A full array of screens now filled the panels on all angles. Most were electronic charts and graphs displaying Jacob’s physical stats for the time period in question—vitals and bio-readout comparisons. But on one screen, a visual tracking from scores of security camera’s placed throughout the facility, gave a near 3D video record of Jacob’s movements in the underground complex.
“I’m amazed that Three-Of-Ten is allowing us to view this data,” added Jessie. “He must have overridden a gazillion security protocols to do so.”
“No doubt, “mumbled Brant, his eyes engrossed on the data.” So this is the HOPE complex,” he continued with a shake of his head. “It is extraordinary.”
“Yes,” replied Jessie. “You should see it for real. It’s like nothing on earth.”
“Hey! There’s Ruthanne and Ellen!” Sam suddenly chirped up, throwing a pointed finger at the display.
“Ah yes. The two nieces,” murmured Teresa. “Not,” she grumbled. “Tricky pair, those two.”
Brant brushed a grin at her then returned to the video. “Jessie,” he asked. “This is fascinating beyond words, and I’d love to continue, but perhaps for the sake of time we should view the end of the record . . . to see what happened.”
Jessie nodded and glanced at Three-Of-Ten. “Right. So go ahead and ask him. You did so well last time.”
Brant smirked, then turned to Three-Of-Ten. “Can you fast-forward to the end? Like the last fifteen minutes or so of the record?”
“Yes,” replied the android. “Accessing now.” He suddenly paused then turned to Brant. “Apologies, Brant Stephens. There is no video available for this time period. Audio only. Proceed?”
Brant puzzled. “Sure, okay,” he managed, eyeing the others. “I mean . . . that’s better than nothing, right?”
“I do not understand the question?” returned Three-Of-Ten. “You may proceed with audio only, or not proceed. You cannot make a comparison to a value of nothing.”
“I was simply making a statement.”
Three-of-Ten just blinked.
“Yes. Proceed,” Brant clarified with some emphasis. Gads. I’ve been corrected by an android,” he mused. First time for everything.
Jessie snorted.
Teresa ginned and gave Brant a supportive pat to the arm.
Jacob’s file started up again. Almost immediately the video modulation dropped out, just as Three-Of-Ten had stated. Now only the voices of four individuals communicating to each other continued, crackling in over the Sandray’s speaker system. They were happy voices, filled with excitement and purpose, and brought to Jessie’s heart a nostalgic yearning. The audio recording was not only clear in quality, but absolutely revealing in the Four’s intent and task at hand.
With nervous ears they listened on, hoping to catch some hint of what had happened those last fateful minutes. The speakers boomed with jibes and laughter, checklists and final preps. Then, just minutes before the group had planned to take control of the HOPE satellites, a single sound was heard buzzing in like the soft chime of a doorbell . . . and then static.
“What happened?” said Jessie.
“Great,” moaned Brant. “Whatever took place inside that station has been deleted—”
“Or deliberately turned off at the source,” Teresa added.
Brant grumbled in frustration and fell back against his seat. “Now what.”
“No! There’s got to be more!” cried Jessie. She turned to Three-Of-Ten but was instantly halted by something very odd. The android’s expression had changed. Instead of the intricate angles and curves which gave his face humanlike character, he now looked . . . artificial—a composite of metal, circuitry, plastic, valves and solenoids. The android’s keen veneer sagged and his eyes were dead and lifeless.
“Three-Of-Ten?” Jessie muttered fearfully. She reached and touched his arm.
“Accessing!” the android suddenly screeched out.
Jessie screamed and pushed away.
Brant made an instinctively lurch, throwing his arm around Teresa.
“It’s okay,” cried Sam, his voice riddled in uncertainty. “See! He’s getting his face back!”
Three-Of-Ten did seem to collect himself, and managed to restore his outer features. But not his pleasing tone. Instead, the shrill audio which continued to squawk out of him was dissonant and harsh. “Accessing . . . accessing . . .” the mechanical aid parroted over and over until suddenly, he stopped. When he spoke again, it was not his voice. Three-Of-Ten’s lips now expelled the tone of a man. And as the voice resounded outward, everyone’s blood went cold.
“It’s Jimmy’s voice!” cried Jessie. “I’m sure of it!”
“It is! It is!” Sam followed.
Ears were never so focused as at that moment. Three-Of-Ten continued his broadcasting, and as he did, the effect was paralyzing. Jessie and Sam broke into sobs. Teresa’s eyes swelled and she put her head in her hands. Brant grew enraged, and was overcome with a drowning sense of vulnerability. The audio had changed from Jimmy’s voice to Jacobs. And now, with the final cry of a boy’s anguished words: . . . Jimmy! You traitor! You filthy traitor! The audio died to static, and Three-Of-Ten fell silent.
The Sandray reeked with the stench of betrayal; and in that smothering stillness, an inner fury swelled within bruised hearts. Now they knew the truth—the horrible, unthinkable truth.
“Help Jacob,” Three-Of-Ten toned, turning his head askew. He looked from one to the other of them. “Help Jacob.”
Seconds seemed like an eternity.
“We have to do something,” Teresa broke from the recoil.
Brant just stared back at her and shook his head. “This is monolithic . . . so much worse than I could have imagined. There’s no longer any doubt. Jimmy has conspired with the military, or at least some branch of it—who knows how deep into the bowels of the government this crawls.”
“He has sold out the Four, and even his own mother,” Teresa muttered, sickly.
Jessie found her voice in the anger that followed her tears. “That creep has my Jacob,” she growled, “doesn’t he.”
Brant looked at Teresa. He nodded. “I’m sure he has them all, including Gracie. And you can bet she hasn’t had a stroke.”
“Alright then,” composed Teresa. “We need proof, right?”
Looks poured over her, but no one replied.
“Proof?” scoffed Jessie, finally. “To show who?” She snorted disdainfully. “Who can possible help us?” The question carried a hopeless furry.
“I’m afraid she’s right,” Brant conceded. “First of all, any proof we might obtain would either be in the form of some untouchable technology, or inevitably point back to the source of said technology—to Sandcastle, and the Four. We would have opened a Pandora’s Box from Hell; the very thing Gracie and the Four have tried so desperately to avoid.”
“But there must be something we can do,” Teresa lamented.
Brant wrenched his jaw. “We are talking about the military—probably a rogue group, or one unnamed. How do we go up against something like that?”
“We don’t,” mumbled Jessie, her gaze away and distant.
“None of us want to end up a chapter in some conspiracy theorist’s book of government cover-ups,” Brant admitted.
For nearly an hour they debated, discussed, proposed and argued, tossing out ideas like numbers called out from a bingo game; and each time the ending result drew the same blank conclusion: what, if anything, could be done? Finally, amid the chaos of verbiage, Sam, who had become so silent that he was effectively invisible, whispered, “Gracie would know how to fix everything.”
“What did you say?” Brant said.
“I said, Gracie would know how to fix everything,” the boy repeated, this time more forcefully than before.
Sam’s statement, simple as it was, washed over the others like a spray of cold water. It brought a contemplating silence that seemed to spar the ever pressing pessimism.
“He’s right,” Je
ssie said, at last. “That’s our first play. We have to get Gracie. She will know what to do. She is the key and the only one who can deal with Jimmy.”
“Umm,” Teresa thought aloud. Then she rose a curious finger: “I hate to be the cynic here, but number one: we don’t know her condition, or her location. I mean Jimmy is obviously as cracked as the San Andreas Fault—and he doesn’t exactly qualify for the good son of the year award. Who knows what he’s done to her. We have to consider that Jimmy’s claim might actually be valid . . . Gracie could be in a coma somewhere, or worse. Then what do we do?”
As before the questions were met with silent exasperation.
“I don’t know . . . I don’t know but we have to try,” Jessie threw out.
“But Jess—” Brant started.
“No Brant! You don’t understand. You haven’t seen what I have seen. You two are blown away by this little escapade?” she laughed, mockingly. “Oh trust me, this is nothing. You have seen the tiniest tip of a colossal iceberg; I have seen the whole of it. I have stood in the salt cathedrals of the HOPE complex. I have felt the artificial suns of Avalon on my face, and been chastened by the limitations of my own imagination. You cannot comprehend what is at stake here. We must do something!”
“Okay, Jessie. But what?” Teresa cried, tossing her arms up helplessly. “We don’t know what the next ‘something’ is. We don’t know how to save the world!”
“Even if we had a plan, Jess,” Brant quickly amended. “We would need an army,” he glanced around sardonically, “ . . . and the four of us appear to be it.”
Jessie turned away so frustrated that she could hardly breathe. “We don’t need an army to get to Gracie,” she finally muttered from behind her back. “The Four’s technology will be army enough to rescue her.” Then she turned to face them again. “Trust me. If Gracie is being held against her will, her captors will be the ones begging for reinforcements.”
Brant gulped. “Now wait a minute, Jess. I don’t know what you have in mind, but—”
“I’m going to find her with or without your help,” she eyed them both ferociously. “Even if I,”—she paused and turned her intense eyes on Three-Of-Ten—“I mean if we, have to go it alone. I’m not going to let you stop me.” Then she nodded at the android. “And neither is he.” Her message came through loud and clear.
“Don’t do this, Jessie,” pleaded Teresa. “The Sandray’s technology might be impressive, but it’s not indestructible—and neither is Three-Of-Ten.”
“Actually,” Jessie replied, tossing her hair, “I’m not talking about the Sandray.”
Brant exhaled, sat back and folded his arms. “Uh-huh. Do you want to explain?”
“Well,” she thought a moment and feigned a grin. “It would be easier just to show you.”
“Wait a minute,” Teresa gulped. “Is this going to be another drive through a concrete wall and see a robot experience? Because if it is, I’m going to need another pair of panties—and I’m not kidding!”
Jessie bit nervously at a lip. “Let’s just say that Jacob had a little obsession.”
“Obsession?” Brant prodded. “And . . .?”
“And,” Jessie continued, “let’s also say that this obsession was a complete secret, and kind of came together in a hidden workshop.”
“Came together?” Teresa repeated.
“Sounds intriguing,” Brant admitted, “Go on.”
“Hmm,” Jessie hindered, “well, his obsession was kind of a superhero-techno-gadgetry . . . thingy.”
“Thingy?” Teresa swallowed.
“Okay. So Jacob has a bunker full of the coolest stuff you’ve ever imagined!” Jessie finally spilled out.
“Ah,” Brant said rationally. “Let me see if I can take it from here.” He craned his head and started up in a pedantic ramble, as if giving his daily lecture at the university. “This secret workshop doesn’t happen to be full of kick-the-enemy’s-butt type futuristic wonder-wear, does it?”
“Exactly!” Jessie blasted with an abrupt nod. “Brant, you’d love it!”
“Oh no! No, no, no!” Teresa suddenly stymied. “I can see where this is heading. I am not going to play Wonder Woman!”
“I don’t think it would hurt just to see it?” Brant defended, his voice riddled with an adolescent excitement.
“Are you kidding me!”
“Please?” he nearly whined. He grinned and shrugged. “Besides. I’m a scientist. I can’t help it.” He spun back to Jessie. “So where is this workshop . . . slash . . . superhero hideaway? Because if it’s at Sandcastle, you can forget it. That place will be locked down like Fort Knox by now.”
Again, Jessie got that look. “There’s a secret entry.”
“Oh but of course . . . a secret entry,” mocked Teresa, “and why not.”
Jessie ignored and went on: “A secret entry with an access tunnel out in the desert. Jacob is the only one who knew about it. And yes, it does lead to the underground facility, but in a very remote and undeveloped portion of the salt substructure.”
Brant listened intently.
Teresa went from pale-pink to ghostly-white.
“With the Sandray, we can go in stealth,” Jessie explained. “Trust me. We can get in, get what we need and get out without being seen. I know we can do it! It is the only way to rescue Gracie and the others!”
Teresa moaned. “I’m going to hurl.”
“No you’re not,” said Brant. He paused, eyeing her. “You’re really not, right?”
She growled, latched her arms and turned away.
Brant scooted in close and put his arm around her. “Come on, Hun? Jessie’s right. It’s the only option we have left. What do you say?”
“Like I have a choice,” she protested.
“Yes!” cried Sam. “We’re going to go get Gracie!”
Brant put out a cautious hand. “Now hold on. We need to checkout this workshop first. Then we need to figure out where Jimmy is keeping Gracie. That’s going to be a feat in-and-of-itself.” He scratched at his chin. “I guess we need a plan.”
“A plan?” said Teresa pessimistically. “Can one plan a disaster?” She mumbled a few more expletives before surrendering to the glares of her companions. “Oh alright! Fine! We need a plan.” She characteristically tossed her hands in the air, yet again.
Brant smiled at her, which only irritated her more.
“I agree with Brant,” Jessie spoke up. “The first item is to find out where Gracie is being held.” She gave Three-Of-Ten an optimistic glance. “Once we get inside Jacob’s workshop, Three-Of-Ten can access the HOPE computers,” she explained. “Maybe he’ll be able to find something. Huh, buddy?” She nodded confidently at the android.
Three-Of-Ten returned a single, but determined nod.
Teresa snorted. “I feel all better now.”
“Okay then,” said Brant. “Let’s get going.” He stood. “So Jess,” he gestured toward the main panel. “How about giving me some flying lessons?”
Jessie beamed with enthusiasm. “Sure! It’s easy. The Sandray glides like a dream!”
“Oh joy,” sighed Teresa. “Does this thing have seatbelts?”
Chapter 52:
Jacob’s eyes opened as one awakening from a nightmare—frantic and unaware. He felt air rush into his lungs and the slow expel which followed. As he arose from his unknown oblivion, he tried to move his limbs and was immediately aware that they were sore and stiff. But why? His mind scoured the emptiness for answers but found none. For several more minutes, he blinked in and out of the void which held him captive—an empty, cold and ashen place. As his vision cleared, the rest of his senses began to rouse as well, and soon, the reality of why, how, and what began to trickle back into memory like the slow drip of acid: “Jimmy,” he wrenched out between clenched teeth. Jacob’s thoughts now shifted immediately to his companions.
He sat up quickly—too quickly, and his head spun. It took only moments for his vision to clear. When it did, on
ly dim, vague shadows returned his disquieted gaze. Amid all the possibilities which his visual scan now relayed back to his brain; one thing was very clear: he was alone in this place. At this unpleasant conclusion, his focus switched from the needs of his comrades to his own predicament. Where was he, and what was his next step? First of all, he needed to assess his own body—his physical condition. What had caused the stiffness, and was it permanent or temporary? After a quick examination, Jacob found that he was okay; he had not been cut, punctured or any other sign of injury . . . this was good news. The days of the Nazi clinic had left its mark of paranoia, when any sort of awakening meant possible trauma to a child’s body . . . if there had been an awakening at all.
The next task was to determine a frame of time. Jacob had no idea how long he’d been lying there. His wristcom, watch—everything which gave him a sense of placement—was gone. He needed answers, and he wasn’t going to get them just sitting there.
It took a few moments, but soon Jacob managed to coax his legs over the edge of the stand and prep for a jump. He waited until his head cleared and his legs responded . . . sort of . . . then with a sudden huff, he was down. He landed on carpet, teetered dizzily for a few moments, then steadied. Now he could survey things around him with more detail, and intent.
The surrounding room was small. And as his eyes adjusted, Jacob found that he could view walls, furniture, and appliances—obvious things. In front of him was what appeared to be a comfortable suite of chairs and even a couch. On a far wall hung a large flat screen. On another, a type of compact kitchenette jetted into a darkened nook. Hmm, he considered. Some kind of studio apartment? It certainly didn’t feel like he was a prisoner. Then Jacob noticed—having thought too soon—that the room was void of windows. And now, as he turned to find an exit, he also found—with growing uneasiness—that the only door in sight was not a standard exit. Unlike the rest of the room’s interior theme, this entryway hinted at what he had initially feared: a prison cell. The door was dauntingly large and made of metal, and there were no handles. What little light spilled into the room was from a tiny window mid-top of the barrier. Jacob immediately moved to have a peek and see what was on the other side. But at his first step forward, the lights in the room suddenly flashed on—bright and blinding! He froze and squinted from the intensity. When he opened his eyes again, the flat screen, which had been powered off and dark, was now on . . . on and displaying the image of a suited man at a very large, domineering desk.
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