Teresa turned and gasped; gasped as she had more in those past minutes than in any other time of her life! She joined Brant in staring at a large opening in the concrete wall embankment where they had evidently entered. She could clearly see—as if looking through a window—right into the parking lot. She noted, with a sense of shock, the very spot where they had been parked just minutes earlier, before her car had taken on a mind of its own. It was as if the concrete wall had become transparent, opening up and allowing them to somehow drive right through it and into the supporting mound.
For whatever crazy reason (the temptation was just too much, perhaps?) Brant decided that to simply gaze was not enough. He was, after all, a man of science. Before Teresa knew what was happening, he had stepped over to the opening and was reaching out toward it. “What are you doing!” she yelped after him.
“It’s okay,” he replied in a unsure voice. Was it okay? He had no idea. Brant cautiously pushed his hand right into the opening. Then, leaning a bit more, right through the strange barrier.
“No! No! No!” hissed Teresa, her teeth clenched, her hands clasped in nerves.
There was a slight sense of pressure on Brant’s hand, as if he had dipped his arm into a bucket of thick paint. Then he felt the cool breeze and rain drops. His hand was outside the barrier! “Whoa!” he said, almost pleased. He was about to try a foot next, when a large, metallic arm suddenly grabbed hold of him. “Aaah!” he jumped, and found himself face to face with the android, Three-Of-Ten.
Three-Of-Ten simply shook its head at him. “Please do not attempt this action again, Brant Stephens.”
After nearly wetting himself, Brant managed the best cloying grin he could muster, then stuttered back, “sss—sorry.”
At this, the android did something which would forever fuse in Brant’s mind: it smiled at him! Its artificial face wrinkled up, its eyes widened, and its amazingly human mouth peaked up in a bowling grin. Brant had seen more sci-fi movies in his lifetime than he wanted to admit to, and nearly all of them had the main hero paired up with some mechanical-crony tag-a-long . . . most, with an attitude. It was the only way the writers could spice-up the script. And more recently—with the advent of computer-enhanced technology—some these synthetic characters took on a real sense of existence, making for some amazingly realistic emotional exchanges on the most odd of faces. But nothing Brant had ever seen on any screen, TV or theatre, compared to this single, artificial expression he had just witnessed. Not even close! Then, as if the android’s responsive grin had not been enough, it spoke again: “Thank you, Brant.”
For the second time, the curious professor of Atmospheric Physics, nearly soiled himself, and could give no response.
Brant could not have understood that Three-Of-Ten’s friendly reprimand was justified. The android knew that from the outside, Brant’s hand would appear—as if by magic—to materialize right out of the concrete wall, giving any passerby the shock of their life and a subsequent session with a psychiatrist.
Fortunately, Jessie and Sam stepped up and saved both Brant and Teresa from further conversation with the android companion. “I told you he wasn’t dangerous,” Jessie reassured.
Sam shook his head and rolled his eyes, “‘dangerous,’” he repeated sarcastically, then moved from his sister’s side and took the robot’s hand as casually as a son would his father’s.
Jessie joined in with a congenial arm of her own around the large framed android. “Teresa, Brant. This is Three-Of-Ten,” she introduced.
Three-Of-Ten stepped forward and extended a large hand. But the androids politeness didn’t endear either of the two human adults. Things were still too strange, and way too soon!
Teresa dug her grasp so tightly into Brant’s arm that she nearly drew blood with her fingernails. “You first,” she whispered at him.
Brant paused, trying to appear calm—he was terrified. But after staring at that large, outstretched thing, which was meant to resemble a human hand—it did, actually—he gulped once, then reached and grasped it.
Three-Of-Ten carefully applied pressure, and the grip was complete.
The experience of the touch was strange, to say the least. The robot’s clasp surprised Brant with its warmth, and the artificial skin felt not unlike a human’s. It was more freaky than bizarre, actually, and Brant was relieved when the android let loose its grip.
“That was fun,” he mumbled, tucking his hand back into his pocket.
Three-Of-Ten turned next to Teresa.
Teresa stepped hesitantly back. She looked hard at Jessie, paused, and shook her head. “No! No! No! Sorry, Jess. I’m not in the mood for pleasantries and introductions,” she said, frankly. “What I am in the mood for, is an explanation. What on earth is going on here? You seem to be complacent with all this, as if you can actually comprehend and understand it . . . no, as if you expected it! But not me, Jessie. And not Brant. We want in on the know. Right now!”
The android glanced at Jessie, then back at Teresa. Its head drooped down in a disappointed slump.
“See! See! Like that!” Teresa pointed sternly at Three-Of-Ten. “And don’t tell me I’ve just hurt its feelings, because that’s impossible, Jessie!”
Jessie glanced at Sam then returned an acceptable nod. “Fair enough,” she said in a surprisingly soft voice. She hesitated a bit, obviously trying to amass the words . . . preferably the right words? “I understand Three-Of-Ten’s existence and purpose, but not this weird intervention of his. Believe me, this is the last thing I would ever have expected from the Four.” She caught herself, visibly condemning the words just spoken. “I mean . . . I can’t explain why Three-Of-Ten is here.”
Teresa’s eyes narrowed, drilling into the girl like two tiny laser beams. “The Four what?” she repeated, eyebrows peeked. “Tell us what you know, Jess” she said, shifting her stance and crossing her arms. “I mean everything.”
Jessie turned to Three-Of-Ten. “Three-Of-Ten,” she queried. “Is the Sandray is in this enclosure with us?”
The android nodded.
“Will you disengage stealth so that we can see the Sandray?” she asked. Jessie was more than confused herself. Why hadn’t Jacob made himself known? She knew there must be a reason. The kid would never allow his android companion to travel alone, nor to be viewed by unauthorized strangers. It was against everything she knew about Jacob and his team.
Three-Of-Ten blinked his luminous eyes back at her as if he hadn’t heard, or understood a word.
“Three-Of-Ten,” Jessie repeated, her voice more stern than before. “Take the Sandray out of stealth, please.”
Again, she was ignored. It seemed that Three-Of-Ten was bent on keeping his virtual wall up and in place. Jessie, however, was not only getting irritated, but felt quite uncomfortable with Brant and Teresa glaring at her like she was nuts.
“Where is Jacob!” she finally, shouted. “Tell me! Now!” Her outburst apparently worked . . . because this time, she got a response . . . not the one she expected, however.
“Jacob!” the android suddenly blasted, his tone far more alarming than any previously used.
Everyone jumped!
Jessie’s heart leaped. “Yes . . . Jacob. Where is he! Tell me!”
“Jacob! . . . protect! Must help Jacob!” The robot went into a pulsing fit. It shook its head, rattled its frame and stomped as though part of it had malfunctioned, catastrophically! “Access BC77-Alpha-911! Jacob! Must help Jacob!” it toned over and over again, loud and desperate.
Brant shoved Teresa behind him and prepped for the defensive.
Jessie’s face fell into a fearsome panic. She grabbed Three-Of-Ten by its arm. “Stop it! Hold still and tell me what has happened to Jacob!”
The mechanical companion suddenly wilted, as if its power source had been shut off. Its head went down, its arms dropped, and for a moment Three-Of-Ten looked as though he might pitch over and crash to the ground.
“Get out of the way!” hollered Brant, yanki
ng Teresa to one side. “He’s coming down!”
But the android did not tip. “Override,” it suddenly mumbled. “Override! Override! Override!” it repeated louder and louder. Then, Three-Of-Ten seemed to reenergize. Its head drew sharply up. It straightened and clicked into a powerful stance. “Accessing BC77-Alpha-911 protocol. Authorizing Jessie Goodwin—full access; authorizing Sam Goodwin—full access; authorizing Brant Stephens—full access; authorizing Teresa Henington—full access,” it hammered out in a synthetic whirr. And that’s when the Sandray appeared!
It happened all at once—a subtle change in the nuance of brightness within the bubble, as if a small window had opened amid many. Jessie whirled to see its shimmering metal veneer. She had been right. The elusive shuttle had been just feet from them the entire time, and it looked magnificent! “Jacob!” she shouted and ran toward it. She bolted up the steps and disappeared into its entry.
Three-Of-Ten lifted Sam on his shoulders, and followed.
Teresa and Brant were once again, speechless. But this time their loss of voice was accompanied by a numbing sense of being completely out of the game. Who on earth was Jacob? Just another unanswered question in an endless list! Their emotion and acceptability was gone—burned out, spent. They were mere spectators, forced to absorb but not think. And a good thing too! Their brains were so maxed-out on irrationality that any attempt at normal reasoning would certainly cause a short-circuit of immeasurable magnitude! How could they possibly make sense of any of this? But their paternal instinct and inherent sense of responsibility soon slapped them, and they jumped to follow the others toward the mysterious shuttlecraft. With hands clasped tightly together, they stepped cautiously up the steps.
“Jessie?” called Brant, poking his head inside.
“In here,” her voice called back. She sounded very upset.
With trepidation beyond what either thought they had, the two stepped slowly through the entrance. As they did, the door closed in behind them. Now, from the outside, the seams where the door had been, vanished. There was no evidence that a doorway had ever existed in the craft’s metal exterior. They were sealed within.
Chapter 50:
Tanner’s voice came as an electrical current—steady and sharp: “Time to take control of our two birds, Colonel.” He sat there in his expensive chair, with adjustable tilt and cushioned armrests, feeling the pride of victory course through his veins like an empowering potion. He put down his phone and tuned his TV remote to CNN, their coverage of the satellite’s earlier launch having been concluded for some time.
Tanner could hardly wait for the clip which would soon interrupt whatever news was currently being displayed: a hot little this just in. The announcer’s words would come smeared in somber tones and disquieting inflections, the verbiage going something like this:
. . . NASA has just reported losing communication with their newly launched satellites—a Reitman Enterprises’ owned and designed duo. The twin orbiters, launched earlier this afternoon from Cape Canaveral, appear to have mysteriously spun out of trajectory . . .
The clip would continue on, delivering as many gasp-lines as possible, and finishing up its dreary report with the single most important part of the announcement: the blame. An assumption—based on sketchy interviews and preliminary data—as to the cause of the incident, and to whom the finger might be pointed:
. . . the effects will be felt throughout the globe as NASA scrambles to determine what caused such a catastrophic communication failure . . .
The commentary to follow would certainly plague on for days. It would be a delicious media circus, one which Tanner looked so forward to.
--
Jimmy didn’t enter the Omega-Seven station through the Mole Hole infiltration tunnel. It was too dirty, messy and littered with battle debris. He opted instead to be helicoptered to the estate where he could take the elevator down and shuttle to the station by way of the transportation pods—the way he always did. Briggs didn’t argue, even though it meant making his men wait for the egotistical Reitman to arrive before they could take control of the MU1 station. Jimmy gave no reason for demanding the odd route, but it was pretty obvious to Briggs: he didn’t want to chance running into the Four—unconscious, bound and blindfolded—as they were being carried down that same tunnel to their temporary holding quarters at Mole Hole Base. Reitman didn’t have the spine to view them just yet. Not until he had ascended completely, risen to the top of his empire where he would be master, and not his parent’s precious Four. Where HOPE would be displayed, waiting for the plundering. Soon now . . . very soon.
Jimmy still needed to take control of the HOPE satellites and turn the entirety of the underground facility over to Tanner and his military machine. Of course it would take months to transport all of the equipment from Sandcastle to the Wendover sub-base, but he wouldn’t be around for any of that cumbersome labor. Instead, Jimmy Reitman would be enjoying his wealth and running Reitman Enterprises the way it should have been all along, without his mother’s profligate dealings—her sickly- sweet humanitarian fetishes.
Briggs had just received his third phone call from an outraged, out-of-patience Tanner, when Jimmy stepped into the MU1 station as casually as he would his own office.
“Finally!” Briggs let loose. “You try dealing with Tanner. What kept you?”
Jimmy ignored the man’s outburst entirely. He gawked at the smashed entryway and treaded almost timidly as he moved around and over debris, seemingly afraid of stepping on something that might crunch or explode. “Hmm,” he observed boastingly. “More damage than I expected. This will take a little glue and tape I should think.” Then he turned to Briggs: “And how are the integrity of the controls?”
Briggs swallowed down his irritation. “Good actually, at least as well as we can tell.” He took another visual sweep. “Your point of entry was right on the mark,” he admitted. “Good work.”
Jimmy scoffed at the remark. It annoyed him.
“We’ve removed the drones and are ready to initiate manual override,” the colonel continued. “We just need your authorization,” he toned with added emphasis.
“Of course you do,” Jimmy gloated, and approached the panel. The soldier sitting at the workstation jumped from his seat. Jimmy slid in, brushed aside some light debris and eyed the panel keenly. “Well Carl (that was a first). I think it’s time to set NASA in an uproar.” With that, he punched in a series of commands.
The effect was instantaneous.
Within the hour Tanner had his news update on CNN:
. . . the U.S. Space Surveillance Network has joined with NASA in trying to locate two Reitman Enterprises’ satellites launched earlier in the day. The two COMSAT systems—the most advanced and costly ever put into space—vanished from all tracking and radar systems shortly after attaining normal geostationary orbit consistent with standard COMSAT elevations . . .
The clip went on and on, just as Tanner expected. He finally yawned, turned off his TV and poured himself another celebrated drink. He still had time to catch a few hours of sleep before the arrival of his transportation to Mole Hole Base. He would need the rest. The day would be taxing, full of unpleasant interrogations and coerced threats. He permitted a subtle grin though the swish of bourbon. Right, he nearly chuckled. He could hardly wait.
--
The inside of the Sandray—for Brant and Teresa—was like the Wright Brothers stepping into the cockpit of a modern jetliner. It was lined with illuminated panels, buttons and displays—all completely esoteric in function. The tiny craft was cramped, obviously, but did accommodate passengers—two rows of four seats each, excluding two larger seats up front at the controls. A narrow aisle cut between the seating and ran up the center. There were no windows and, as far as Brant and Teresa could tell, no other entries/exits other than the one they had stepped through . . . the one now missing? The ceiling was low but arched—Brant, standing at six feet, just cleared it by inches. But before their eyes coul
d scan further, Jessie’s voice caught them again. “I don’t understand,” she spoke in a mixture of disappointment and confusion. “He’s not here.”
“Who, Jess?” Teresa replied from mid aisle, too unsure to take another step forward. Her clutch on Brant’s arm was like a fish on a hook, and kept him tethered at arm’s length. Truth was, Brant was dying to bolt up front and see more of the controls.
“Hey! Come sit by me,” Sam suddenly interjected, slapping at the seat next to him. The kid was all smiles, as if he’d just been seated for the rollercoaster experience of a lifetime.
Brant took the invitation as his chance to move forward. He stepped ahead, half dragging Teresa along behind him. He finally pulled her into a seat.
Jessie, who had been standing in the cockpit next to Three-Of-Ten, now dropped glumly into the large seat opposite the android. Her head drooped, spilling her hair around her face and concealing whatever emotion had tainted her normally pleasant expression. For a few awkward moments—it felt like forever—no one said anything. All that could be heard in the thick silence was the Sandray breathing—a background trill, like some pulsing circulatory system. It seemed to thrum the sound of a living entity.
“I . . . I thought if he were hurt, he would be here, and I could help him,” Jessie sniffled.
Teresa leaned forward and rested her hand on the girl’s shoulder. “Who, Jessie?” she whispered once more at the girl’s ear.
Jessie rotated her chair slowly around to face them.
“Are we going to go get Jacob?” asked Sam, his timing as importune as always. The boy simply did not understand the gravity of the situation.
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