James Patterson - The Gift

“I need to ask you about Celia Millet.” Hearing her name aloud, here, in the Building of Buildings, feels so… ancient. From another time and place. So out of reach, despite how close she’d seemed just hours ago.

“Celia Millet?” He raises his eyebrows. He knows her name. But he pretends he doesn’t. “I can’t possibly keep track of all the pernicious children we’ve had to process through our retraining systems. I’m afraid I can’t help you. Was she a”-he smiles condescendingly-“ special friend?”

“You know exactly who she is. She told me to come here. To turn ourselves in-for our parents’ sake.” It’s probably insane, I know, but I take a deep breath and say it. “We need to talk about a deal.”

“Whit?” Wisty is agape, agog, astonished, every word you can think of for “in total disbelief.” “Are you high? ”

The One just laughs. And laughs, and laughs.

“Well,” he says, finally recovering, “it looks like we have one boy suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder and one girl with…” He chuckles again. “Developmental disabilities, of a sort. Thank heavens we rescued you before your conditions got any worse. It looks like both of you need a little… recuperation. And education .”

I can’t hear him. I shake my head. “I need to talk to you about Ce -”

He speaks right over me. “And it just so happens I have a new facility designed for just that purpose. I think you’ll find it much more suitable than your last accommodations with us. Call it a spa, if you will. I’m sure your sister will enjoy it, at least.”

He casts an amused eye at Wisty. “Perhaps they can even help you with your unfortunate- hair situation, Wisteria.” Another nasty snicker. Wisty growls as if she’s trying to turn into a werewolf. Whatever it is, it doesn’t work.

“Listen.” I finally collect enough energy to take a stride toward him. “I’ll go to your stupid school or whatever if we can strike a deal.”

“Ah, but you’re going regardless, Whitford! First, though, I’ll need to ask that you hand over any personal property-like that journal you have under your shirt.”

He raises his snaky fingers at me, and the journal flies out from where it was tucked under my belt. And as the book zooms right into The One’s grip, I find myself flying backward and slamming into the wall. Again. And it really hurts- again.

“There is no power in the pen and page anymore, my friend. Remember that. There is only power in energy. Now let’s see what you have in here,” he says, licking a finger dramatically and riffling through the pages. “ Po -ems?” He starts to chortle. “And, oh my goodness, they’re bad poems-listen to this one!”

Out-out are the lights-out all!

And, over each quivering form,

The curtain, a funeral pall,

Comes down with the rush of a storm,

While the angels, all pallid and wan,

Uprising, unveiling, affirm

That the play is the tragedy, “Man,”

And its hero, the Conqueror Worm.

He laughs as if his sides are going to bust open. Unnaturally glittery tears spill down his cheeks. “That,” he says, struggling to form words through his fit of amusement, “is the most pathetic, juvenile thing I’ve ever read!”

Wisty gives me a look that says she knows it’s a poem by one of the most famous poets ever, the darkly inspired Edmund Talon Coe.

“Well, clearly you couldn’t write your way out of a paper bag, so go ahead and keep it, you pathetic poetaster.”

He flings the journal back at me. I make a perfect catch even though I’m still getting my wind back.

“And you,” he says to Wisty. “Hand over the stick, my girl. I’d like to finish what your dear friend Eric, may he rest in peace, began.”

Wisty goes gray at the mention of the drummer’s name, and grayer when she tries to process The One’s implication. She’s already gripping the drumstick tucked in her back pocket, but her fingers fly open and the stick zips through the air and into his waiting hands. He considers it for a moment and then fakes a little one-handed riff.

“You look pretty natural,” she says as her face clouds with anger. “What’s your stage name again? The One Who Can’t Get A Recording Contract?”

“You!” he screams. “Are… not… funny!” He takes the stick and breaks it in two, flinging the remains at her feet.

“Bully!” she yells, dropping to her knees.

“Tsk-tsk,” he clucks. “I assure you that names will never hurt me, Wisteria. Now,” he says, swiping the broken drumstick out of her hands before turning to leave, “somebody come and get these two ready for the school bus!”

Wisty

ALL RIGHT, so I’ll admit it. There was a very small part of me-the dream-big girl who’ll cling to any hope no matter how many times she’s been crushed by the cruel heel of life-that hoped we were headed to some sort of spa.

I mean, I wasn’t expecting a mani-pedi while drinking a seltzer with lime, but I let myself imagine something low-key, like being a quarantined tuberculosis patient at a convalescent hospital, sitting on a porch wrapped in a blanket, staring out at the countryside.

But that was the very, very old days, and this was a very, very new world. As noted by the name of this facility.

“Welcome to the Brave New World Center,” intones a disembodied female voice as we step into the brightly lit, ultraclean entryway of our new home. Stun guns are planted firmly in the smalls of our backs.

“Please prepare to watch the Brave New World Center Onboarding Video,” continues the voice. She sounds like a computer-designed voice-over-a little too perfectly modulated. With any luck, maybe she’ll shut up and we’ll start watching calming videos of waterfalls and rain forests, or maybe she’ll conduct mind-body relaxation exercises.

This whole place actually looks more sanitary than a hospital-white glossy floors, white glossy walls, white glossy ceilings. “What gives?” I ask Whit. “I thought there was a New Order law that said they always had to put kids in filthy hellholes.”

“Clean hellholes apparently will work in a pinch,” says Whit.

“Who knew? I’m waiting for my white terry-cloth robe and fuzzy slippers.”

“Shut up! ” barks one of the guards behind us.

The lights go down as orchestral, soundtrack-style music fills the room, and the wall in front of us lights up with images. The disembodied female voice comes back. “Congratulations on your admittance to the Brave New World Center,” she says. “The most advanced facility of its kind in all of the Overworld, dedicated to the nurturing of young dynacompetents. Built in the Year 0001 A.O., the BNW Center features the latest in new technology and employs the best pedagogical program ever devised for unlocking scalable kinetic potentials and directing them into a life of fully compliant productivity.”

My eyes are glazing over already. Maybe she is inducing hypnosis…

The screen plays a video tour of the immaculate hallways, classrooms, lecture halls, cafeterias, and dormitory rooms that presumably await us beyond this reception chamber. Everything reeks of sterility.

“The curriculum features twenty-four-hour audio- and video-based instruction.” The screen flashes images of hundreds of different speakers and monitors-in the corners of ceilings, along walls, in desks, in headboards. “In this way, lessons will continue uninterrupted-even during sleep. Ninety-nine point three percent of students find they are able to absorb enough information and behavioral training to evolve to the second level in less than two weeks .”