D. MacHale - The Pilgrims of Rayne

“Mark Dimond?” the woman exclaimed. “Sure enough, you just missed him, dear. He picked up his books not five minutes ago.”

Courtney felt as if she’d been hit with a hammer.

“He-He did?” she stuttered. “You’re sure his name was Mark Dimond?”

“Sure as can be,” she said sweetly, looking through a stack of cards. “I spelled his name incorrectly, and he was quick to point out there was no ‘a’ in Dimond. Sweet young lad.”

Courtney was still reeling. “Dark hair? Bad skin? Glasses?”

“Yes, dear, that’s him. Is there a problem?”

“No,” Courtney blurted out. “No problem. What’s his cabin number?”

The woman held the cards close to her chest. Courtney sensed a sudden air of suspicion. “Forgive me,” she said curtly. “I’m not at liberty to give out that information. What did you say your name was?”

“I didn’t,” Courtney said as she backed toward the door. “Did he say where he was going?”

“Indeed he did. He planned on watching the sunset on the stern with his friend. It’s a wonderful sight.”

“Thank you,” Courtney said. “Thank you very much.” She turned for the door, stopped short, and looked back to the librarian. “His friend?”

“Yes. Quite the pretty girl, I must say. That Mr. Dimond must be a catch if he’s got two such lovely ladies chasing after him.”

Courtney blasted out of the library and hurried for the Promenade Deck. She nearly knocked over a steward as she launched out of Regent Street and sprinted along the wooden deck toward the stern of the ship. She didn’t care who gave her a second look. Mark was on the ship. She’d just missed him. Her heart raced, and it wasn’t because she was running.

The deck wasn’t crowded anymore. Courtney figured everyone was getting settled in and ready for their fancy dinners. That was good. Less people to dodge. She made it to the end of the enclosed portion of the Promenade Deck and ran outside to face a big, orange November sun that was setting over the coast of the United States. The passengers outside were silhouetted against the orange ball, so it was difficult to make out details. She ran to the aft railing of the Promenade Deck and looked to the decks below.

Many people were outside to enjoy the sunset. All eyes were to the west. Nobody was looking back at her. Her frustration grew. It was impossible to make anybody out. She was about to start sprinting along each deck to get a closer look at the people when her eye caught something two decks below. There was a couple standing close to each other. They wore long, dark gray woolen coats to keep the sea chill away. The man wore one of those fedora hats. The woman was a few inches taller than he was. Her hair was dark brown, cut just above her shoulders. It was parted on the side and perfectly combed under a small, gray hat. Though there was a sea breeze, not one hair looked out of place. Her back was to the sun as she spoke to the man, which meant she faced Courtney. Even from where she was, Courtney could tell the woman was pretty. But none of those details mattered as much as the fact that the man clutched two leather books under his arm. The guy might have just come from the library.

He turned to face the woman, and Courtney saw his profile. He wore wire-rimmed glasses. A slight curl of black hair could be seen creeping from under his hat.

Courtney stopped breathing.

“Ma-,” she began to yell, but was rudely yanked away from the railing and shoved against an outside wall. She hit the steel hard.

“Ahoy, Chetwynde,” came a familiar voice.

Courtney focused on the man who had attacked her. He wore a long dark coat and peered at her from underneath the brim of a gray hat.

“Nothing like a little sea air to get the blood moving, is there?” the guy said, after which he snorted and spit out a loogie onto the deck.

“Mitchell,” Courtney gasped.

“Welcome aboard,” Andy Mitchell said with a sneer.

Saint Dane was back in play.

(CONTINUED)

“How come you didn’t die in that cab?” Mitchell asked obnoxiously.

“Don’t give me that,” Courtney spat back. “If you wanted to kill me, I’d be dead. You knew we’d get out of there.”

Mitchell snickered. “Still sure of yourself, Chetwynde. Right to the end.”

He wore the same kind of suit and long coat as many of the passengers, making him look a lot older than seventeen years. His normally long, greasy blond hair was cut short, adding even more years to his look. Of course, Courtney knew he wasn’t really seventeen anyway.

Courtney kept her back to the wall, like a trapped animal. She couldn’t yell for help. Saint Dane hadn’t done anything wrong. The only thing yelling would do was bring the crew down on her.

“I don’t know what you did to get Mark to come to First Earth,” Courtney said. “But I’m going to stop him from springing Forge on this territory. I got here in time for that.”

Mitchell laughed a laugh that turned into a smoker’s hack. Courtney cringed.

“In time?” he croaked. “You think you’re to stop this territory from learning about Forge? Time is the last thing on your side! Where do you think I got that plastic stuff from? Third Earth. That’s over three thousand years from now.”

“I knew you didn’t invent that,” Courtney snarled. “The heart of Forge is Mark’s computer skeleton, not the plastic skin. All you did was mix technology from different territories. Again.”

“Exactly!” Mitchell said. “Tripping through time is a wonderful thing. By Earth years, Lifelight won’t be invented for another five centuries after Third Earth. The dados on Quiilan were built a century after that and brought to the ruins of Rubic City two hundred years later. Do you really think time is a problem for me? I have all the time in Halla!”

Courtney’s mind reeled at the possibilities. The impossibilities.

“C’mon, Chetwynde!” Mitchell scoffed. “Do you really think you’ve made it here in the nick of time? Why’s that so important? You trying to stop the Flighters from destroying Ibara? Is that it? You trying to help Pendragon? That’s a joke. That battle ain’t gonna happen for thousands of years!”

“No,” Courtney said, stalking forward. She was angry enough to think she could bully him the way she used to. Before she knew he was Saint Dane. “It’s about Mark, and his invention. It’s not about time. It’s about tricking the people of the territories into hurting themselves. That’s what’s important to you. You somehow got Mark to do the wrong thing. I’m going to change that.” She got right into Mitchell’s face and added with venom, “And you can’t stop me.”

Andy Mitchell’s eyes flashed blue, jolting Courtney back to reality. This wasn’t Andy Mitchell, world-class loser. This was Saint Dane, Halla-class demon. She took a few involuntary steps backward and hit the wall.

“Don’t forget who you’re dealing with,” Mitchell snarled. “Andy Mitchell ain’t real.”

“No, but Mark Is,” Courtney said, fighting to regain her composure. “And I’m going to save him.” She ran to the railing. “Mark!” she called out.

But Mark was gone. She looked around quickly, hoping to see the couple strolling away. She was too late. The sun dipped below the horizon. The ship’s lights were taking over the job of lighting the decks.

“I’m going to find him,” she said as she spun back. “And I’m going to-“

Mitchell was no longer alone. Standing next to him were two ship’s officers, both looking very military with their dark blue uniforms.

“I ain’t no snitch,” Mitchell said to the officers politely. “But she’s been running around here bothering a lot of people. I think she might be a stowaway.”