The Gift

“Certainly, Mr. Swain. They’re expected. The elevators are down the hall to your left.”

Byron’s in his element as he theatrically yanks us this way and that and into the elevators. Once we sink down a couple of levels, he shoves us out the door. “Okay, Harmons.” He grins. “You’re on your own. See you on the other side.”

As much as I sort of hate Byron, I have to admit, getting into an N.O. joint has never been so easy. His timing is perfect-as the elevator doors close behind us, we encounter a group of passing kids and join the rear of the party.

They’re heartbreakingly pathetic, these “students.” Skinny, hopeless, haunted-looking, and silent as monks. The spirit of youthful anger and rebellion has already been sucked out of them. No complaints, no sarcasm, no anything. They’re so beaten down, they don’t even seem to notice our arrival.

We follow the procession as it pushes through double doors at the end of the hallway.

At first we’re almost blinded by the bright blue-white light bombarding us, but when our eyes adjust we find ourselves in what looks like it might have once been a school auditorium but is now something very different, and sinister.

All the theater seats have been removed, and the large room, including the stage, is now occupied by machines, chemical vats, and dozens of sick-looking kids in numbered shirts, working like diamond-mine slaves. Some of the kids in here are carrying sacks, some are stirring vats, some are pushing around technical equipment.

Our eyes are stinging as if there’s something poisonous in the air. The whole place stinks like burning rubber, ozone, and, weirdly-Could it be?-chocolate. Toxic chocolate. Is there such a thing?

Then there’s a weird flutelike note, a middle C if I’m not mistaken, and I look over to see a squad of kids-all wearing the number twelve-suddenly stop working.

And then I see the one adult in the room, a stiff-backed man in a white lab coat with a silver pitch-pipe thingy on a cord dropping out of his mouth.

“Attention squad twelve!” he screams. He waits a moment, and the veins in his neck slowly subside while his eyes roll. “Does anyone remember? You may not- under any circumstances-drop the pods!”

He blows a different note on the pipe, and they all nod robotically.

“Since these two sacks contain damaged specimens,” he says, hoisting a couple of bags over his head, “you are all hereby required to work through the night without sleep!”

“Bu -,” a sunken-eyed girl starts to say before catching herself.

“But?” screams the man. “Did you just say ‘but’ to me? Need I remind you that the penalty for arguing with a senior scientist requires level two corporal punishment?” The man rushes forward to heave the girl-who is probably only a quarter of his size- against the wall.

I want to charge in and sack the guy myself, and I have to reach out and grab Whit’s arm to keep him from doing the same. We can’t go down in a blaze of glory. Not just yet.

The girl begins to sob, the first glimmer of emotion I’ve seen in this place so far. A look of small-minded disgust seizes the “senior scientist’s” face, and he blows a harsh F-sharp on his whistle.

As if in immediate response, the girl bangs her head against the wall.

He laughs and blows the whistle again. Bang goes the girl’s head.

Whistle. Bang. Whistle. Bang. It’s sickening, and I can’t help myself any longer. I can’t hold back.

“Sir!” I yell indignantly. Oh cripes. Oh crud. Oh kill me now.

Of course he immediately spins and sends a daggerlike glare across the room. “You two, come here!”

Chapter 19

Whit

I LOVE MY SISTER, but she sure doesn’t have the, um, emotional DNA of a spy. She’s 99 percent passion, 1 percent plan. But before I have a chance to step up and fix this situation, the crazed senior scientist starts lurching toward us like a zombie on meth.

“Don’t you know getting caught without the proper squad uniform is grounds for solitary confinement? I’ll give you three seconds to tell me what you’re doing here before I set off the alarm and have you jailed!”

I pull Wisty forward confidently. “Sir! Stephen and Sydney Harmon, reporting to squad twelve for pod duty, sir!” I salute him for effect, and Wisty follows my lead.

Suddenly the Lab Boss’s popping, pulsing veins soften into a more easygoing throb. “Ah! The famous Harmons! I wasn’t expecting you so soon, but I’m delighted you’re here.”

He turns to his “students.” “Squads! The Harmons are triple-A-grade pupils from Facility #625. They’re leaders in their category, awarded triple Sector Leader’s Stars of Honor, and will serve as role models for all of you. This is good! This is excellent!”

Score! It looks like Byron’s intel was good-these Harmon kids were actually being transferred today, but we intercepted their arrival, as planned.

The Lab Boss steps in close to Wisty and me. His breath smells like something I haven’t whiffed in ages but that is all too familiar: alcohol. Strictly forbidden by the New Order. “Your first assignment, Harmons, is to supervise the lab for a few minutes. Nature calls, you know!” He laughs inanely. “You of course know how the Command Pipe works, correct?”

“Absolutely, sir,” I say, even though Wisty and I don’t have a clue.

He presses the whistling instrument into my hands and turns to the rest of the group.

“Squads!” he shouts as if everyone here is deaf. “If productivity doesn’t increase by ten percent in my absence, you’ll all be sent to the Office of Electrical Corrective Punishments!”

And, leaving us with that happy image of shock treatments and Lord knows what else, he disappears through the lab’s double doors.

“Did he just put us in control of this entire lab?” Wisty cocks her head and whispers to me.

“Looks that way. But I’m not sure what that gets us.”

“And these kids are all controlled by that pitch pipe?”

“Like border collies, I guess,” I say, remembering the headbanging little girl.

“Only it couldn’t be that easy, could it?”

I look down at the pipe, wipe off the bully’s slimy saliva on my sleeve, and blow in it full force like a referee on a basketball court.

The entire roomful of bodies freezes and, almost in slow motion, every single kid collapses to the floor. No, no, no, no, no. What have I done?

Chapter 20