The Gift (8 page)

As we clamber toward the basement stairwell, I hear boot steps rolling like thunder from above. A legion of them.

From behind me, Wisty’s mad pipe-playing music tumbles frantically like the soundtrack of some silent horror movie from long
ago.
What is she doing?

“This way!” yells a voice from down the hall, away from the stairwell.
Byron?

I turn and lead the kids toward his voice, praying he’s still on his best behavior. The kids are actually pretty fast, maybe
because they’re used to moving quickly to get their chores done and avoid swinging billy clubs.

But they’re not faster than the New Order’s steroid-fed adult guards. The big jackbooted bullies are only about twenty yards
away now. Fifteen? Ten?

Zzzziiiiiiick-ping!
A stun-gun wire zips past my head and hits the metal railing next to my hand.

Byron’s directing the kids through an alternate passageway, presumably to an underground exit. And Wisty’s still playing like
a freaking pied piper.

In the flashes of the strobe light, I catch sight of something surreal over my shoulder. Soldiers slowing down, swirling around
Wisty… entranced… by the music?

We’re going to make it,
I think, just as six stun-gun bolts hit me in the back.

“THAT’S HER,” mutters The One with a mixture of hatred and grudging respect. The security cameras in Acculturation Facility No. 73 had
recorded the bizarre scene of guards—New Order elites, no less!—being subdued by, of all things, a mere three-octave Command
Pipe. She was the only one who could have that kind of power.…

The picture is quite dark and he can barely make out what is going on in the flashes of the alarm lights, but he is certain
that Wisteria Allgood is the perpetrator of this crime. But how could she—and, presumably, her insipid brother—have gotten
into the school?
They’re just stupid teenagers.

The One remembers the last time he lost her, in the plaza, then the mad chase through the city. She and her brother were Curves.
They could travel through portals. Was it therefore possible that…?

“Bring me The One Who Commands The Portal Troops,
now!
” he yells.

A moment later a young man with carefully combed hair, an absurd-looking goatee, and a chin so weak it might be confused for
his Adam’s apple is escorted into the room by two burly guards. He wears a military uniform with a metallic N.O.P.E. insignia
on his left breast—marking him as an official in the New Order Portal Elites, a squad of special commandos whose members are
among the rare few Curves allowed in the New Order.

“Commander,” says The One Who Is The One, “can you please tell me why I was not informed that there was a portal leading into
the basement of the Acculturation Facility?”

“Your Eminence,” he says, “there is no portal in the facility. It has a clean bill of health.”

The One snorts so loudly that the portal commander actually jumps. “What you just said, those words you uttered with such
confidence and aplomb, mean nothing to me. If I tell you there is a portal there, there
is
a portal there! Do you understand?”

“Well, Your Eminence, the entire facility was just inspected—less than a week ago.”

“We have recorded evidence of small portals forming in a matter of twenty-four hours or less. It must be a new portal.
Now
do you understand?”

The commander shifts uncomfortably. “Indeed, sir.” He clears his throat. “Have you—ah—considered the possi
bility of magic, sir?” He chuckles nervously, realizing the word is, of course, banned, except among the highest circles—or
in certain emergencies, such as this one.

“Do you think that’s
funny?
” demands The One. His voice is so cool and restrained it sends wave upon wave of shivers up the portal commander’s spine.

The One turns away and watches as the security footage replays itself, grimacing as the witch hastily climbs over a carpet
of—dead? slumbering?—soldiers, then disappears into darkness.

“She is definitely the one with The Gift,” he mutters.

“Excuse me?” asks the portal commander.

“I need you to tell me where that portal leads. And I need you to dispatch your best commandos to go through it and infiltrate
the Resistance fighters.
Now!
Don’t fail me.”

Wisty

I CAN’T BEGIN to tell you how fantastic it is when we return to Garfunkel’s—and a hero’s welcome. Mr. Homecoming King Whit Allgood is,
of course, used to it from his old life. But truants like me rarely get the crowds cheering.

Janine hurls herself at Whit and he doesn’t seem to mind, obligingly wrapping his arms around her.

Meanwhile Emmet surprises me with a bear hug and holds on to me just a little longer than I would have expected him to. Maybe
as if… he’d been a little
worried
about me?

He interrupts my pathetic little fantasy by rubbing his hands all over my creepy-looking head. “Bald is beautiful, baby!”
He laughs.

I blush, but I’m elated. I’m so high that I can’t even feel annoyed that Byron’s getting lifted up on the shoulders of
shaved-headed kids like a war hero. I let it slide. We couldn’t have done it without him, I guess.

Byron howls idiotically—clearly on a head rush from “feeling the love” for the first time in his sad life, poor little weasel—and
finally lets himself fall backward. The roaring crowd starts passing him above their heads as if we’re in a throbbing mosh
pit. It’s madness. But it’s totally great to celebrate something for a change. I’m soaking in the smiles rather than the usual
tears and long faces.

Sasha knocks into me, and I grin at him. “If the weasel gets over here, I’m letting him drop,” I say, staying in character.
Eternally ungrateful Wisty.

Sasha ignores it. “You look very punk rock!” he shouts. “I like it. It suits you.”

“And you look like a bucket of frozen lizard pus.” I’m still grinning.

“I’m not kidding. You look totally hard-core. Maybe we could use you at the underground concert.”

“What concert?” Someone bashes into me, and I’m almost thrown off balance. “Don’t we have more important things on our plate?”
I ask, though I admit I’m intrigued.

“This concert
is
important. It’s a great opportunity to get new recruits to the cause. Trust me. Maybe even get some intelligence about what
other Resistance units know. As a bonus, the concert breaks all their precious rules!”

God knows I’d love to hear some real music. Almost
everything’s been banned by the New Order for some moronic reason. Causes too much “disorder,” I guess. And joy.

Suddenly I’m starving for music, and it’s as if Sasha can read my mind. He pulls me away from the mosh pit and takes out his
guitar from underneath one of the makeup counters.

“I’ve been rehearsing.” He starts picking out a riff, and I smile—I know the song. It’s been a lifetime since I’ve heard it,
but chills run up my spine.

I jump in, singing right on the first line, and Sasha cuts off. “You know it?”

“Are you kidding? I live and
breathe
that song. Give me the guitar.”

Sasha hands it over, looking bemused. But with the first chord I strum, I feel as if a switch inside me has been thrown into
the
on
position—as if power is literally coursing through my body—and suddenly, even though the guitar’s not plugged into anything,
it sounds as if I’m hooked up to a sweet amplifier stack.

I take a few steps up the immobile escalator so I can survey the crowd below, and I belt out the famous song’s first few lines.
I close my eyes as I feel the lyrics swell up inside me and pour out with this crazy mix of joy and pain. I can’t stop myself,
and I sing this great tune that we all grew up with. It’s called “Born to Fly,” written and sung by Luce Winterstein, one
of my faves.

And, as I sing the final chorus and open my eyes, I see
the entire population of Garfunkel’s looking up at me, Wisteria Allgood, and they’re cheering, hooting, applauding. Meanwhile,
Byron is still moshing—or being moshed?—down below.

I realize with a shock that the sound—that glorious blare of music that’s so loud it’s rattling my bones—isn’t just in my
mind. It’s real! There’s a wall of amplifiers that I apparently have conjured up
out of thin air.

I strum the last power chord, hold it, and tack on a final “Oh yeah!”

Well, I guess I’ve got my mojo back anyway.

Wisty

EVERYTHING ABOUT THIS IS FORBIDDEN,
banned,
and maybe that’s why it’s so incredibly great. One step into the Stockwood Music Festival, and it feels as if you’ve been
transported out of the New Order nightmare and into a dream of a place owned by us, ruled by us, and pumping with the fresh
blood of music, very good music, astonishing music that just makes you want to dance—which is also forbidden.

“I don’t know what Whit was thinking, passing up the opportunity to come here,” I say to Janine, who’s walking behind me,
both of us bouncing on the balls of our feet. My brother had—characteristically—insisted on staying behind to protect the
younger kids who needed to remain at Garfunkel’s. And he had—uncharacteristically—mumbled some blah-blah about “having a feeling”
something bad might happen if there was a “power vacuum” there.

But this…
this
was a once-in-a-New-Order-time experience. “I’m gonna kick Whit’s tight little butt when we get back,” I finish.

Janine blushes at the mention of Whit’s butt. The girl’s all brains and heart—but when you mention anything about bodies,
she gets embarrassed. “Yeah,” she says, and gets all therapist on me. “He needs this more than any of us.”

The concert’s being held in what was once the underground reservoir for a small village called Stockwood. It’s been totally
drained and is now just a stadium-size cavern, illuminated by portable road-crew lights. I feel as if I’m on a movie set,
because I’m seeing people milling around in dress ranging from medieval monks’ robes and ninja outfits to white face paint
and black capes.

No wonder creativity’s been banned. It’s way too freaking cool for the New Order to handle.

“I didn’t realize there was a come-as-your-favorite-comic-book-hero theme,” I remark to Sasha and Emmet.

“Not exactly,” says Sasha. “They’ve come here in costume to honor characters from the banned movies and books that they used
to love.”

“Love,” I say. “Present tense.” I won’t let the N.O. take that away.

“Absolutely,” drawls Emmet. “This is all an empowerment kinda thang.”

I see exactly what he means. There’s banners and handheld signs with slogans like
N.O. CAN’T DO
and
NOTE TO N.O.: WE WILL ROCK YOU.

Just then there’s a huge tremor, and little bits of dust and debris curtain down from the ceiling. I have a moment of panic,
my head instinctively swiveling around, half expecting to see soldiers pouring in to terrorize us.

Everybody chills, but there are no aftershocks, and moments later we’re back to communing, chanting, and proselytizing for
the Resistance. It’s as if nothing had happened. A New Order bomb must have landed directly overhead. No biggie. Just another
thorn in our sides.