"Commander," says The One Who Is The One, "can you please tell me why I was not informed that there was a portal leading into the basement of the Acculturation Facility?"
"Your Eminence," he says, "there is no portal in the facility. It has a clean bill of health."
The One snorts so loudly that the portal commander actually jumps. "What you just said, those words you uttered with such confidence and aplomb, mean nothing to me. If I tell you there is a portal there, there is a portal there! Do you understand?"
"Well, Your Eminence, the entire facility was just inspected-less than a week ago."
"We have recorded evidence of small portals forming in a matter of twenty-four hours or less. It must be a new portal. Now do you understand?"
The commander shifts uncomfortably. "Indeed, sir." He clears his throat. "Have you-ah-considered the possibility of magic, sir?" He chuckles nervously, realizing the word is, of course, banned, except among the highest circles-or in certain emergencies, such as this one.
"Do you think that's funny?" demands The One. His voice is so cool and restrained it sends wave upon wave of shivers up the portal commander's spine.
The One turns away and watches as the security footage replays itself, grimacing as the witch hastily climbs over a carpet of-dead? slumbering?-soldiers, then disappears into darkness.
"She is definitely the one with The Gift," he mutters.
"Excuse me?" asks the portal commander.
"I need you to tell me where that portal leads. And I need you to dispatch your best commandos to go through it and infiltrate the Resistance fighters. Now! Don't fail me."
Chapter 22
Wisty
I can't begin to tell you how fantastic it is when we return to Garfunkel's-and a hero's welcome. Mr. Homecoming King Whit Allgood is, of course, used to it from his old life. But truants like me rarely get the crowds cheering.
Janine hurls herself at Whit and he doesn't seem to mind, obligingly wrapping his arms around her.
Meanwhile Emmet surprises me with a bear hug and holds on to me just a little longer than I would have expected him to. Maybe as if… he'd been a little worried about me?
He interrupts my pathetic little fantasy by rubbing his hands all over my creepy-looking head. "Bald is beautiful, baby!" He laughs.
I blush, but I'm elated. I'm so high that I can't even feel annoyed that Byron's getting lifted up on the shoulders of shaved-headed kids like a war hero. I let it slide. We couldn't have done it without him, I guess.
Byron howls idiotically-clearly on a head rush from "feeling the love" for the first time in his sad life, poor little weasel-and finally lets himself fall backward. The roaring crowd starts passing him above their heads as if we're in a throbbing mosh pit. It's madness. But it's totally great to celebrate something for a change. I'm soaking in the smiles rather than the usual tears and long faces.
Sasha knocks into me, and I grin at him. "If the weasel gets over here, I'm letting him drop," I say, staying in character. Eternally ungrateful Wisty.
Sasha ignores it. "You look very punk rock!" he shouts. "I like it. It suits you."
"And you look like a bucket of frozen lizard pus." I'm still grinning.
"I'm not kidding. You look totally hard-core. Maybe we could use you at the underground concert."
"What concert?" Someone bashes into me, and I'm almost thrown off balance. "Don't we have more important things on our plate?" I ask, though I admit I'm intrigued.
"This concert is important. It's a great opportunity to get new recruits to the cause. Trust me. Maybe even get some intelligence about what other Resistance units know. As a bonus, the concert breaks all their precious rules!"
God knows I'd love to hear some real music. Almost everything's been banned by the New Order for some moronic reason. Causes too much "disorder," I guess. And joy.
Suddenly I'm starving for music, and it's as if Sasha can read my mind. He pulls me away from the mosh pit and takes out his guitar from underneath one of the makeup counters.
"I've been rehearsing." He starts picking out a riff, and I smile-I know the song. It's been a lifetime since I've heard it, but chills run up my spine.
I jump in, singing right on the first line, and Sasha cuts off. "You know it?"
"Are you kidding? I live and breathe that song. Give me the guitar."
Sasha hands it over, looking bemused. But with the first chord I strum, I feel as if a switch inside me has been thrown into the on position-as if power is literally coursing through my body-and suddenly, even though the guitar's not plugged into anything, it sounds as if I'm hooked up to a sweet amplifier stack.
I take a few steps up the immobile escalator so I can survey the crowd below, and I belt out the famous song's first few lines. I close my eyes as I feel the lyrics swell up inside me and pour out with this crazy mix of joy and pain. I can't stop myself, and I sing this great tune that we all grew up with. It's called "Born to Fly," written and sung by Luce Winterstein, one of my faves.
And, as I sing the final chorus and open my eyes, I see the entire population of Garfunkel's looking up at me, Wisteria Allgood, and they're cheering, hooting, applauding. Meanwhile, Byron is still moshing-or being moshed?-down below.
I realize with a shock that the sound-that glorious blare of music that's so loud it's rattling my bones-isn't just in my mind. It's real! There's a wall of amplifiers that I apparently have conjured up out of thin air.
I strum the last power chord, hold it, and tack on a final "Oh yeah!"
Well, I guess I've got my mojo back anyway.
Chapter 23
Wisty
Everything about this is forbidden, banned, and maybe that's why it's so incredibly great. One step into the Stockwood Music Festival, and it feels as if you've been transported out of the New Order nightmare and into a dream of a place owned by us, ruled by us, and pumping with the fresh blood of music, very good music, astonishing music that just makes you want to dance-which is also forbidden.
"I don't know what Whit was thinking, passing up the opportunity to come here," I say to Janine, who's walking behind me, both of us bouncing on the balls of our feet. My brother had-characteristically-insisted on staying behind to protect the younger kids who needed to remain at Garfunkel's. And he had-uncharacteristically-mumbled some blah-blah about "having a feeling" something bad might happen if there was a "power vacuum" there.
But this… this was a once-in-a-New-Order-time experience. "I'm gonna kick Whit's tight little butt when we get back," I finish.
Janine blushes at the mention of Whit's butt. The girl's all brains and heart-but when you mention anything about bodies, she gets embarrassed. "Yeah," she says, and gets all therapist on me. "He needs this more than any of us."
The concert's being held in what was once the underground reservoir for a small village called Stockwood. It's been totally drained and is now just a stadium-size cavern, illuminated by portable road-crew lights. I feel as if I'm on a movie set, because I'm seeing people milling around in dress ranging from medieval monks' robes and ninja outfits to white face paint and black capes.
No wonder creativity's been banned. It's way too freaking cool for the New Order to handle.
"I didn't realize there was a come-as-your-favorite-comic-book-hero theme," I remark to Sasha and Emmet.
"Not exactly," says Sasha. "They've come here in costume to honor characters from the banned movies and books that they used to love."
"Love," I say. "Present tense." I won't let the N.O. take that away.
"Absolutely," drawls Emmet. "This is all an empowerment kinda thang."