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
Whit
"Oh my God, Whit. Are they -? Are they -?" Wisty is suddenly stuttering. I toss her the pitch pipe and run to the nearest fallen boy to check his pulse.
"Alive," I tell her, relief rushing over me. "But we're all dead if the Lab Boss comes back now. You've always been the musical one, Wist-you try it. Quick!"
She takes the pitch pipe and methodically plays a bunch of different scales across the three octaves in the instrument's range. After about a half dozen of them-Holy frijoles-every single one of the squad members is looking at us transfixed. But at least they're alive.
"Say something," whispers Wisty. "Give them a command."
"Stand up!" I bellow.
There's not even a pause. We stare dumbfounded as an entire room of kids gets up off the floor-and then starts bouncing in place. The weirdest part is… they're all smiling as they bounce.
"Wow," I say. It suddenly occurs to me that this is probably the most fun-resembling thing they've done in recent memory. That's my best guess anyway.
Wisty has to blow a couple of dozen notes just to get them to stop. In the process we manage to figure out that one note equals one command.
I'm getting anxious. "Sydney, the boss has just taken the longest wizzer ever, and he's gonna be back in seconds." Spy rule #1: Remain in character at all times. "Let's do this thing!"
My sister quickly plays about six scales and, pointing at me, yells, "Follow this guy!" And I take off out the lab door.
We burst into the hallway, with Wisty bringing up the rear of our sickly white-smocked platoon.
The only problem is that not twenty yards down the hall, coming back from his relief mission, is the Lab Boss.
"Stop, stop all of you! Stop in the name of The One -"
Without missing a beat, I charge forward-it's a Hail Mary move. I deliver a devastating right shoulder to the guy's solar plexus, sending him sprawling onto the institutional linoleum, where, before he can cover himself, he's promptly trampled by twenty-four groups of underage slave lab workers.
My head feels as if it's about to split open from the overpowered alarms that have somehow been set off and are now screaming from every corner. The hall's gone entirely dark except for emergency strobe lights.
As we clamber toward the basement stairwell, I hear boot steps rolling like thunder from above. A legion of them.
From behind me, Wisty's mad pipe-playing music tumbles frantically like the soundtrack of some silent horror movie from long ago. What is she doing?
"This way!" yells a voice from down the hall, away from the stairwell. Byron?
I turn and lead the kids toward his voice, praying he's still on his best behavior. The kids are actually pretty fast, maybe because they're used to moving quickly to get their chores done and avoid swinging billy clubs.
But they're not faster than the New Order's steroid-fed adult guards. The big jackbooted bullies are only about twenty yards away now. Fifteen? Ten?
Zzzziiiiiiick-ping! A stun-gun wire zips past my head and hits the metal railing next to my hand.
Byron's directing the kids through an alternate passageway, presumably to an underground exit. And Wisty's still playing like a freaking pied piper.
In the flashes of the strobe light, I catch sight of something surreal over my shoulder. Soldiers slowing down, swirling around Wisty… entranced… by the music?
We're going to make it, I think, just as six stun-gun bolts hit me in the back.
Chapter 21
"That'sher," mutters The One with a mixture of hatred and grudging respect. The security cameras in Acculturation Facility No. 73 had recorded the bizarre scene of guards-New Order elites, no less!-being subdued by, of all things, a mere three-octave Command Pipe. She was the only one who could have that kind of power…
The picture is quite dark and he can barely make out what is going on in the flashes of the alarm lights, but he is certain that Wisteria Allgood is the perpetrator of this crime. But how could she-and, presumably, her insipid brother-have gotten into the school? They're just stupid teenagers.
The One remembers the last time he lost her, in the plaza, then the mad chase through the city. She and her brother were Curves. They could travel through portals. Was it therefore possible that…?
"Bring me The One Who Commands The Portal Troops, now!" he yells.
A moment later a young man with carefully combed hair, an absurd-looking goatee, and a chin so weak it might be confused for his Adam's apple is escorted into the room by two burly guards. He wears a military uniform with a metallic N.O.P.E. insignia on his left breast-marking him as an official in the New Order Portal Elites, a squad of special commandos whose members are among the rare few Curves allowed in the New Order.