The Gift

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?