quickly. The only place the shots could have come from was deep within the flume. Patrick was in the dead center of its mouth.
“I’m sorry, Richard,” he whispered, and rested the old man down on the rock floor…and ran. He dodged to his right as two more pops were heard. They missed him, slamming into the stairs. Patrick pumped his knees, taking three steps at a time. It wasn’t just about survival. Patrick knew he had to get this information back to Pendragon. He had to let Pendragon know that Naymeer and the Ravinians were using the flume to exile their enemies to other parts of Halla. The flume was being used as the ultimate weapon in Saint Dane’s quest to control Halla. He no longer had to destroy those who didn’t fit in with his plans-all he needed to do was send them elsewhere. But where? There was no way to know.
Then there was the Bronx Massacre. What was it?
Patrick reached the top of the stairs, squeezed through the opening in the steel doors, and sprinted for the car. He stayed low, hoping to make a smaller target. He got to the car without having another shot fired at him, and dove inside. Patrick had never driven an old car. He was used to the quiet, electric vehicles of his Third Earth. He had watched Richard. He twisted the ignition key. The engine turned over.
“Yes!”
He hit the gas and spun the wheel. The car skid across the asphalt, kicking up dirt and gravel. Patrick aimed for the front gates and jammed his foot to the floor. The old vehicle squeaked and complained, but it moved. Fast. With each second he felt more comfortable behind the wheel. He felt sure he was going to make it. All he would have to do was figure out how to drive the car back to the Bronx and the other flume. He didn’t want to leave Richard, but there was no choice. He had to get to the other flume. He had to get to Bobby.
He was ten yards from the front gate when a large truck shot in front of the opening, directly in front of the speeding car. The truck skidded to a stop, blocking the way. Patrick wasn’t an experienced driver. Even if he had reacted quickly, he was still driving too fast. He slammed on the brakes. It was too late. He hit the side of the truck at full speed. The crash was violent. Patrick flew into the windshield, vaguely aware of glass shattering. He bounced back into the front seat, stunned. The world swam around him. He was hurt. Badly. He knew it. He knew he’d never make it to the flume. He forced himself to focus. He had to warn Pendragon.
Gasping for breath, he found the pad of paper Richard had given him. He couldn’t move his right arm. It was broken. The pain told him so. He used his left. Patrick fumbled for the paper and wrote. He coughed, sending a spray of blood splattering across the page. Patrick knew he didn’t have much time left. The pooling blood on the floor was proof of that. He would have to convey all that he knew in a few words. As he wrote, more of his blood dripped onto the page. He fought the dizziness that was quickly overtaking him. He forced himself to think. What words to use? What words?
He finished writing and took off his Traveler ring.
“Second Earth,” he croaked weakly.
The ring came to life. Relief. He fought to stay alert for a few seconds more. The world swirled. He wished the ring would work faster. Light blasted from the circle. The portal was open. Patrick’s last act was to clutch the bloody piece of paper and drop it inside.
He had done it. His mission was complete. The ring returned to normal.
Patrick was alone. There were no Travelers there to help him. No one to heal him. No one to save his life. He had dodged death once. This time he wouldn’t be so lucky.
“Good luck, Pendragon” were the last words spoken by Patrick Mac, the Traveler from Third Earth.
(CONTINUED)
SECOND EARTH
“Whatdoesitsay?” Alder asked, groggy, as he rolled over in his bunk.
I clutched the bloody note. The message was cryptic and hurried. It was barely legible. I hoped it was because Patrick only used computers and had lousy penmanship. I was kidding myself. Patrick was in trouble. Or worse. Blood is never an indication of something good.
“It’s from Patrick,” I answered.
Alder sat up, suddenly wide awake. “Did he learn something of Naymeer?”
I nodded and handed him the note. He looked at it carefully, feeling the moisture. He gave meaconcerned look and read Patrick’s words: “N. exiles enemies through flume. Begins w/Bronx Massacre. Patrick.”
Alder read the words aloud once, then twice. “‘N.’ is Naymeer?” he asked.
“That’s my guess,” I replied.
“What isaBronx?”
“It’s where the other flume is.”
“How can Naymeer send people into exile? The flume can only be used with a Traveler.”
“Unless the Convergence has changed things,” I said soberly.
Alder added, “Then where would Naymeer send them?”
I sat up and rubbed my eyes. I was tired and wired at the same time. “I don’t know. What if he doesn’t send them anywhere? Massacre and exile aren’t the same things.”
“The flume is not an execution device, Pendragon,” Alder corrected.
Reading Patrick’s note may have raised more questions than it answered, but it cemented something in my head.
“Patrick wrote this Bronx Massacre is where it begins,” I said thoughtfully. “Sounds like a turning point to me.”
Alder nodded. “Perhaps it is the first time that Naymeer will use the flume to exile his enemies.”
“Or murder them,” I cautioned.
“Whatever it is, we must stop it,” Alder declared.
I looked down. I didn’t like where my head was going. The last-ditch plan I’d thought of earlier suddenly felt a lot more like a possibility. Unfortunately.
“Tell me your thoughts, Pendragon,” Alder said softly.
“This is too big for us,” I answered. “You said it yourself. This is a busy territory. You have no idea how right you are. We’re not talking about primitive tribes or local conflicts here. The problem is global. I’m telling you, altering world events isn’t a simple thing. Naymeer has a huge following. His cult is about to get recognized by the United Nations. That’s a worldwide organization! It’ll be impossible for us to convince enough people that he’s leading them down a dangerous path. I wouldn’t know where to begin.”
“But we must try,” Alder muttered.
“Trust me, we can’t handle something that big. Our only hope is to think small.”
Alder nodded thoughtfully. “Have you an idea?”
I took a deep, uneasy breath and continued, “This is all about Naymeer. He’s the center of it all. Saint Dane may be pulling his strings, but Naymeer is the voice of Ravinia.”
Alder gave me a sober look. I think he knew where I was headed. I didn’t like it any more than he did.
I continued, “If we take Naymeer out of the picture, Ravinia might crumble.”
“Are you suggesting what I think you are?”
I nodded. “We should try and get him off Second Earth. If we remove the head, the body might die.”
“We would have to get him to a flume,” Alder said thoughtfully. “That will be difficult. He is protected.”
“It’ll be next to impossible,” I shot back. “Short of that, there’s only one other thing we can do.”
Alder said it first. “Are you suggesting we kill him? Kill a Traveler?”
Hearing the words made it sound even worse, but it was exactly what I was thinking. I nodded. I couldn’t believe it. I was actually thinking that we would have to kill Naymeer. “Unless you have a better idea,” I added hopefully.
Alder leaned back against the hull. I didn’t think I’d ever seen him look so centered. So serious. I waited for him to respond, but he stayed silent, lost in his thoughts.
“Talk to me, Alder!” I finally shouted. “Am I crazy?”
Alder was calm. He spoke softly, but with authority. “We have done many things that go against our mandate
