BladeGuard made Citra feel all the more terrified, yet oddly important, too.