The Gift

potential from all that time I hadn’t been using any of it.

“Sweet,” says Wisty as she takes her dog. “Maybe you did learn something at the BNW Center.”

“I don’t give them credit for anything beyond learning to love lima beans,” I joke. “Which, actually, is a handy skill when times are lean and mean. Remember when Mom and Dad were, like, the emperors of discount vacations? I swear we spent more time in the woods than we did indoors.”

Wisty nods, and we start roasting our dogs. “Remember that time it was raining so badly and Dad slipped and fell off the path into the swamp and all the food was in his pack and it got ruined?” She laughs.

“Yeah. It was a long hike back to civilization for dinner,” I say, but I’m remembering something else now about that day. “Weird…”

“What?”

“I never mentioned this ’cause it didn’t mean anything to me at the time. I overheard Dad saying to Mom something like ‘We could just solve this the easy way, Liz.’ And then Mom said, ‘We promised each other never to take the easy way. Especially with the kids. They need to learn the hard way.’”

Wisty takes it in. “You think they meant magic? Or whatever it is that we’re doing-‘realizing our potential’?”

“I think they didn’t want us to just rely on magic to get what we wanted. I guess that’s why they didn’t teach us about it at all. They wanted us to -”

“Learn to do stuff the hard way? So we’d understand what the rest of the world was going through?”

I nod. “Could be.”

“Well, Mom and Dad, wherever you are…” Wisty looks up at the sky. “We’re learning the hard way. The really hard way. Hope you’re happy. Somehow, I really hope you’re happy.”

Chapter 71

“I’LL ASK IT AGAIN in case somebody’s actually listening this time: do I have to do everything around here myself?” demands The One Who Is The One.

The One Who Tallies the Internal Revenues, Byron Swain’s father, stands behind him and shakes his head in disgust.

The One’s overseers of pedagogical technology, facilities, and discipline are standing over the smashed circuit boards that had formerly contained the ERSA computer program-the system that had been in charge of the Brave New World Center. All three are fairly shaking under the wrathful eyes of The One.

“Your Eminence, it would appear they escaped through the toilet fixture because Byron Swain -”

“For the last time, and I assure you this is the last time I will ever remind you, citizens are not to be addressed with Old Order names! These can lead to insidious individualistic tendencies. His name is now The One Who Infiltrates The Resistance Leadership! And his punishment will be nothing short of torture, I assure you.”

The One smiles at Byron Swain’s father, then studies him for a reaction. The man offers not a flinch of discomfort.

“The fact that there are not filters on the toilets, the fact that the dampening shields were not consistently employed, and the fact that this moronic computer program of yours decided to grant a toilet request to the two most powerful dynacompetents in our custody are just the beginning of where the true failure lies!”

“We’re already in the process of correcting those problems.”

“Not necessary. Those of us who are competent enough to wear the insignia of the New Order will deal with this. Those of you not competent shall have the insignia removed. Or, rather”-he chuckles-“the insignia will have you removed.”

With that, he throws out his hands and vaporizes the three BNW Center administrators-everything, that is, but the “N.O.” insignia on their uniforms.

“Somebody pick those up,” he says, pressing the intercom button on his desk. “And send in the Informant.”

Byron Swain is escorted into the room at once. Though his hair lacks its hallmark camera-ready coif and his eyes are puffed with weariness, he holds his head high.

“Your Eminence,” Byron begins, looking The One di-rectly in the eye.

The One raises his stick threateningly. “Who dares to speak to me before I speak?”

“I do, sir,” Byron continues with his steady gaze. “I know I have failed you, sir. I have been a traitor to this Great Order. I fully accept my punishment. I am ready.”

The One pauses, then studies Byron. “So very brave indeed! I wouldn’t normally expect that from any son of”- he gestures to his minister of internal revenues-“that one.”

“Nor would I, sir,” Byron says without missing a beat, inspiring chuckles from The One. There will be no more merciless beatings from his father after his execution, so Byron feels empowered to speak the truth for once in his life.

The One is rapt with bemusement. “I like the spirit, boy, I do, I do. I’m so saddened that my dreams for you have been… delayed.”

“Delayed? Sir?” Having expected nothing less than death, Byron cannot process his meaning.

“I’m well aware of your… inclinations toward our escaped redheaded witch. Since she rejects you, you wish nothing but to die. To die as the hero that saved her life. So tragic! The stuff of stage drama. Thank goodness we’ve outlawed all of that whimsical drivel and nonsense.”

Byron begins to get nervous. “I wish nothing but to be executed in shame for my betrayal to you, sir.”

“You lie!” The One thunders, quite literally, as his anger shakes the entire building. “Your punishment will either kill you, quite excruciatingly, I might add, or else it will transform you into the kind of man we need for positions of high leadership in this Order.”

“Sir?” Byron says again, his throat drying as he feels his well of courage-the one that has taken days to fill- starting to run low.

“You are now officially in charge of the Kill Team to once and for all rectify this situation.”

Byron swallows. “The Kill Team, Your Eminence?”

“In our efforts to apprehend and control The One Who Has The Gift, we have spent altogether too much time and too many reliable resources -”

“Exactly three point seven million B.N.s,” interjects The One Who Tallies The Internal Revenues.

“Such waste!” screams The One. “Clearly my single-minded pursuit of her has been too much of a drain. And so I have decided, since we cannot wrest The Gift from her, we will remove the threat she poses. Put simply, we will kill her. Or, rather, you will kill her.”

“Sir?” Byron says yet again.

“You started out so well, boy. You impressed me, if but for a moment. Alas, like so many commoners, you’ve fallen prey to nothing but adolescent physical attraction. Waste, waste, waste! I do so hope that you’ll return to your senses.

“Regardless, you will kill the girl. Your team will kill the girl. Or else you will bring her back alive, and I will kill her, slowly and painfully, in front of your pathetic puppy-dog eyes.”

BOOK THREE. THE END OF THE ALLGOODS Chapter 72