D. MacHale - The Soldiers of Halla

“Find him,” Loor ordered, pulling away from me. “When you do, we will take him down together.”

She nodded to Uncle Press and to Patrick. With one hand she reached back and grabbed her wooden stave. She held it out across her body, ready for whatever she would find on Zadaa.

“Be careful,” I said.

“Always,” she replied, took a step forward, and was gone.

I ignored the rumbling in the sky.

Uncle Press, Patrick, and I were the only three left.

“Are you sure Press shouldn’t come with us?” Patrick asked nervously. “I mean, I agree that you should come, Pendragon, but the three of us could-”

“No, Bobby’s right,” Uncle Press said. “When the other Travelers return, I should be waiting for them.”

“Do you know anything about what’s happening on Third Earth?” I asked.

Uncle Press shook his head. “Only what we saw when those gunships attacked.”

“Third Earth wasn’t like that the last time I was there,” Patrick offered. “When I was still…”

He didn’t finish the sentence. The memory was tough for him. He had been killed on Third Earth. Saint Dane told me.

Saint Dane.

I was going to get one last shot at him. If he thought the war was over when I killed Alexander Naymeer, he was in for a very big surprise. The Travelers weren’t finished. We were going to follow Spader’s advice. We were going to get dangerous.

“This is it, Bobby,” Uncle Press said. “Our last chance.”

I stood next to Patrick. He looked squeamish. Patrick wasn’t built for conflict. He was a teacher. A librarian. But he was brave. He had proved that many times over. With his brown hair falling in his eyes, he looked much younger than a guy in his twenties. Twenties? Did I actually write that? Who knew how old Patrick really was? Or any of us, for that matter. We were spirits. We were from a world other than the one we had grown up in. We were Travelers.

And we had one more shot at finishing the job we were born to do.

“You okay?” I asked him.

“I am,” he said, taking a deep breath. “I really am.”

“Then let’s go get him,” I said. I took Patrick’s arm and looked at Uncle Press. “And so we go.”

We both stepped forward on Solara…

And were instantly barraged by the sound of rolling thunder as we stepped into the swirling sand of the zoo in Central Park on Third Earth. As much as I knew that it was exactly what was supposed to happen, it was still a strange experience. I was disoriented. It didn’t help that the thunder didn’t stop rolling. At first I was afraid that by all of us traveling back to our home territories, we had done serious damage to Solara. That wasn’t it. Maybe that would have been better, because the truth wasn’t so good. It wasn’t thunder we were hearing.

The gunships were back.

Two of the dark, deadly helicopters were flying in low, headed right toward us.

“Go!” I shouted at Patrick and shoved him out of the path of the incoming birds of prey. We hid under a crumbling brick archway that was not more than twenty yards from the long building that the helicopters had pulverized earlier. The helicopters continued on, passing overhead, heading off to who knew where. I’m happy to say that they weren’t firing any more rockets. Once they flew off, I moved to step out from our shelter, but Patrick pulled me back.

“Wait,” he whispered. “Look.”

There was movement on the ground. The air was so full of swirling dust and dirt that I couldn’t make out what it was at first.

“Please tell me that’s not a polar bear looking for lunch,” I whispered.

Actually, it would have been better if it were the polar bear. A line of men appeared, headed our way. The first detail I noticed was the glint of gold off their helmets.

“Dados?” I asked Patrick.

Patrick shrugged.

There were ten of them. They carried silver rifle-looking weapons. Their uniforms were dark red. “Ravinians,” Patrick whispered.

“They’re looking for something. Or somebody,” I added. “I hope it’s not us.”

“There’s never a polar bear around when you need one.”

The patrol was definitely searching for something. The long building that had been shot up by the helicopters was still burning. That meant the attack had just happened.

“I don’t think they’re looking for us,” I whispered. “But I’d just as soon they didn’t find us.”

Suddenly the loud chime of church bells sounded directly above our heads. I jumped. Patrick jumped. I think the soldiers jumped too. They were just as startled as we were.

And they turned our way.

I grabbed Patrick and pulled him back into the ruins of the building. The bells continued, and I realized that they were playing a tune. “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.” Or the “Alphabet Song.” Whatever. Same tune.

“It’s the clock,” I whispered.

It probably wasn’t the exact same machine I had seen back on Second Earth. After all, this was three thousand years later. They must have restored it through the ages, because on top of the arches over our heads was a fanciful clock, with bronze animal sculptures that rotated around it to mark the hour, while the bells chimed out a nursery rhyme. It was kind of a sweet thing. That is, for a little kid on a sunny afternoon. For us it meant trouble, because it was drawing the soldiers’ attention our way.

“They’re coming,” Patrick whispered.

There was no way to get into the building we were hiding next to. The doorway was blocked with debris. We were trapped.

“We’ll have to fight,” I whispered.

“I–I don’t fight,” Patrick stammered.

“I’ll get the gun from the first one. Just stay out of the way.”

I pushed Patrick farther back. It looked as if our mission on Third Earth would begin with violence. The lead soldier drew closer. I tensed up, ready to spring.

“Here!” one of the other soldiers called.

The soldier who was nearly on us stopped and ran back to the others. If he had taken one more step, I would have pounced. I had to force myself to back down. It’s tough committing yourself to attack, and then have to pull back. Kind of like being all set to sneeze and then it doesn’t come. Okay, maybe it’s not exactly like that, but you get the idea.

“They found someone,” Patrick announced.

The two of us peered out to see two soldiers dragging a man out of the ruins of the long building they had destroyed. The guy was a mess. I couldn’t tell if he was sick or unconscious or dead. They had him by his shoulders and pulled him along with his feet dragging on the ground. When they got him to the center of the group, they dropped him down like a bag of laundry. The guy hit the ground and bounced. Ouch. When he went down, he let out a grunt.

“He’s alive,” one soldier growled.

Without hesitation another soldier hauled off and kicked the guy square in the gut. The poor man grunted and doubled over in pain. He was alive all right. Who knew how long he’d stay that way around these sadistic goons?

“How many are left?” the soldier who kicked him asked.

The guy’s answer was a cough that sprayed blood. He was dressed in rags, much like the people I’d seen jumping out of the window to escape the attack. His hair was unkempt, and it looked like he had a short beard. Again, he wasn’t Flighter-nasty, but he definitely hadn’t seen a bar of soap in a while.

“Where are they?” another solder asked angrily.

The first soldier kicked him again. I guess he was the designated punter. Creep. The victim answered again with a pained grunt and a wet cough. The place kicker was about to launch another kick when he was stopped by one of the other soldiers.

“We do not want to lose him,” he told his sadistic friend. “Bring him to the conclave.”