I wasn’t in the mood to explain anything to anybody. Especially somebody who called me a “bozo.”
“Drive,” I snapped.
The big guy shrugged and revved the engine. “Whatever you say. The professor says I gotta get you there, I’ll get you there. That’s my job. But I was wonderin’ why do you two get the VIP treatment when—”
“Drive!” I shouted again.
He did. With a quick lurch, we were off.
Traffic was light, so we were able to move quickly uptown, toward the Bronx. Toward a potential massacre.
“You got a phone?” I called to the driver.
“Sure? Want it?”
“Yeah.”
He grabbed his cell phone off the seat next to him and tossed it to me. “Don’t go making any long-distance calls.”
“I have to talk to Professor Gastigian. What’s his number?”
“He doesn’t have a cell,” the big guy answered.
“You’re kidding! Somebody in that car must have one!”
“Nope. The professor hates ’em. He doesn’t let anybody carry one around him. He says we all got by just fine for a long time without cell phones.”
“Until today,” I grumbled, and tossed the useless phone back into the front seat.
“I do not know what to do, Pendragon,” Alder said, sounding less than his usual confident self. “I am at a loss to understand your territory.”
“We might be wrong. Wiping out a stadium full of people isn’t exactly a small thing. Naymeer has a lot of power and influence, but unless he’s got some kind of massive weapon, things might be okay.”
The driver turned around and gave me a strange look. “Do I want to know what you’re talking about?”
“No,” we both said together.
“I hope you are right,” Alder said. “My instincts tell me otherwise.”
Mine did too. We had gone from thinking this rally might be the salvation of Halla, to fearing it would be the most horrific disaster in history. The Bronx Massacre. That’s what Patrick wrote. We thought for sure it was the incident at the flume. But that would seem like a footnote if something horrific were to happen to a stadium full of people. Was Naymeer capable of doing something so diabolical? To what end? Fear? Intimidation? Or was having so many of those opposed to him, all in one place, too tempting to pass up? With one deadly swipe he could wipe out the most vocal of the people who resisted him. Would the rest of the world stand for that? Or would they be too frightened of Naymeer to bring him to justice?
How could he wipe out an entire stadium of people anyway? It was all seeming kind of far fetched. I hoped I wasn’t talking myself into believing that everything was going to be fine, but the hard truth was that even if we knew for certain the people in the stadium were in danger, we had no way of helping them.
I had been to Yankee Stadium many times before. I’m a Yankees fan. Or I was a Yankees fan. I had no idea who was on the team anymore. Or who the manager was. Or who had won the last four World Series. It seems strange to think how important baseball used to be for me. My dad took me to a lot of games. He even took me and Uncle Press to a World Series game. Yankee Stadium was a special place for me.
When we crossed the bridge to leave Manhattan, we saw it. I caught sight of the familiar blue letters that ringed the upper rim of the stadium and made a brief wish that someday I’d get the chance to see a ball game again. Any ball game. Anywhere. I might as well have wished to sprout wings and fly.
The parking lots surrounding the stadium were already packed. The rally was under way.
“Where do we go?” I asked the driver.
“We’re gonna drive right inside near left field,” he answered. “I never been down on the field. Maybe I’ll get a Yankee autograph.”
The guy was an idiot.
Alder stared up at the stadium, wide eyed.
“You were not exaggerating,” he said. “It is colossal.”
There was a big police presence. I guess that’s what happens when a protest is going on. Especially one with multiple thousands of angry people. Alder and I ducked down, in case some overeager cop recognized us and decided to be a hero by bringing down the terrorists. We drove along the outer wall of the stadium that ran parallel to the third-base line. The police waved us through with no problem. As we swung around toward the gate in left field, my eye caught something. Parked across the street from the stadium was a line of buses. They looked like the same buses that had picked up the Ravinians after the abrupt end of the conclave. I wouldn’t have thought twice about it, except that standing at the doorway to each of the buses was a red-shirt dado. Why were they there? This wasn’t a Ravinian show.
I nudged Alder and pointed. He saw the dados and frowned.
“That is not a good sign,” he said gravely.
We didn’t have time to wonder what it could mean. Our car was being waved inside an open gate. We had arrived. Though I had been to Yankee Stadium many times, the first moment that I got a peek inside the park itself was always a breathtaking one, if only for the sheer size of the place. A day at the ballpark was as much about the sensory experience as it was the game. I loved seeing the perfectly manicured, brilliant green grass and razor-sharp diamond. We drove through the gates, past the bull pen, and right onto the warning track in left field. It was like a dream come true for a baseball fan. Too bad I wasn’t enjoying it.
Alder was so overwhelmed by the sight that he pushed himself back into his seat. It wasn’t exactly like going to a ball game, but the experience wasn’t any less impressive. The place was packed. I mean, totally packed. World Series packed. There wasn’t an empty seat anywhere. You couldn’t even see the aisles, because people crowded the stairs. A big stage was erected over second base, complete with a lighting grid and a huge bank of speakers. If I didn’t know better, I’d say it was set up for a rock concert. It even sounded like one. A guy with a guitar was onstage singing. I recognized him but couldn’t remember his name. I know my parents listened to him a lot. I guess he was real popular back in the day, but I doubted that he ever played to an audience this big. The giant screen in center field showed his image as he sang some old song that I didn’t know the name of.
People were allowed down on the field in front of the stage. They were packed in, shoulder to shoulder. Behind the stage, the grass of the outfield was empty. A couple of cars and limos were parked there, which is probably how the performers got in and out. Even the outfield bleachers were packed. Standing room only. In all, it was an impressive rally. Professor Gastigian had done his job. It was actually good to see how many people were willing to take a stand against Naymeer and the Ravinians. I had to believe that these people represented only a fraction of the people in the world who didn’t agree with him, or his vision. It made me feel as if there might be hope yet.
It also scared the hell out of me. If anything bad were to happen here, anything, lots of people would get hurt. The idea of Naymeer trying something so villainous seemed impossible. But the impossible often happened. Every day.
The driver steered us behind the stage, where a big, eighteen-wheeler truck was parked.
“The professor’s in there,” he said. “And hey, if you see a Yankee, get me an autograph, all right?”
“What is a Yankee?” Alder asked.
The driver gave him a sideways look. “Where you from? Mars?”
“Denduron, actually.”
I had had enough of the witty banter with the driver, so I jumped out of the car. As soon as I opened the door, I was hit with a rush of noise. Besides the old guy onstage singing some ancient song, the people in the stands were chanting and singing. They swayed back and forth, repeating phrases like the protestors used outside the conclave: “We the people,” “Liberty and justice,” “All men are created equal.” It seemed that whichever way I turned, I was hit with a different wave of singing. Unlike the protesters outside of the conclave, these people were calm. Police were patrolling everywhere, but
there were no problems. There were homemade signs everywhere, and hands waving in the air. It was a totally peaceful, positive event. Maybe everyone was on good behavior because the world was watching. Or maybe they knew they were fighting a losing battle and this was their last party. There were TV cameras all around us, mostly on the backs of camera guys who ran around catching the flavor of it all. It was an amazing, impressive spectacle. I hoped it would stay that way.
Alder and I ran to the truck and climbed the few metal stairs that led to a door. Inside we saw it was a TV control truck. One whole wall was taken up with small video monitors that showed the feeds from the various cameras roaming the stadium. Some were on the guy with the guitar, but most of the cameras were trained on the faces of the people. As different as they all were, they shared the same sad, frightened look. They all feared that their world was about to change, and not for the better.
A couple of technicians sat in front of the monitors, with a guy I figured was the director because he was calling out camera changes.
“Camera One, pan left. Let’s see some faces. Take! Ready four, pull back from the guitar. Take. Dissolve to three. Dissolve to six. Nice!” He went on and on like that. It would have been interesting if I hadn’t been thinking about imminent genocide.
“Pendragon! Alder!” Professor Gastigian bellowed.
Haig strode toward us from the far end of the truck. In his hand he grasped a handful of papers. The guy was totally lit up with excitement. His eyes sparkled.
“Isn’t this wonderful?” he announced. “Seventy thousand plus. They have to be taking note of this at the UN. They have to be listening.” He held up the pages. “Look. E-mails. Hundreds of them. Thousands. From all over the world, offering support for us and condemnation of the Ravinians.”
“Professor,” I said, “we have to talk about something important.”
“What’s more important than this? Look!”
He led us back to the TV monitors and pointed at the screens on the far right side.
“Look there,” he said. “The UN.”
On several video monitors were shots of the protest happening in front of the famous United Nations building. Hundreds of people marched with signs, chanting. It was as peaceful and impressive as the event at Yankee Stadium.
“Yeah, it’s terrific,” I said. “But there’s a chance that—”
“Look at them. Five thousand strong at the UN alone,” Haig declared. “These images are being sent all over the world, live. Every network is carrying it. Live. The news channels too.”
“When is the vote?” Alder asked.
“It’s happening right now,” Haig answered. “They should make an announcement at any time. The eyes of the world are on us. I have to believe that goes for the General Assembly as well. This has to give them pause.”
“Professor, listen, these people might be in danger—”
“Of course they are! That’s what this is all about!” He leaned down to the TV director and said, “Be sure to get lots of close-ups in the stands. We have to put a face on the Foundation. We want the world to see that we’re all just regular people.”
Haig was too wired to listen to anything I had to say. He was like a Ping-Pong ball bouncing around the trailer. But I had to try.
“Something might happen here. Right now.”
“I certainly hope so,” Haig replied. “Are you ready to go out there and talk to them?”
Talk? I’d forgotten all about it. Haig wanted me to speak to this crowd. To the world. He wanted me to tell them about Halla. I wasn’t ready for that.
“No, listen, we saw buses with red-shirt guards outside and—”
“Intimidation tactics. Nothing more. Are you sure you won’t speak? Now is the time.”
“Professor! I’m trying to tell you that Naymeer might be planning something to hurt these people right here! Right now!”
Haig finally focused on me. I had gotten through.
“You have my attention,” he said soberly.
“Alder and I heard about an event called ‘the Bronx Massacre.’ After what we saw Naymeer do to his enemies last night, who’s to say he wouldn’t try something just as horrible right here? He has seventy thousand of his enemies together, all in one place. He’ll never have another chance like this.”
Haig looked shaken. I’m sure he was thinking the same thing we were. If something nasty was going to happen, how could they quickly evacuate so many people? It would be impossible.
I looked to the many TV screens and the thousands of faces. I couldn’t imagine the nightmare. The guitar guy had finished singing, and there was now some actor dude and his actress wife onstage, talking about the evils of Ravinia. The people had stopped their chanting and singing. All eyes were focused on the couple. I watched as one camera panned a row of people who were all looking at the stage. As the camera moved past them, I saw so many different people with so many different lives that—according to the Ravinians—were worthless. I imagined the same happening all over Halla. There would be Batu and the gars. Milago and Novans. The worlds would change, but the frightened looks would be the same.
How could Saint Dane consider these people to be worthless? Maybe they weren’t geniuses. They might not have had any special talent or calling. They might not be leaders. Or visionaries. But they cared. Their being at that rally proved it. These were people who had families and friends. They cared about their futures as much as any of Naymeer’s “chosen.” They had come from all over the world to show just how much they cared. Didn’t that count for something? As I looked at their faces, I realized that Naymeer had gotten it wrong. Saint Dane had gotten it wrong. These people were the chosen. These ordinary people were the life and soul of the world. Every world. There is no such thing as perfection. Anywhere. No world is perfect. It is the spirit and heart of people like these—the ordinary people—that keep it all from falling into chaos. These people are the backbone of Halla.
That’s why Saint Dane wants them gone. I had been witness to countless horrors unleashed by Saint Dane. It wasn’t until that moment, as I watched the faces of his next victims, that I fully appreciated how truly evil a creature he is.
I watched as one camera continued its slow pan across the many faces. Oddly, it moved past a guy who wasn’t looking in the same direction as everyone else. It was so strange that it nearly made me jump. He was actually looking right into the camera, as if he knew it was there. He even had a little smile on his face. The camera continued past him and on to more people, who were focused on the stage.
“Go back. Go back!” I shouted to the people at the control panel.
One guy wearing a headset glanced back at me. “Go away!” he barked, and went back to work. I got right into his face and shouted, “I have to see somebody on that camera!” I pointed to the screen where I had seen the strange guy.
The man with the headset looked to Haig. “Who is this guy?” he asked, meaning me.
I answered, “I’m the terrorist. Do what I say or I’ll terrorize you.”
The guy focused on me. I saw a look of recognition as the color drained from his face. “It is you,” he gasped. “The one who disappeared.”
“Yeah, nice to meet you. Get that camera back where it was.”
“Do it, please,” Haig chimed in.
The guy was shaken. He ran his fingers over the buttons in front of him as if not sure what to do. “Uh, uh…which camera?”
“That one,” I screamed, pointing to the monitor.
“I can play back what you saw,” he mumbled nervously.
“Do it!” I demanded.
The guy fumbled with a few buttons as we all stared at the screen. He finally got the right one, and the picture did a quick rewind.
“Stop!” I shouted. “Go from there.”
He hit play. We all watched the same shot I had been staring at a few seconds before. The camera panned across the sea of faces that were all looking in the same direction. It then moved past the
guy who was looking right into the camera.
“Whoa, that’s kind of creepy,” the technician muttered.
“Freeze it!” I shouted.
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.
Raven Rise Page 44
