Neal
Shusterman © 2016
Just wow.
The novel’s
cover announces that ‘Scythe’ is, ‘a true successor to The Hunger Games’ as
if it needed a leg up. I disagree. It is a stand-alone, nail-biting and captivating
ride into our near future; a truly insightful and alarming foray into unbridled
human nature, the good and the oh so bad.
Imagine a
world where AI has eradicated poverty, disease, death and aging, to name a few.
Like me, you might automatically clock that the population would grow to exploding
point, right? Herein lies the premise – there are a select group of trained
people whose sole purpose in life is to keep the human population at a sustainable
level. Enter the Scythes.
The
hallmarks of a Scythe – or becoming a candidate to be trained as a Scythe – are
the traits of humility, compassion and empathy. For this reason, individuals may
respectfully fear the Scythe but will inherently trust in the killing selection
process such that being ‘gleaned’ is for the greater good of humanity. But…
What
happens when a Scythe develops a blood lust, feeding off the fear of victims
and basking in his or her god-like status? Read the book and you’ll find out!
“Do you
know what this is?” she asked.
“It’s a
tweaker’” Rowan told her. He’d had the occasion several years ago to have his
nanites tweaked when his teachers decided his moodiness had crossed the line
into depression. That was five or six years ago. The tweaking was painless, and
the effect subtle. He hadn’t noticed much of a change, but everyone agreed that
he had begun to smile more.
“Arms
out, legs spread,” said Scythe Rand…
The
other Scythes then removed their cumbersome outer robes. Now down to their
tunics and knickers, they took aggressive stances. There was a look of determination
on each of their faces, and maybe a little bit of joyous anticipation. Rowan
knew what was about to happen an instant before it began.
Scythe
Chomsky, the largest of them, stepped forward and, without warning, swung his
fist, connecting with Rowan’s cheek so hard, he spun around, lost his footing,
and fell to the dusty floor.
Rowan
felt the shock of the punch, the jagged bolt of pain, and waited for the
telltale warmth of his nanites releasing pain-killing opiates into his
bloodstream. But relief didn’t come. Instead the pain swelled.
It was
horrible.
Overwhelming.
Rowan
had never experienced such pain – he never knew such pain could even exist.
“What did
you do?” he wailed. “What did you do to me?”
“We
turned off your nanites,” Scythe Volta said calmly, “so you could experience what
our ancestors once did.”
“There’s
a very old expression,” Scythe Goddard told him. “ ‘To be painless is to be
gainless.’ “ He gripped Rowan warmly on the shoulder. “And I wish you to gain
much.”
Then he
stood back, signaled the others to advance, and they began to beat Rowan to a
pulp.
(pp.
221-2)
