But as they say, all good things come to an end, and so did Teresa’s transportation. Her boss soon found out about the Rolls and suggested, rather strongly, that you need to turn down Gracie Reitman’s chauffeur and drive yourself to and from the Estate. That is part of your job.
I know, I know! Teresa had defended, her voice sounding more forceful over her cellphone than she had intended. But you try telling Gracie Reitman ‘no!’ It’s like rubbing salt in an open wound!
And she had been right. When Teresa finally made the phone call, it had been a debate no doubt: Gracie had been none-to-happy to rescind the service. But when Teresa explained the DCFS’s policies, the feisty old matriarch finally gave in.
And now here I am, thought Teresa, ironically. If I had driven myself out here a few more times, I wouldn’t be lost. Broken down, yes, but not lost! Gracie will never let me hear the end of it.
Teresa took one more despondent look at the car, then at her surroundings. She turned in all directions—nothing. It was early afternoon though, and time was on her side. She still had hours of daylight. She blew the hair from her eyes and rubbed at her damp forehead. She remembered an intersection not too far back where the road had appeared to be in better shape than the one she was currently on. I’ll start back that way, she decided.
It was Friday, the beginning of a weekend. Teresa figured her chances of running into a group of ATV adventurers bent on some desert fun in the sand, were pretty good. Besides, worst case scenario: she’d walk east, back toward the city until her phone picked up a signal, then she could call and have someone come pick her up. She would also need to call Gracie Reitman and explain her predicament. That would be a joy. And last, she’d call a towing service for Willameena—straight to the nearest junkyard!
She reached in the car and grabbed her phone, purse and a nearly full bottle of water from off the seat. She pushed a few more trivial items out of sight then locked the car doors. She was about to hide her brother’s single key under the frame above the back-right tire, when she wondered: I haven’t even looked in the trunk? Could be something that might come in handy. And she was right!
Of all things, Jackson had a prodigiously large umbrella, one which he had obviously acquired for some crazy prank, sitting in the trunk. Not only was the material the ugliest floral pattern on the planet, but upon opening it—yes, she was actually surprised that it worked—the edges were adorned in gold crocheted tassel! It was hideous! So hideous that Teresa actually considered leaving the thing in the trunk. But the searing heat beating down on her soon pushed her beyond pride and directly to prudence.
She slammed the trunk, hid the key, and made another mental note to self: Add umbrella to reasons for kicking Jackson’s butt. Once she was picked up, she had no plans on returning to accompany the towing service. They could get the key and do whatever they needed on their own. This was one spot she would never return to again . . . or so she thought.
--
Eli sat quietly next to Jacob. The air, although tainted with the scent of burnt plastic, had cleared and the repair drones had returned to their previous duties. All that was left to do was to download the interface back into the regenerated hardware, then things would be as they were before the accident.
Normally, Eli would have jumped right back into his undertaking as soon as he possibly could, but this time, he let the systems silently hum—a difficult negotiation for one who was so task-oriented.
He patted Jacob on the back and fought for words which might help the situation. He felt awkward about losing his temper the way he had, especially now that he understood a little more of what Jacob was feeling. But Eli was first and foremost the analyzer, not the empathetic and compassionate. Everything he did was a reaction to an action; a solution to a cause; a means to an end. His counsel was based on logic, not feelings. This time, however, he was prodded to do his best to mitigate the predisposition for rationality, and instead, try to be a friend. “Do you remember the night we were rescued from the clinic?” Eli spoke, his voice piercing the settling hush.
Jacob lifted his head and blinked to clear his puffy, red eyes. “Yes?”
“We were so happy to run out those doors. For years, we hadn’t seen the sun, felt the breeze, smelt the air . . .” Eli looked up at the ceiling and smiled, remembering the event as if it were yesterday. “I dreamed about the day we would be free every unspeakable night in that terrible place.”
“We all did, Eli.” Jacob whispered, unsure of where his friend was heading with this strange dialog.
“And then it happened,” Eli continued, speaking as though from a trance. “We were rescued by our Russian liberators. But instead of sunlight, we ran out into the blackness. Night had come, and with it a gloom so dark, so filled with death and despair that it nearly drove us back inside. But we were finally free. And I remember that my first thoughts were, I can’t wait to see the sun come up tomorrow morning.”
Jacob’s chin dropped, and he nodded in a slow comprehension. “We all waited,” he paused, “we waited with such anticipation for dawn to arrive. And when it did—” Jacob’s voice cracked and the words died in his throat.
“And when it did,” Eli stepped in, “we hurried to run out into the first morning rays coming over those cold Russian mountains.” He hesitated as though he needed a moment to gather strength. He took a long breath, and focused again on the lost memory. “I was the first, you know. The first to see the orange glow drifting over the mountain, and I hurried to the door. But the twins, Morty and Mary, pushed me aside while I put on my shoes, and ran out ahead of me.”
“And . . .” Jacob swallowed. “They died,” he muttered, his voice trembling.
“Yes,” Eli nodded in a slow, painful submission. “They died. And in so doing, saved the rest of us. None of us knew that we each carried an additional genetic curse from Nazis. One which would forever preclude us from seeing with our eyes, or feeling on our skin, the warmth of our sun.”
“Yes,” Jacob managed.
“I cried for days,” said Eli, “and I know that Ellen did as well. But what could we do? We had to accept the fact that we were creatures forever changed, forever different.”
Jacob straightened himself and sniffled.
“You are a different creature than Jessie, Jacob. It is that simple; it is that terrible. And cry as we once did at covered windows in our Russian refuge, you stand once more before that sealed and darkened glass. And just as you knew then that the sunlight on the other side of that window would kill you, so now you must know that this relationship is equally lethal, and cannot be. It must be overcome and dispelled, or it will destroy you—emotionally perhaps—but it will kill you just as sure as that sunlight above us right now, will.” Eli fell silent. He sat for a few more moments then stood. “I am truly sorry that you are suffering. But can you imagine how you might suffer watching Jessie age while you do not? And how she would suffer as time ruined her body, while yours remained youthful and healthy? You must think about her feelings as well.”
Jacob exhaled and drew his hands so tight that his fists went pale. He let his head fall against his knees as the air gushed out of him. “You are right . . . on both accounts,” he conceded. “I do love Jessie; and, I understand that it is an irrational love, a fantasy—I knew this from the beginning.” He paused and his chin drew down. His thick hair fell across his face, and there he remained, motionless for a long moment. “I just couldn’t help myself, Eli” he finally replied, meeting his friends gaze. “It was not my intention to fall in love. But I did, and I will feel the yearning of its absence all the days of my life.”
Eli patted the boy on his shoulder. “You will live a very long time, my friend. Who is to say where providence will take you in such a span of years?”
Jacob nodded, then sighed. “Yes,” he capitulated sadly. “And through HOPE, I can continue in my expression of love toward Jessie. I can help preserve and secure a peaceful world where she can grow old, having loved
more than I will ever know or understand.” He lifted his head and smiled. “I can do this, Eli, because it makes me happy, just thinking about Jessie being happy.”
Eli beamed. “You do understood love. I’ll give you that, Jake.”
“I will see her tonight, and tell her that I am leaving, and that we won’t be able to see each other again.”
Eli put out his hand. “Now that’s the Jacob I know. Let me help you up, and we can get back to work. We have a launch coming up.”
Chapter 38:
It was an intense morning at Mole-Hole base. News of the visiting VIP’s had caused a resounding leap in proficiency throughout the ranks. Every soldier was alert and on his toes. All equipment was prepped, polished and ready to go—the entire facility hummed like bees in a hive. Unfortunately, all the amelioration in the world couldn’t sweeten this pot for Jimmy Reitman. He had neither consented to, nor condoned this field-test; and in his opinion, it was a premature decision for disaster. It wouldn’t have mattered what type of business landed Reitman at the Mole-Hole, fact was, he hated the place. It was hot, cramped and reminded him of an undisclosed genetic research facility he had once visited, also underground. His original designs for the base—the ones that had been downloaded into the EMR construction drones—were for housing soldiers, and the manufacturing of heavy equipment; not for accommodating non-military, business magnates like himself. The drones had built the facility with exactness, and in an unprecedented amount of time. But there had been no frosting on this cake. The base was a massive, underground bunker, not a five-star hotel.
Months earlier, during the first phase of the Mole-Hole project, Jimmy’s work on the Goliaths had precipitated his frequent visits; he had understood this would be the case, and had spent weeks in the manufacturing areas engineering the equipment necessary to build his mechanical army. And he had succeeded. Now, however, most of what was left to do on his AD’s, although vital, could be accomplished via simulated scenarios executed on high-powered computers from the comfort of his private lab. But Tanner had somehow circumvented this option with a mere wave of his authoritative wand—a move which had forced Jimmy onsite for the real thing. And he was neither a happy, nor a willing occupant.
The Mole-Hole Control Center was located on an upper mezzanine above the largest staging bay, Bay 3. The semicircular room was capacious, yet crowded with the expanse of the military’s most advanced technology. Bank upon bank of monitoring equipment hummed as they elbowed down from anchors in the front ceilings. And below them, large expansions of panels glowed with graphical interfaces and flashing diodes, all emulating the status of exterior and interior sensory peripherals of all types—surveillance, audio, thermal, pressure, temperature; hundreds of analog and digital readout points, just to name a few.
Jimmy stood at the anterior, where the room’s high-spanned windows rose from floor to ceiling, allowing a bird’s eye view of the open bay below. Line upon line of the transformed Goliath AD’s stood in a perfect grid-formation, motionless in their silent, yet daunting stance. Ready, as it were, to be pawns in some monolithic game of chess.
“We’re sending out just five units. Correct?” called Jimmy from over his shoulder. He turned to address the line of conglomerate operators now seated along the main control area.
“Correct,” confirmed Tanner, turning momentarily from his visual lock on a large readout screen mounted at the room’s apex.
“And we’ve checked and activated the failsafe modules on each one?” Jimmy added.
“Yes, Doctor Reitman,” replied Colonel Briggs, answering as it were, for Tanner. “Several times, in fact.”
“Relax, Doctor,” Tanner interjected in his smug, self-absorbed manner. “If your algorithms are half as good as I’ve been told, this test is going to be an unprecedented success.”
Jimmy whirled like a whip: “really,” he lashed. “I feel so comfortable knowing that your expertise in the field of artificial intelligence merits such accolades. Do you really know anything about these attack droids, beyond of course, what you’ve been,”—he paused, emphasizing a tap to his chin—“told?”
The awkward retort was felt by every individual in the room, as eyes shot down and faces flushed, that is all but to whom it was directed. Tanner smirked coolly, absorbing the remark with equal indifference.
Briggs, on the other hand, was visibly worried. His forehead was beaded with perspiration. He paced around the room stopping only periodically to feign a concerned look at one of the readouts, or make some redundant comment to a subordinate operator. But it wasn’t until he found himself standing next to Jimmy—an intentional distance from Tanner’s ear—that his apprehension became apparent.
“When this test is over,” he leaned in slightly, “Tanner can get off both our backs.”
Jimmy returned a dubious regard. “The test is not what concerns me, Colonel.”
Briggs puzzled.
“We are right in Sandcastle’s backyard,” Jimmy stated, nervously. “If they catch a hint of an unexplainable anomaly, we’re finished. They’ll scan the area both above and below ground. They’ll sniff for heat, motion, pressure changes, and ER signatures. They will catch our Goliath’s, even with their stealth armor activated.”
Briggs frowned, causing his already anxious expression to darken even more. “You said yourself that Sandcastle goes to great lengths to keep their proprietary technology—in this case their eyes and ears—to themselves, and bound to Reitman-owned property . . . one of their ‘cardinal rules’ as you said.”
Jimmy didn’t answer. He continued in his visual canvass of the bay below. “I know what I said,” he finally mumbled. “But we are right on their border.” He turned back to his silent gaze.
Briggs turned to leave, but a final utterance of words halted him, and he paused to catch a last warning.
“I can’t get past the feeling that we’re pushing the envelope. I’m supposed to be at Cape Canaveral, working on the launch. Sandcastle has prepped the umbilical station, MU1 as is waiting my instructions. There are so many variables at play here. . . so many things to go wrong. I tell you our luck is running out.”
A young lieutenant approached. His arrival effectively ending their conversation. “Mr. Tanner is ready, Colonel. He is briefing the staff now, and has asked that you and Doctor Reitman join him.”
“Very good,” replied Briggs. He gave Jimmy a hurried, desperate look then turned and headed toward the small conference area just off the main entry.
Jimmy took one more glance at his Goliath AD’s gridded below. How different they appeared. How fouled they had become from their original form and purpose. A slight chill suddenly rippled through him, and for an instant, he imagined what might happen if these things—these creatures—could not be controlled. He shook it off, knowing that they were, after all, just machines, subject to mere lines of logic. They would do precisely as instructed; no more, no less.
Jimmy took in a large breath. He turned and headed to join Briggs, but in a slow and deliberate pace. Tanner could wait for him.
--
When Teresa had decided to leave the car, her intension was to walk a little, check for a cell-phone signal, then loop back and return to the vehicle as soon as she was able to make a call. But after walking just a short distance, the graveled road had veered, split, and turned even more broken-up and secluded—more of a trail than a road—and there was still no cell service. And that wasn’t all. Of all the things she thought might make her little desert gaunt difficult—bathroom issues, drinking water, unwanted desert crawlies . . . stuff like that—the one thing she hadn’t counted on were her shoes hurting her feet. And they were!
Teresa always dressed in business-casual when visiting other foster-families, but Sandcastle was an entirely different matter. She felt inclined to dress more professionally when visiting the opulent estate and today had been no exception. She sported a bright colorful summer blouse, matching skirt, and a pair of wickedly fancy heels—on s
ale, half-off actually—to match. But at that moment she’d happily toss her eighty-dollar fancies for a good-old pair of cheap tennies.
Teresa had already walked for nearly an hour—still no signal, no life, and nearly no hope! The only thing that had changed was that now she wasn’t sure of her direction! Okay, time to turn around and head back before I really get myself in trouble, she told herself, prudently. Before she did, however, she opted to take a moment and rest her poor feet. Teresa spotted a large bolder just off the trail. A seat! she mentally sang, and plopped down. Hot! Hot! Hot! Up she sprang. “My New York Prada purse for a spot of shade!” she shouted in frustration. She removed her shoes, set them on the bolder and tried again. Not the most comfortable seat she’d ever had, but at least this time her bottom didn’t sizzle.
It felt great to rest for a moment. She dug her toes right down under the hot sand and let the under-layer cool her aching feet. Once her toes felt a bit rested, she turned to more pressing issues . . . namely, her predicament. As she looked around at the wasteland which seemed to engulf her on all sides, she felt for the first time, really, a sense of fear. She needed to get back to the car. Her only calming reprieve was in knowing Mrs. Reitman as well as she did.
Gracie was an incorrigible worrier. She’d have an entire fleet of vehicles out on a search, and had the drive, power, clout and means to make it happen. True, Teresa would never hear the end of it. But if meant a rescue, she’d eat the crow and love it!
Teresa slipped her shoes back on and reassessed her bearings. Other than several small ravines and few smooth hills along the way, there had been no significant landmarks to set as directional markers. The whole place looked the same no matter which direction she turned—it was like standing in the center of an infinitely huge cheese pizza! Now which direction was Willameena? With an exaggerated grunt, Teresa stood and picked up the umbrella. So hideous! Yet, she had to concede that of all the gross items tucked away in Willameena’s trunk, this was the smartest thing she could have grabbed. And as ridiculously ugly as it was, at that moment, with the heat beating down on her and the car at least an hour’s walk away, the umbrella was the most beautiful augmentation to her summer three-piece she ever could have imagined . . . even if it didn’t match her shoes.
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