“I’ll say this much,” Jacob finally announced. “I’ll take the successful end of that pendulum, thank you very much.” His eyes were bright and alive as they scanned the panel. “My readouts couldn’t look better. We are very fortunate. We haven’t had a glitch—everything is working perfectly.” He chuckled happily, then continued his observations.
Ruthanne sighed a relieved breath. “This favorable outcome is a result of an accumulation of a lifetime of effort. HOPE had to succeed.”
“May I remind everyone that we have yet to sever HOPE from NASA’s systems; and redirect all processes to our own umbilical’s computers,” Ellen cautioned. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, or get overly complacent. The pendulum may yet shift.”
“So says the naysayer,” teased Jacob. He was more than an arm’s length from Ellen—the gibe seemed safe.
Ellen clicked her tongue and glared. “I’m just saying,” she stressed.
“Ellen is right,” Eli conceded. “We need to stay focused until the last upload. We can’t let our excitement impede our actions in any way. Everybody, back to task.”
Jacob snickered one last time, but was caught, mid-snicker, by a flying piece of crinkled paper right to the forehead. “Hey!” He looked up.
Both Eli and Ruthanne returned puzzled looks. Ellen’s face, however, remained conspicuously down.
--
Mr. Iverson was right. The seats were the best in the house. The Zenn building was a multi-tiered, lavish enclosure of arranged seating. Gracie and Jimmy’s box—located on the first tier’s center section—was the envy of every patron in the audience. From the beginning of the orchestra’s prelude to Act-One, Gracie felt the covetous eyes of hundreds upon her. She gawked in nostalgic awe, from one section of seating to the next, trying to remember when she was last surrounded by so many of the cultured and genteel, all polished and placed on display. It had been years . . . and it had been with her husband, Zen. But this was a happy time, and she would not allow the sting of melancholy to seep in from the past.
Gracie turned and glanced at Jimmy, her evening’s companion, sitting at her side. In the auditorium’s dim lighting, his outline could have been that of his father, and she smiled at the thought; smiled at the pleasant recollection which seemingly dropped in for a quick liberation. She reached instinctively, and rested a mother’s hand on his.
Jimmy startled, but allowed an understated grin for recovery.
She patted his hand contently, and as she did, the opera began with the song: E soffitto e pareti ("And ceiling and walls"). Gracie exhaled pleasantly, then eased back comfortably in her chair.
Of the many operas she once frequented, Madama Butterfly was one of her favorites. The performance was stunning, the vocals spectacular, and the emotional experience, indescribable. Yet, the opera itself was a sad and tragic tale: the vocal allegory was the story of a young Japanese geisha, Madama Butterfly. An innocent herself, who allowed her heart to be first deceived, then broken by a debauched husband, an American naval officer and father of her new young son. After years of service, he returned from his ship to shun Butterfly for the love of another woman. Butterfly had waited true and faithful, and had endured many difficulties. Hers was an expression of unparalleled loyalty and devotion, yet whose reward in the end, was betrayal, heartache and finally, death.
Act-One brought an incomparable sense of enjoyment. The only negative sentiment—if one at all—was that opera was speeding by too quickly. Gracie was so completely enthralled in the music and passion of the play, that time had simply leaped beyond its realm. She shuffled in her chair, wiped at a tearing eye, then silently willed her wonderful evening into a lasting abeyance. But it would not, and soon, the final duet, Vogliatemi bene ("Love me, please") of the Act-One was coming to an end.
Gracie sighed. She glanced quickly at the program-booklet and noticed that a short intermission was to follow, prior to Act-Two. That was good. She could use the short break for a drink of water. As she glanced through the pamphlet, a sudden feeling of unwelcomed eyes brought the booklet down. She peered briefly over at box fifteen, and sure enough, there was that same glaring face that had caught her several times during the performance. She smiled and nodded at the man. But her cordial gesture was not reciprocated. As before, the face turned abruptly away, as if her glance had angered him.
Gracie’s first notice of the sharply dressed gentleman seated in box fifteen, was just before the lights dimmed, when she had felt his eyes, but did not want to turn to meet them. The man was a noticeable presence. His stripped tuxedo was his own—not rented—and obviously tailored to fit him like a glove. His bowtie and pocket hankie were perfectly placed, like a fitted mannequin. He was a handsome man, done up like a visiting dignitary—young . . . perhaps in his mid to late thirties. But it wasn’t his good looks, nor his affluent attire that had repeatedly brought Gracie’s eye to bear during the course of the First-Act. It was the way the man had viewed the performance . . . emotionless, like a statue—carved and placed to face the stage forever. As if part of the auditoriums ostentatious décor. Unlike the rest of the seven guests seated at the man’s box—whose faces were alive and imbued with the power and emotion of the performance—his was a presence only; an object filling a seat.
It was the sound of clapping that jolted Gracie back from the uncomfortable pondering.
“Are you doing alright, mother?” Jimmy leaned to her ear.
“Wonderful!” she bubbled. “I couldn’t be more comfortable, and the performance is outstanding!”
He nodded, affably. “Yes. Yes it is.” Jimmy stood. “We have a short intermission before Act- Two. I’m going to get you a drink of water.”
“Oh, that would be nice, son. Thank you.”
As Jimmy passed behind her chair, Gracie’s eyes ached to scan box fifteen. But she told herself, no. It is rude to stare, she reminded, and I won’t be caught up in that game. But oh how she wanted to take just a quick peek. To see of those glaring eyes were, once again, focused on her. And in the next instant, she had.
The man’s seat was empty, and she was somehow relieved. Perhaps he was ill? Or simply had something upsetting on his mind? Gracie scolded herself for overreacting, and felt a pang of foolishness. When he returns to his seat, he may yet enjoy the rest of the play, she thought. She hoped so.
Jimmy soon returned with a clear glass of cool water, and just in time. The lights began to dim and the doors were shut.
Gracie sipped and noted—yes, she was as curious as a cat—that the gentleman never returned to his seat. The orchestra began, and she settled in. She was even more excited for Act-Two, now that the story was well unfolding. But after the first song, and very soon into the second, Un bel dì ("One beautiful day"), Gracie wondered if the sound-system was amiss. The lovely blend of vocals and orchestra which had so captivated her during the first act, now seemed off, and sounded . . . poorly. Notes overlapped and instruments pitched high and then low in a growing, ugly cacophony. What on earth was happening? She turned toward Jimmy, her face distorted in confusion. But now as she tried to focus on her son’s profile, he appeared different somehow. Was he slouching? And when did he change his jacket? Something wasn’t right. It was Jimmy, wasn’t it? Gracie felt a twinge of fear surge through her body. She blinked once, twice, trying desperately to focus her vision. But all at once, all sounds around her had begun to fade, and draw strangely into a high pitched buzz forming in her head. Her eyelids fluttered, and felt as if weights had been attached to them. She was suddenly so tired . . . so very tired. “Jimmy?” she tried to say his name. But her tongue felt numb and too large. She tried again, and managed a wordless grunt, like an animal. But it must have been enough. Yes! He heard her! Finally, Jimmy turned around.
The terrible scream that coalesced in those final dying wisps of reality, never reached Gracie’s lips. Her eyes closed on that face. The face of the strange man from box fifteen.
--
The usher came bursting th
rough Mr. Iverson’s office door. “It’s the Reitman woman!” he shouted red-faced and gulping air. “She’s had a stroke, mid Act-Two—right in the middle of Butterfly’s One Beautiful Day!
Iverson jumped to his feet, his chair thumping hard against the back wall. “What on earth are you talking about! How do you know this?”
“Her son, Mr. Reitman has already called an ambulance! And there is a doctor with him—a gentleman who was in box fifteen and witnessed her collapse! He said she has had a stroke! He’s attending to her now!”
“Where is she!” demanded Iverson, hurrying past the man.
“In the foyer,” the usher gushed, pointing up the hallway, “they’re waiting for the ambulance to arrive.” He hopped to catch up to Iverson, who was well on his way. As the two hurried up the steps to the main foyer, the sound of sirens could already be heard approaching from the distance.
How could this happen to the most influential patron he had had in the audience for years! Iverson groaned to himself. And such a nice woman, too! He rounded the corner.
There, near the main entrance, a group of employees had gathered in some kind of commotion. Some were bent, others just standing, but all were whispering amongst themselves, their expressions indicative of some unwelcomed incident.
Iverson made a beeline toward the group. He saw Mr. Reitman right away, standing in the midst, jacketless, his cellphone pushed up against his worried face. At his side was his mother, Mrs. Reitman, slumped over in her wheelchair, her son’s coat laid carefully around her.
There was another well-dressed gentleman—obviously a patron—bent attentively at her side. He seemed very calm and professional, and had taken full control of the situation.
At least we had the good fortune to have a doctor in the audience, Iverson considered upon approach. As he bent at Gracie’s side, he made hurried glance at Jimmy, who had stepped a distance away, and had just concluded a call.
“I’m so sorry,” spoke Iverson. “Will she be alright?”
“Mrs. Reitman has suffered a stroke. It is simply too early to tell,” replied the doctor. “Someone help me lean her chair back. We can try to make her more comfortable until the ambulance arrives.” He added.
Iverson jumped right in. He glanced up, expecting the son to step up and help, but Jimmy remained where he was, and appeared to dial another number.
Iverson assumed the poor man was in near shock. He did look awash in worry, the manager noted sorrowfully. He must be worried sick.
But Jimmy Reitman was neither in shock, nor worried. On the contrary. He was as composed as a lazy cat eyeing a baby bird just tumbled from its nest.
Chapter 46:
Jacob kept Ellen in his sights for the next few hours. She knew the boy was watching her, and a subtle war of goggling had commenced between them. The exchange of banter, although confined mostly to the two of them, was indicative of the mood felt by the entire team. It had been many years since such a feeling of absolute fulfillment had rested upon the compound, and although they each remained intently focused on their work, theirs was a lifelong mission so close to a successful conclusion, that they could taste it.
“T-minus one hour, thirty minutes and fifteen seconds until umbilical acquisition,” announced Jacob. “We are in the green and looking good.”
One of Ellen’s displays flashed. “NASA has just initiated the final synchronizing roll. Both satellites are performing eloquently,” she stated with a poised nod.
“ . . . tracking the roll,” interjected Eli. “Wow. Not bad for NASA’s systems,” he added. “They are doing a great job with our birds.”
“Yes dear colleague,” spoke up Ruthanne. “But keep your finger hovering near the override, just in case.” She smiled and turned back to her station.
Eli let out an agreeable grunt. “No worries there. I’ve got the axe-in-air and ready to plunge if need be.”
For the next hour, the group monitored and recorded every movement of the HOPE satellite duo—and theirs weren’t the only eyes to do so. At the NASA Control Center, the twin systems had positioned themselves perfectly into ELO (Earth Low Orbit), nearly 500 miles above the earth’s surface. The twin systems settled into their trajectory in a debut performance of precision, giving many a NASA engineer, a shake-of-the-head, and snap-of-the-tongue in awe and amazement. But NASA hadn’t seen anything yet. In truth, the two artificial orbiters were capable—among so many other things—of autonomously powering themselves into any trajectory, and at any time, giving them unprecedented coverage of Earth’s surface. This added feature was soon to become painful apparent when—at countdown’s end—the first of Sandcastle’s commands would circumvent, and move the HOPE systems far beyond any previously manmade Earth orbiter. In this new trajectory, the twin birds would begin to feed upon the sun’s energy until, in a great fission of power, they would engaged their onboard stealth capabilities; their defenses; and finally their EMR devices, each emulating as though a tiny sun reactor themselves.
It was during these last few minutes of electric excitement when a sudden sound sliced through the station’s confident milieu like frost on a July afternoon. It beeped across the audio, bringing an instantaneous expression of shock on the four occupant’s faces.
“That’s the emergency line,” gasped Ellen, first. Her countenance extreme as she scanned the other blanched faces.
Eli swallowed, drearily. “It may be unintentional,” he muttered in a prayer-like whisper.
“I don’t see how,” returned Ellen. “It is either Jimmy or Gracie . . . the situation must be dire!”
“For heaven’s sake answer it, and find out!” cried Jacob.
Eli nodded, hesitantly.
Jacob quickly deferred all satellite control to the operator droids, as each of the Four now focused on what voice was to reply through the speaker.
Eli pushed the transmission. “Confirm authorization code for validation and voice verification.”
Jimmy’s voice broke over the audio, and was instantly verified as authentic.
Everyone’s stomach now dropped . . . something must have happened to Gracie.
“Eli . . . ah good,” Jimmy toned through. “I was hoping you’d pick up. I’m afraid I have some very bad news,” he spoke, reverberating through the control center like a noxious vapor. “But I don’t have much time,” he added suddenly. “I don’t want to repeat this information twice, Eli. I’m not comfortable using this line, as you know. Before I continue, I need to know that you are all together. I assume you are all in the MU1 station at this moment?”
“Yes, yes! We are all here.” Where else would they be? Eli puzzled for an instant, but his mind quickly rebounded to the content of Jimmy’s worrisome message. “Jimmy. What has happened? Is it Gracie?”
As Eli’s question echoed through the room, Jacob’s keen mind kicked into overdrive, it being different than the others—seeing all scenarios, all infinite probabilities and outcomes—he would not dismiss the strange tenor that crept—nearly unnoticed—in Jimmy’s voice. Nor would he ignore the man’s final, curious question: . . . I assume you are all in the MU1 station? There was no assume with Jimmy Reitman. Never. Jimmy’s interruption began to feel strangely sour, and something ugly harassed Jacob’s insight.
The boy knew that Jimmy understood the sequence of the plan . . . every detail, right down to the last second. Jimmy had been part of its orchestration—a founder and architect to its conception. He knew the sequence of the launch, flight, detachment, roll and subsequent orbit of each HOPE satellite. There was no question where the Four would be at that moment. This was a rhetoric question, wielded for one purpose: a confirmation. But to what?
And then, as Eli’s desperate request drew nothing but empty silence, Jacob suddenly knew. In a wreathing burn that shot through his entire body, as though his blood had turned caustic, he knew. Jimmy had betrayed them! And in that awful instant, the boy felt—as never before—utterly terrified, utterly helpless. He shuddered, the nausea
taking him so violently that he nearly collapsed.
“Jimmy?” Eli questioned again, turning a concerned look on his companions.
Jacob tried to cry out, but all he could do was stumble back from his station in a stunned stupor of shock and disbelief, his mind now completely overrun with the absolute, sickening obviousness of it. How could he not have seen this! It was so clear now! Every step Jimmy had taken! They had been played! They had all be used like the polish-stained rag Jimmy kept to wipe his shoes! And then the most horrific of all the boy’s qualms slammed into his head like a bullet to his condemned heart: it was all for the money! Their technology, their knowledge—bartered like some stinking contraband. What now would be released upon the world? The HOPE technology would burn the planet as a child who plays with gasoline and fire!
In those last, desperate seconds, Jacob somehow managed to retake his senses long enough to reach for a button on his console. Now, all audio in the room would be streamed to a central processor. One with an attitude: Three-of-Ten.
Jimmy’s voice returned, like acid to flesh, for his final declaration: “How fortunate,” he intoned in a cold, droned statement. “You have all made this so very easy for me.”
And then the hissing sound began.
“Jimmy!” screamed Jacob, first. “You traitor! You filthy traitor!”
The audio clicked dead.
As Jacob turned a hopeless clasp upon his stunned companions, the tears began to flow.
It was the most cruel of endings, really. In that last instant, to have forever burned in the boy’s mind, the faces of those he loved so dear. Their perceiving expressions glaring back at him in a look of such unbearable sadness, as to define the very limits of what sentient beings might endure. That same instant when one by one—as if a great force had simply unplugged their life essence—the Four dropped into unconsciousness.
Jacob, the last to fall, watched through fading eyes as the room spun . . . as the tick of time dwindled . . . as his companions crumpled and withered; watched until he himself succumbed in a slow plunge . . . down, down to darkness.
Of Salt and Sand Page 62