It took Mark a solid few hours to figure out the exact right things to tell her. He decided not to go into detail about the hairy situation on Zadaa. There was nothing they could do to help, so he figured Courtney didn’t need to worry about it. Besides, he was worried enough for both of them. He concocted a story that would let her know there was trouble on Zadaa, but didn’t include all the gory details about the danger that Bobby and Loor were facing. He even decided to tell her a little about Bobby’s feelings for Loor. He felt she had the right to know. After all, Bobby thought she was reading the journals anyway! Beyond that, he figured if Courtney started asking more questions about the Batu and the Rokador, he’d bring up Loor again and that would probably get her off the subject. It was kind of devious, but he figured it was the right thing to do to keep her anxiety level down and her antennae up.
Mark returned home with his story ready. He went to his bedroom, grabbed his cell phone and—his eye caught something. Could it be? No, it was impossible. Yet it was staring him right in the face.
His clock radio read 2:05.
There was no way he was going to call Courtney that late. He decided the best thing to do was wait until morning. Early morning. He dropped his cell phone back on his desk without looking at it and set his alarm for six o’clock. Courtney would be ticked about getting a call that early, but once she heard what was going on, she’d forgive him. Six was good. Anything earlier than six was still the night before.
Mark grabbed his cell phone again. He wanted it on his bedside table so he could make the call the instant the alarm went off. He placed it next to his clock radio. He was ready. He got into bed, fully clothed, and tried to sleep. It was impossible. His mind wouldn’t shut down. He kept imagining what was happening to Bobby and Loor. Time seemed to slow down. He couldn’t help but keep glancing at his clock radio.
2:44…2:45…2:46…
Time. The concept of the territories existing in different times was a hard one to understand. Did Zadaa exist in the future of Second Earth? Or in the ancient past? Was the war between the tribes on the verge of happening? Or had it been over for centuries? Or did it all exist simultaneously? That was the strangest concept, but the one that was most probable. Halla was explained to him as everything—all time all places all people. Everything that ever was, or will be, all existing in some way, together. It was one of the reasons the Travelers were able to arrive on a territory when they needed to be there. Whatever grand power was controlling it all, it knew how to manipulate time. Or more precisely, it knew how to control their movements through time. That was how Mark and Courtney were able to be on Eelong for a month, and return to Second Earth only a few minutes after they’d left. He figured it was also what allowed Saint Dane to bounce back and forth between territories, messing with one while lurking around another. It seemed to Mark that time was actually some giant sea that you could swim around in and travel any which way. It also seemed to Mark that the more he thought about the whole bizarre concept, the less chance there was of him getting any sleep.
3:58…3:59…4:00…
He wished he could take a couple of strokes forward in the sea of time and jump to 6:00. When the digital clock hit 5:00, Mark couldn’t take it anymore. He got out of bed and decided to kill the last hour on his computer. He opened his Web browser and did a search for Stansfield in the Berkshire Mountains of Massachusetts. He found the Web site instantly and took a virtual tour. He decided it was a pretty nice place and a cool way to spend the summer. He wondered if Saint Dane felt the same way.
Finally, when his clock hit 5:30, Mark had had enough. He had practiced his speech to Courtney a thousand times. He had to make the call. He got up from his computer and sat back on his bed. Now that he actually had to do this for real, he had second thoughts.
He picked up the cell phone…and put it back down again.
He had to convince himself again that he was doing the right thing. He picked up the phone. He put it down. He picked it up. It was time. Courtney was on speed-dial: #1. He finally looked at the phone to make sure it was on and—
“Message waiting?” Mark said out loud.
Mark had never gotten a message on his cell phone before. He had no idea who could have called him. And when? He almost always had his phone in his pocket, how could he have missed a call? He stared at the blinking words. He didn’t even know how to retrieve a message. He had to rummage through his cluttered desk to find the instruction manual. By the time he found the manual, waded through the table of contents, flipped through the French, Spanish, and Japanese sections to the English instructions, and finally found the right buttons to push to get his message, it was nearly six o’clock. Mark actually laughed to himself. He had made it to six after all.
The prerecorded voice over the phone said, “Message sent yesterday at seven forty-five P.M.”
Mark realized he’d been downstairs eating dinner then. That’s why he hadn’t heard the ring. He continued to listen. There was a beep, followed by the message. What he heard made Mark want to fall through the floor.
It was Courtney. Her voice was weak, but it was definitely hers. In a frail voice she gasped, “Mark, he’s here.”
That was it. Abruptly there was another beep, and the prerecorded voice came back on, saying, “End of message.” Mark stared at the phone, his heart racing. He played the message over and over and over again. There was no doubt in his mind. Courtney was in trouble, and he feared the reason why. He speed-dialed her number, but got the prerecorded voice saying, “The number you are trying to reach is not available.” Mark wanted to throw the phone across the room. Courtney always had her cell phone on, except in class. But it was six o’clock in the morning! No class started that early. Something was very, very wrong.
The police! He’d call the local police! Yes!
No! And tell them what? That he thinks his friend is in trouble? Trouble from what? An interstellar dimension-leaping demon who wanted to trash the universe? Yeah, that would go over real big. He thought about filing a missing person report, but how could he say he knew she was missing? And was she really missing anyway? He didn’t know. They’d laugh him off the phone. At the very least, they’d ignore him. He thought maybe his parents could help. He was about to leave the room to get them, but stopped when he realized he had no idea what he would ask them to do, either.
The more Mark thought through his options, the more he realized there was only one thing for him to do. He had to get to Stansfield as soon as possible. He needed to find Courtney so they could work this through together. Nobody else knew what they knew. Nobody else could help. They needed to be together.
Now that he had a plan, Mark felt better. He went online to check bus and train schedules between Stony Brook, Connecticut and Derby Falls, Massachusetts. He planned on telling his parents that Courtney invited him up to visit for a few days. If they wouldn’t let him go, he’d go anyway. He didn’t like to disobey his parents, but there were bigger issues at stake. He’d deal with the consequences later. Whatever they were, they would be easier to handle than Saint Dane.
He struck out with mass transit. The fastest combination of bus and trains wouldn’t get him to Derby Falls until late that night. Twelve hours! According to Mapquest, it was only a three-hour drive! Mark began weighing the possibility of getting his mother to drive him, when another idea hit. The concept made him physically shudder, but he was desperate. He grabbed his cell phone and scrolled through the list of phone numbers from incoming calls. He didn’t get many. He easily found what he was looking for. Before he had the chance to overthink himself out of it, he closed his eyes and made the call.
Two hours later Mark was riding shotgun on his way to Stansfield Academy.
Behind the wheel was Andy Mitchell.
SECOND EARTH
(CONTINUED)
“Let’s do a little math here,” Andy Mitchell said. “And I’m good at this, so you can’t argue. I called you for help and it took about, what, an ho
ur out of your busy schedule? You, on the other hand, call me at six in the morning and ask me to drive three hours up to the sticks, so you can see a chick I can’t stand, and doesn’t like me so much either. Is that about right?”
“Uh, yeah, that pretty much sums it up,” Mark said sheepishly. “But you said if I ever needed a favor—”
“I did,” Mitchell said, snorted, and hawked a lougie out the driver’s window.
Mark nearly retched. He was grateful the window was open.
“All I’m saying is, this don’t make us square,” Mitchell said. “The way I see it, I’m in for six, seven hours plus here. After this, you owe me.”
This was killing Mark. The idea of relying on Andy Mitchell for anything was worse than swallowing metal shavings. To know he was now indebted to the creep made him want to jump out of the car while they were doing sixty-five on the Connecticut Turnpike. To top it all off, since he helped Mitchell deliver the flowers that morning, there was nothing covering the rancid smell in the car anymore. What else did Andy use this car for? Stashing bodies for the mob? The only thing that kept Mark from losing it was knowing how important it was that he find Courtney.
“I’m really grateful,” Mark said.
“Yeah, we’ll see,” Mitchell said.
Mark closed his eyes and pretended to be asleep.
“Why do you got to see her so bad?” Mitchell asked. “I thought she had the hots for Pendragon?”
“The truth?” Mark asked.
“No, I want you to lie,” Mitchell said sarcastically. “Sheesh.”
Mark had no intention of telling the whole truth, but it was going to be awkward once they got there. He figured he had to tell some version of the truth. “I’m worried about her,” Mark said.
“Chetwynde?” Mitchell scoffed. “She’s the last chick I’d worry about.”
“Yeah, well, I think somebody might be giving her a hard time, and I want to make sure she’s okay,” Mark said.
“And you got this brainstorm at six o’clock in the morning?” Mitchell asked.
Mark shrugged and said, “I couldn’t sleep.”
Mitchell shook his head in dismay and said, “Some guy is giving Chetwynde grief and you want to swoop in like Batman to protect her?”
“I’m more of a Superman guy,” Mark said.
Mitchell laughed. “You’re nuts is what you are. Maybe it’s a good thing you called me.”
Strangely enough, Mark was thinking the same thing. He didn’t want to be doing this alone. He wondered what Courtney would say when he showed up with Andy Mitchell. He hoped she’d get a good laugh out of it. He hoped to hear her laugh about anything.
Mark didn’t hate the drive. Once the “you owe me/I owe you” conversation was over, they began talking about Sci-Clops. It was the one topic they had in common. Mitchell told Mark all about the process he went through to develop the elastic metal with the incredible tensile strength that he had demonstrated at his first meeting of Sci-Clops. Mark was fascinated to hear Mitchell describe how he was trying to find a way to create something with the durability of metal and the flexibility of plastic. The trick was to find the elements that would form an ionic bond on the atomic level to create an entirely new compound. Much of it was trial and error, and he said how he was still a long way off, but the professors at the university thought that what he’d done so far was pretty impressive.
Impressive was the word. It never failed to amaze Mark to listen to Andy when he spoke about his passion for math and science. It simply didn’t jive with the slug personality of this guy who drove with one hand and kept pushing his greasy, dirty blond hair out of his eyes with the other. The guy was gross . .. and genius.
Not to be outdone, Mark told Andy more about the killer robot he had made that won so many competitions. He explained how the secret wasn’t in the hardware, but the software. Mark had never told anyone about this before, but hearing about Mitchell’s successes with his new compound, he felt as if he needed to show off a little too. He confided in Mitchell that he had been working on a new processing code that actually streamlined the binary flow through the processor of the computer that ran his robot. The result was that the clock speed of the standard microprocessor was dramatically increased, which translated to faster commands to the hardware, and therefore a robot that could react and attack way faster—with more programmed moves—than its competition. Mark admitted that it was all pretty crude at this point, but he hoped to develop it further so that at some point he might catch the interest of one of the big tech companies.
After hearing his story, Mitchell looked at Mark. He didn’t say anything, he just looked at him.
“What?” Mark asked nervously.
“That’s incredible,” was all Mitchell said. “Absolutely incredible.”
It sounded to Mark as if he meant it too. For the first time, Mark felt as if Andy Mitchell had respect for him. Not that it mattered. Impressing Andy Mitchell wasn’t Mark’s lifelong ambition. Yet it was an interesting moment. Mark actually felt a connection with this guy. Was it possible? Could they be friends?
He didn’t have long to think about it, because a second later his ring began to twitch.
Mark didn’t have time to fret about the bad timing. He quickly stuck his hand in his pocket and said, “I’m whipped. I’m gonna lie down in back.”
Before Mitchell could react, Mark clicked open his seat belt and vaulted into the back of the ancient station wagon.
“Take it easy!” Mitchell shouted. “I ain’t got no insurance.”
Mark’s ring was already growing. He pulled it off and crouched into a fetal position, trying to hide it and block the spewing light. He spotted an old, stained tarp in the back. Without a second thought he grabbed it and covered the ring, which had already grown. The tarp kept the light show hidden too. The only thing he couldn’t hide was the music. The jumble of notes grew louder in spite of the fact it was muffled by the tarp.
“What are you doing?” Mitchell asked. “You got a Game Boy back there?”
“I-It’s my watch alarm,” Mark said, thinking fast. “It’s a weird tone, I know. I think it’s busted.”
Andy Mitchell looked at his watch. “Why’s your alarm set for eight forty-five?”
“Uh, th-that’s when I get up. Usually.”
The notes grew louder.
“Geez, turn it off, will ya!” Mitchell complained. “It’s making me crazy!”
“Yeah, I’m trying. I can’t find the button.”
Mark prayed for the event to end. A second later he felt the ring shrink back to normal as the musical notes abruptly stopped.
“Thank you!” Mitchell said. “Jeez.”
Mark felt around under the tarp until he touched the roll of paper that had come through the ring. Bobby’s next journal had arrived. Mark was certain that contained in its pages would be the result of the war on Zadaa. But he couldn’t read it. Not yet. It killed him, but he had to put it away until they found Courtney.
“You all right back there?” Mitchell asked.
“Y-Yeah, fine. I’m gonna sleep, okay? Let me know when we get close.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Without looking at the journal, Mark slipped it into his backpack. In spite of the fact that he hadn’t slept all night, he wasn’t the least bit tired. But he had to play out the lie. So he lay there, wide awake, staring at the stained ceiling of Mitchell’s station wagon. He tried not to think about the journal that was only inches from his head. First things first. He had to find Courtney.
The drive took a little over three hours. Andy Mitchell kept to the speed limit, which wasn’t all that hard considering his beater of a car rattled like it was going to fall apart whenever they got up any real speed. Mitchell followed the directions that Mark had printed out from Mapquest. It got them to the front gates of Stansfield Academy shortly after ten in the morning.
“Nice place,” Mitchell said. “I always figured Chetwynde had bucks.”
/> “It is pretty nice,” Mark agreed.
“So? How do we find her?” Mitchell asked.
Mark had already thought this through. He got the map of the school he had printed out from their Web site. They parked in the visitors parking lot and went to the registration office. Mark put on his most polite voice and introduced himself to the secretary as Courtney Chetwynde’s brother. He said they were visiting and needed to know where her dorm was. Mark was so polite that the woman had no problem giving him the information. It helped that Mark had Andy wait out in the corridor. He was sure that if the woman got a look at Andy Mitchell, they’d be lucky not to be thrown out on their butts. With the information in hand, Mark and Andy walked quickly across the campus to Courtney’s dorm. Within minutes they were standing in front of the old, ivy-covered brick building.
“One problem,” Mark said. “It’s an all-girl dorm. They don’t allow guys in to—”
“Gee, yeah, that’s a big problem,” Mitchell said, and walked right in. Andy Mitchell wasn’t big on following the rules.
It was an old building, with dark mahogany wood paneling everywhere and a wide staircase that led to the second floor. Courtney’s room was #219. The guys took the stairs up, two at a time. Her room was at the end of a long corridor with old, thick carpeting that smelled kind of musty. Mark knocked softly.
“Courtney? It’s Mark.”
No answer. Mark knocked again.
“You there, Courtney?”
Still no answer.
Andy pushed Mark aside and pounded on the door a few times, yelling, “Hey! Wake up!”
Nobody answered.