The Gift (23 page)

For the first—and hopefully last—time, I’m thankful for their complete lack of morals and civility.

I’m in a lazy bend in the river, and, despite the toilet water that the New Order has clearly been pumping into it, it’s still
totally beautiful.

Lily pads and their brilliant white flowers float around us lazily. Spiral snails slide along the rocks without a care in
the world, and a brilliantly striped turtle slips off a log and glides by like a stubby-legged flying saucer.

Suddenly I realize I’m seeing this with eyes that are above water. I’m floating…

Like a dead fish, or a living human being?

I jolt up onto my feet and realize I’m alive and human again, standing in about three feet of water. The spell must have worn
off. I whisper a prayer of thanks to Mom and Dad, who I feel are out there, watching over us somehow. Then I give quick thanks
that the spell didn’t remove my white Brave New World Center jumpsuit, which is now sopping wet.

I swirl around, looking for Wisty.
Thank God—there she is!
She’s just now hauling herself up the wooded bank of the river. She’s dazed, but her eyes light up when she sees me.

“Whit!” she calls. “Wasn’t that… wasn’t that just the most amazing ride ever?”

Whit

IT MIGHT NOT SURPRISE you to find out that I wasn’t just an athlete in the old days, I was also a fourth-degree Falcon Scout. So I know that generally
when you’re lost in the woods, the first job is to find shelter.

But on a night as perfect as this one, we’re not stressing about it.

We’ve already walked several miles—west, back toward Freeland—and though it’s starting to get a little cool, we’re just going
to sleep under the stars.

The sun has dipped below the horizon, and things are starting to get pretty dark. From here on out, we’re strictly going to
be feeling our way around.

“Bring a flashlight?” I ask my sister jokingly. “We could use it to find two sticks. And then we could rub them together,
and —” Suddenly the tree trunks ahead of me are flickering with dancing orange light.

I spin around to face Wisty. And there on the ground,
with my sister sitting cross-legged in front of it, is the most perfect campfire I’ve ever seen, complete with encircling
stones and a nearby stack of wood.

“Fire looks a little hot,” I say, referencing the six-foot-high flames nearly licking the overhanging branches of the trees.

“No problemo,” says Wisty and, as if she were turning a dial on a stove, drops the flames down to a more manageable foot or
two.

“And without your drumstick,” I observe. “I’m impressed.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve always done better out of school,” she says. Her pale face is flushed, glowing. She looks like she’s just
risen from the dead. “I know it sounds dumb, but it feels so good. To just be able to use my power. Without being crushed.
It’s like I didn’t even realize how heavy the weight was until it was gone.”

“I know what you mean. I feel it, too.” And it’s true. Without even focusing too terribly hard, I’m able to produce three
hot dogs on the ends of three bamboo skewers. It’s almost as if there’s been a backup of energy and potential from all that
time I hadn’t been using any of it.

“Sweet,” says Wisty as she takes her dog. “Maybe you
did
learn something at the BNW Center.”

“I don’t give them credit for anything beyond learning to love lima beans,” I joke. “Which, actually, is a handy skill when
times are lean and mean. Remember when Mom and Dad were, like, the emperors of discount vacations? I swear we spent more time
in the woods than we did indoors.”

Wisty nods, and we start roasting our dogs. “Remember that time it was raining so badly and Dad slipped and fell off the path
into the swamp and all the food was in his pack and it got ruined?” She laughs.

“Yeah. It was a long hike back to civilization for dinner,” I say, but I’m remembering something else now about that day.
“Weird…”

“What?”

“I never mentioned this ’cause it didn’t mean anything to me at the time. I overheard Dad saying to Mom something like ‘We
could just solve this the easy way, Liz.’ And then Mom said, ‘We promised each other never to take the easy way. Especially
with the kids. They need to learn the hard way.’”

Wisty takes it in. “You think they meant magic? Or whatever it is that we’re doing—‘realizing our potential’?”

“I think they didn’t want us to just rely on magic to get what we wanted. I guess that’s why they didn’t teach us about it
at all. They wanted us to —”

“Learn to do stuff the hard way? So we’d understand what the rest of the world was going through?”

I nod. “Could be.”

“Well, Mom and Dad, wherever you are…” Wisty looks up at the sky. “We’re learning the hard way. The really hard way. Hope
you’re happy. Somehow, I really hope you’re happy.”

“I’LL ASK IT AGAIN in case somebody’s actually listening this time: do I have to do
everything
around here myself?” demands The One Who Is The One.

The One Who Tallies the Internal Revenues, Byron Swain’s father, stands behind him and shakes his head in disgust.

The One’s overseers of pedagogical technology, facilities, and discipline are standing over the smashed circuit boards that
had formerly contained the ERSA computer program—the system that had been in charge of the Brave New World Center. All three
are fairly shaking under the wrathful eyes of The One.

“Your Eminence, it would appear they escaped through the toilet fixture because Byron Swain —”

“For the last time, and I assure you this
is
the last time I will ever remind you, citizens are
not
to be addressed
with Old Order names! These can lead to insidious individualistic tendencies. His name is now The One Who Infiltrates The
Resistance Leadership! And
his
punishment will be nothing short of torture, I assure you.”

The One smiles at Byron Swain’s father, then studies him for a reaction. The man offers not a flinch of discomfort.

“The fact that there are not filters on the toilets, the fact that the dampening shields were not consistently employed, and
the fact that this
moronic
computer program of yours decided to grant a
toilet
request to the two most powerful dynacompetents in our custody are just the beginning of where the true failure lies!”

“We’re already in the process of correcting those problems.”

“Not necessary. Those of us who are competent enough to wear the insignia of the New Order will deal with this. Those of you
not competent shall have the insignia removed. Or, rather”—he chuckles—“the insignia will have
you
removed.”

With that, he throws out his hands and vaporizes the three BNW Center administrators—everything, that is, but the “N.O.” insignia
on their uniforms.

“Somebody pick those up,” he says, pressing the intercom button on his desk.
“And send in the Informant.”

Byron Swain is escorted into the room at once. Though his hair lacks its hallmark camera-ready coif and his eyes are puffed
with weariness, he holds his head high.

“Your Eminence,” Byron begins, looking The One di-rectly in the eye.

The One raises his stick threateningly. “Who
dares
to speak to me before I speak?”

“I do, sir,” Byron continues with his steady gaze. “I know I have failed you, sir. I have been a traitor to this Great Order.
I fully accept my punishment. I am ready.”

The One pauses, then studies Byron. “So very brave indeed! I wouldn’t normally expect that from any son of”—he gestures to
his minister of internal revenues—“that one.”

“Nor would I, sir,” Byron says without missing a beat, inspiring chuckles from The One. There will be no more merciless beatings
from his father after his execution, so Byron feels empowered to speak the truth for once in his life.

The One is rapt with bemusement. “I like the spirit, boy, I do, I do. I’m so saddened that my dreams for you have been… delayed.”

“Delayed? Sir?” Having expected nothing less than death, Byron cannot process his meaning.

“I’m well aware of your… inclinations toward our escaped redheaded witch. Since she rejects you, you wish nothing but to die.
To die as the hero that saved her life. So tragic! The stuff of stage drama. Thank goodness we’ve outlawed all of that whimsical
drivel and nonsense.”

Byron begins to get nervous. “I wish nothing but to be executed in shame for my betrayal to you, sir.”

“You lie!”
The One thunders, quite literally, as his anger shakes the entire building. “Your punishment will either kill you, quite
excruciatingly, I might add, or else it will transform you into the kind of man we need for positions of high leadership in
this Order.”

“Sir?” Byron says again, his throat drying as he feels his well of courage—the one that has taken days to fill—starting to
run low.

“You are now officially in charge of the Kill Team to once and for all rectify this situation.”

Byron swallows. “The
Kill
Team, Your Eminence?”

“In our efforts to apprehend and control The One Who Has The Gift, we have spent altogether too much time and too many reliable
resources —”

“Exactly three point seven million B.N.s,” interjects The One Who Tallies The Internal Revenues.

“Such waste!”
screams The One. “Clearly my single-minded pursuit of her has been too much of a drain. And so I have decided, since we cannot
wrest The Gift from her, we will remove the threat she poses. Put simply, we will kill her. Or, rather,
you
will kill her.”

“Sir?” Byron says yet again.

“You started out so well, boy. You impressed me, if but for a moment. Alas, like so many commoners, you’ve fallen prey to
nothing but adolescent physical attraction.
Waste, waste, waste! I do so hope that you’ll return to your senses.

“Regardless,
you will kill the girl.
Your team will kill the girl. Or else you will bring her back alive, and I will kill her, slowly and painfully, in front
of your pathetic puppy-dog eyes.”

Wisty

WHIT AND I HAVE BEEN TRUDGING through a steady drizzle for many miles now, and it seems as if every single tree trunk along the highway has
been stapled with posters of us. They’re recent pictures—my brother and I in our flashy white Brave New World Center couture:

“Lord, what a girl has to do to finally get popular,” I say with resignation. “It’s
so
unfair. At least that mug shot of me is better than my stupid yearbook photo!”

“Even with the bald head? Um, I’m not so sure, Wist…”

“I’ve decided it’s totally fierce,” I tell him. “Resistance chic. I think it’ll catch on.”