D. MacHale - Raven Rise

Patrick went for the stairs and had to descend only a few steps to see it, just as he suspected. Sitting on the far side of a plain, cement-walled basement room, recessed in the wall, was the flume.

“It’s the Sherwood house,” he gasped.

“I don’t know anything about a Sherwood house,” Richard said. “Seems to me it was more like a house of horrors.” Richard stepped into the mouth of the flume and continued. “From the accounts I’ve pieced together, Naymeer himself would preside. The poor people they called ‘relos’ were led down here and told to walk inside the tunnel. Naymeer would stand here with his ring and activate this infernal device. The people would walk in and that would be the last anyone ever saw of them. This was how the Ravinians got rid of those they didn’t feel worthy.”

“No!” Patrick blurted out. “That doesn’t make sense.” His mind was working too fast to worry about being discreet. “The flume only works for Travelers. It’s dangerous for anybody else to use it.”

“Dangerous?” Richard scoffed. “Those poor people were executed! Can’t get any more dangerous than that!”

“No,” Patrick blathered. “That’s not how it works. The flume doesn’t kill people.”

“Then what happened to them?” Richard shot back. “They went in and didn’t come back out. By the thousands. If somebody didn’t fit the Ravinian profile, the person was either used as a slave, or categorized as a relo and sent here. That’s what they’re trying to hide, Teacher. Genocide. It lasted for decades. Once Naymeer got too old to continue, he passed the ring on to his acolytes. That’s what he called them. Acolytes. The Ravinians purged the world of anyone they thought was inferior or didn’t agree with their philosophy. It wasn’t about race or religion or even politics. It was all about the individual’s ability to contribute. If you fell on one side of the line and were a productive, intelligent person, you lived comfortably. If you fell on the other side of the line, you could end up a relo and sent here. It was all about reducing the excess population, taking stress off of an overburdened system, and allowing the elite to thrive. That’s how they were able to take control. If you caused trouble, you were gone.”

Patrick paced, shaking his head. “It can’t be.”

“Why not?” Richard asked. “Because you don’t believe people are capable of such evil? That they can flat out exterminate their enemies? History proves you wrong, Teacher. The Ravinians prove you wrong. Heck, what happened up here was nothing compared to the Bronx Massacre.”

Patrick whipped a look at Richard. “Bronx Massacre?”

“You never heard of that either?” Richard snarled. “What kind of a teacher are you?”

Patrick stalked toward Richard. “A confused one. What was the Bronx Massacre?”

Richard sniffed. “Only the event that started it all. It put the Ravinians in power. They showed what they were capable of and took the world hostage.”

Patrick was doing his best to control his voice and his emotions. “Richard, what exactly was the Bronx Massacre?”

Patrick heard a pop. It sounded like a firecracker. The sound reverberated off the stone walls of the flume.

“What was that?” Patrick asked.

He looked to Richard. The old man gazed back with glassy eyes. He opened his mouth to speak, but instead collapsed. Patrick caught him. l

“Richard!” he called out.

Patrick pulled his hand away, to find it covered with blood. Richard’s blood. He’d been shot. Patrick looked up 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)

“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.