The technician froze the frame. I looked right into the eyes of the smiling man onscreen. I knew him. It was the guy with the short hair and golf shirt from the conclave. It was Saint Dane.
“What is it, Pendragon?” Alder asked.
“He was at the conclave,” I said. “He’s a Ravinian.”
“Are you sure?” Haig asked.
I grabbed the guy with the headset and squeezed his shoulder. “Where is he sitting?”
“Uh, uh…field level. Behind the third-base dugout.” I ran for the door. Alder caught up and stopped me before I could run out. “Who is that man?”
“It’s Saint Dane. That was the guy he turned into after we crashed through the window at the conclave. He’s here, Alder.”
“I will go with you.”
“No, stay with Haig. Don’t let anything happen to him.”
“What will you do?”
“I don’t know.”
I left the trailer and sprinted around the stage, hitting the crowd that was being held back by blue police barricades. There was a sea of people between me and the third-base dugout. I plunged in, trying to move quickly without knocking anybody over. The crowd was pretty calm as they listened to the actors speak. Everyone moved aside to let me by. For all they knew, I was just some guy who was desperate to get to the bathroom. I finally made it to the edge of the dugout and scanned the crowd. The dugout was about twenty yards long, with hundreds of people behind it. I didn’t think there was any way I would find him. Turned out I didn’t have to.
He found me.
While everyone was focused on the stage, the guy who was Saint Dane was turned toward me. He was standing in the front row eating popcorn. Popcorn! We made eye contact. He waved at me. I moved along the field in front of the dugout, until we faced each other across the roof. He looked like an unassuming, clean-cut guy who was there to enjoy a day at the ballpark.
“Quite the show,” he called out. “Are you enjoying it?”
“What’s going to happen?”
“That would be telling,” he said, teasing. “Look!”
He pointed to the giant video screen above the bleachers in the outfield. On the screen was a live image of the General Assembly room of the United Nations. It was unmistakable. The giant UN logo hanging behind the podium was an image that everybody knew. I’d seen it in a million movies, but this was the real deal. The assembly room was packed. A sober-looking man in a suit stood behind the podium. What was his title? Secretary General? General Secretary? President? Whatever. He was the guy in charge. The guy who held the future of Halla in his hands.
At the stadium, people’s attention shifted quickly to the screen. The actor onstage stopped talking. An eerie quiet fell over the stadium. It was hard to believe that so many people could become so still so quickly.
This was it. This was the announcement. I knew that in a few seconds, one way or another, I would be witnessing the turning point of Second Earth. Of Halla. The man cleared his throat, stepped up to the microphone, and spoke in English.
“We live in troubled times,” he began. “We speak of world peace, but that is an elusive goal. The United Nations was formed to promote peace, security, and international cooperation. Our mandate is the same today as it was then, but the challenges have evolved. We enjoy a global economy. Technology has made the world a smaller place, yet disputes between nations, peoples, tribes, and ideologies still tear at the very fabric of peace. The road we have been on for so long is deteriorating. If positive, dramatic change is not effected, the future will be a bleak one. The world needs vision. The world needs hope. Not for any individual nation, but for the world as a whole. With that in mind, today, the General Assembly of the United Nations has voted by an overwhelming margin, to designate the Conclave of Ravinia as the spiritual advisor to the member nations of the United Nations-”
I didn’t hear another word the guy said. He was drowned out by boos. And shouts. And whistles. And sobs. I turned to Saint Dane. The demon gave me an innocent little shrug and fake frown, as if to say, “Sorry!”
The last bit of hope was gone. As impressive as this rally was, it had failed to make a difference. I stood there among the people of the Foundation, genuinely fearful of what would become of them in the new world order that was being formed by Alexander Naymeer. By Saint Dane.
The boos and whistles were suddenly drowned out by another sound. At first I thought it was rolling thunder, but the sky was clear. All eyes looked up toward the video screen, but it wasn’t the screen that was giving off the sound. Moving through the sky, appearing over the scoreboard, were three large military-style helicopters. They swooped over the top of the stadium like three giant birds of prey, scanning for their next meal. They entered the airspace over the stadium, hovering above the empty outfield. Simultaneously, three lines dropped down to the ground, one from each helicopter. The crowd watched in wonder as Ravinian red shirts began to slide down the zip lines, headed for the stadium grass.
At the same time, the outfield fences opened and buses began rolling in-the same buses we had seen outside. I looked around to see how the police were reacting. They were gone. Not a single blue uniform was in sight.
I glanced at Saint Dane. He was gone. That surprised me. I thought he would have wanted to stick around to witness the Bronx Massacre for himself.
JOURNAL #36
(CONTINUED)
SECOND EARTH
Onehelicopter landed in center field. The other two remained hovering and disgorging dados. The buses charged into left and right field, digging up grass. When they stopped, the doors flew open and red-shirt dados began pouring out.
The crowd wasn’t in full-on panic. Yet. As a whole, they began moving backward, as if repelled by the sight of the sudden, dramatic arrival of the red shirts. I think there was as much confusion going on as anything else. Still, the people in that stadium looked as if they all felt it might be a good idea to be somewhere else. Those who were standing in front of the stage climbed back into the stands. The people in the stands moved toward the exits. It wasn’t a mad rush, but it was a definite, massive movement…
That was abruptly ended.
Red-shirt dados, spewing from every exit that led under the stands, pushed the people back. To keep them in. There was one big difference between these red shirts and any others I’d seen. They weren’t carrying Tasers.
They were holding machine guns.
I looked to the higher levels, where the same thing was happening. Dados appeared at all the exits, blocking the way. Nobody was allowed to leave. The scene on ground level was more intense because of the people trying to push their way off the field.
Confusion was quickly turning to fear.
People scrambled past me, but there was nowhere to go other than to jam the field-level boxes, which were already packed with people. I knew it would only be a matter of time before panic set in. The crowd would try to rush the dados. What would happen then? Would they start shooting? Was this how the Bronx Massacre would play out? Were thousands of people about to be gunned down in cold blood?
“My friends!” came a calming voice over the stadium speaker.
I looked back to the stage to see another performer had arrived. Alexander Naymeer. He stood alone onstage, wearing his dark red robe. His face appeared on the giant video screen above.
The crowd reaction was all over the map. Some booed. Some cried. Some angrily tried to shout him off the stage. Naymeer was unaffected. He stood there with a benign smile, gazing out at the madness as if proud of his
