James Patterson - The Gift

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 possibility 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.