Нил Шустерман - Scorpion Shards

Dillon had heard it said that every second we live bears the pattern of our entire life, the way a single cell bears the DNA pattern of our whole body. Now Dillon knew it to be true, because what might have taken years for a psychi­atrist to uncover, Dillon instinctively knew in just a few minutes on a basketball court.

The blueprint of Dwight Astor’s life!

And to think that all along Dillon had this talent—this power to peer into the human clockwork. It was the single most thrilling moment of Dillon’s life.

Dwight missed a shot, and the ball went bouncing out of bounds.

“Your ball,” said Dwight. Dillon took the ball and began dribbling it around the court, thinking about the many things he discovered by watching his opponent:

Dwight Astor. He was a B-plus student. His parents fought. He had at least two brothers and at least one sis­ter. His father was a recovering alcoholic. This was Dwight’s past and present, but Dillon could also see the pattern of his future, as if the basketball were a crystal ball. If nothing changed, Dwight would go to college, would major in business, or maybe economics, and would go on to run a small company. It was all there—Dillon saw the complex tapestry of Dwight’s past, present and future as if he were simply reading a road map—and in that future, Dillon could see shades of wealth, success and some level of happiness.

Dillon now had control of the ball. At last he worked his way around Dwight as if he were standing still. Then Dillon went for the lay up and released the ball onto the rim, where it hung, perfecdy balanced—not on the back of the rim, but on the front of the rim. The ball just sat there, not going into the basket, and not falling out.

“Wow!” said Dwight. “How’d you do that? That’s im­possible.”

As Dwight innocently stared at the balanced ball, Dil­lon Cole moved in for the kill.

“Listen to me, Dwight.” Dwight turned and was caught in Dillon’s gaze. “Your father says he doesn’t drink anymore, but he does. He keeps his bottles of booze hidden somewhere in the house. If you look hard enough, you can find them.”

Then Dillon whispered into Dwight’s ear, clearly and slowly.

“Your father would never notice,” said Dillon, “if you drank some of it.”

The words Dillon spoke were like bullets that pierced deep into Dwight’s brain. There was no blood, but the damage was the same—and the only one who could see the damage was Dillon. After all, he had done something anyone could have done . . . he had tossed Dwight a sim­ple suggestion . . . but like the stone Dillon had tossed down the mountain in Tahoe, this was exactly the right suggestion to begin an avalanche in Dwight Astor’s life. Dillon could already see the road map of Dwight’s future changing. Dillon’s simple suggestion had paved Dwight a brand new future filled with addiction. Alcohol first, and then other things. Dwight would drop out of high school. He would run far away from home. He would make the wrong friends, make the wrong choices. He would die young and alone.

Dillon had destroyed him.

There were no crashes, no carnage, no evidence. And yet the wrecking-hunger was gone—it had been more sat­isfied than ever before; it dawned on Dillon that destroy­ing a hillside, or crashing cars and breaking glass were nothing compared to destroying a human mind. . . . And it had been so easy to do. Finding the weakness in Dwight’s pattern was like finding the loose thread of a sweater. All Dillon had to do was to pull on the thread to make the entire fabric unravel..

Now, with the wrecking-hunger quieted, he could only beam with satisfaction, his wonder overcoming any self-loathing he might have felt.

That vague sense of destiny that had begun with the supernova, was focused by what happened today. For too long, Dillon had fled from his catastrophes, racked with guilt—begging for forgiveness. But he was stronger than that now. Much stronger.

“I . . . I have to go now,” said Dwight. “Good game.” Bewildered, Dwight turned and left, forgetting his ball.

Dillon could sense a pattern now unfolding in his own life. A destiny. A purpose—and although he wasn’t quite certain what that purpose was, he knew it would soon make itself clear. He could hardly contain the excitement that came with this new reason-to-be. Its very power filled him with something he thought might be joy.

I could choose this destiny, thought Dillon.... Or I could fight it; I could let the wrecking-hunger make me strong . . . or I could let it kill me.

The way Dillon felt right now, the decision was as easy as it had been to whisper in Dwight Astor’s ear.

As he watched Dwight shuffle off, Dillon made a pact with himself. No more fighting the hunger. He would feed it, he would live it, he would be the hunger . . . and if his destination was Hell, then he would learn to accept that. But he would not be alone. There would be others he’d be taking with him. Many, many others.

Inside the depot, Deanna tried to find out when the next bus came through town, but the fear of being alone overcame her, and she had to get out.

Dillon had never acted this way toward her before. He had always been thoughtful and treated her kindly. She didn’t know what this change meant, but they had prom­ised to protect each other, and she would protect him, no matter what he said or did. She drew some comfort from the strength of her own resolve.

She found Dillon playing basketball across the street, alone.

“We need to get going,” said Deanna, watching him cautiously, waiting to see how he would react.

“Yes, we do,” he answered. “But we’re not going east anymore . . . we’re going west.”

Deanna studied him, thinking that it might be a joke— but then she realized that Dillon did not joke that way. “But . . . but The Others—"

“We don’t need The Others.” His voice was calm, his body relaxed. Deanna could tell that he had fed the wrecking-hunger, but she saw no evidence of it . . . and something was different this time. He wasn’t racked by guilt. He wasn’t cursing himself. She wanted to question him, to take a step away and think about all this, before his infectious peace-of-mind drowned her panic com­pletely.

That’s when Dillon grabbed her and did something he had never done before. He kissed her. The kiss felt so per­fect, so natural, that she would have agreed with anything he said. She didn’t know whether to feel angry because of it, or to feel relieved.

“Listen to me, Deanna,” he told her. “Forget The Others; they’re nothing compared to us—you and I are the strongest, the most powerful!”

It was true—Deanna had sensed that much in the vi­sion. How loud they were—how bright they were com­pared to The Others as they screamed in the darkness. Her fears and Dillon’s hunger for destruction were cer­tainly far more powerful than anything the other four had to deal with.

Until now she had thought the strange gravity that had been drawing all of them together was impossible to resist. But if Dillon could resist it, then she could, too. They were the strong ones. This time she leaned forward to kiss him.

“Where will we go now?” she whispered.

Dillon struggled with his answer. “Deanna, I think I was meant to do some really big things . . . I have to find out what those things are, and I can’t be afraid to do them . . . but I’m afraid to do them alone.”

Her mind told her that this was wrong, but her heart was too close to Dillon’s now. Traveling to The Others might solve her troubles, but she was terrified of making that journey alone. And the thought of losing Dillon was unbearable.