Of Salt and Sand

by Barnes, Michael

  Silence gathered. Drifting clouds of dust rose lazily upward on heated drafts of air, and the desert whimpered at the loss. The beast had moved on to other prey. Sandcastle was no more, but the HOPE systems were far from finished.

  Chapter 62:

  It was Three-Of-Ten who first announced something peculiar. He was terribly damaged, but with the help of Eli, Brant and Jacob, had been laid across multiple seats. After that, the android had shut down and been silent . . . until now: “Communication error,” he suddenly intoned. His head—the only part still capable of normal motion—angling slightly as he eyed his comrades earnestly. “Encrypted frequencies, lost.”

  “What does he mean by that?” asked Brant, curiously.

  No one answered, at least not right away. But the Four eyed each other in some unspoken expression, one which seemed to shout volumes—and none which were good.

  Brant was about to ask again, but Teresa gave him a subtle shake of her head.

  “Can’t you push her any faster, Jacob?” Eli prodded.

  Jacob groaned. “No! I mean, yes! I mean normally she can fly like the wind! But she took a direct hit from one of the Goliaths. We’re lucky to be moving at all!”

  “If only we had more time,” Eli mumbled. He glanced at Ellen. But his sister’s head remained turned, her thoughts, distant.

  Time was the problem. Or more specifically, the lack of it. They could have used the onboard EMR systems to replicate and repair the Sandray. But once on board, Brant had been quick to explain the need to return to Sandcastle at best speed. He had recounted his last conversation with Gracie, and in so doing had put the group into a frenzy. Each of the Four had caught something in his telling words, and it had terrified them. Whatever elation they had had in their escape, was instantly dashed.

  Ruthanne had been so silent, her anxious anticipation more suppressed than the others. Then, without warning, she suddenly gasped and jolted herself upright. “Terror!” she cried out. “They are dying!”

  Ellen turned and grabbed her arm. “Who! Who Ruthy!” she shouted. “Who is dying!”

  “No! No!” screeched Ruthanne. She threw her hands to her face. “It cannot be!”

  Eli unbuckled himself and jumped to her side in a flash. “What is it, Ruthy!” Her body trembled, and her head fell into her lap.

  “Let it go,” Ellen consoled, reaching to the girl. “Whatever it is, Ruthy. Let it go.” She put her arms around Ruthanne’s neck.

  “What’s going on?” Jacob hollered from up front.

  Ruthanne’s frame began to ease, but her breaths came in hazarded gulps. She slowly raised her head. “HOPE has killed many,” she whispered. “We have failed.” Then she turned away, as if her emotional surge had ended. But it had not. There was more to say. She just couldn’t bring herself to say it. Finally, with eyes bearing down desperately upon her, she turned and faced them again. “Sandcastle is gone,” she muttered. “And so is our Gracie.”

  Ellen shook her head, desperately. “No! You are wrong, Ruthanne! You have to be wrong!” She buried her face in her hands and began to sob. Ruthanne was never wrong.

  “We misunderstood her!” shouted Jacob from behind his shoulders. “Ruthanne, tell us we heard you wrong . . . !” his voice broke off. He knew. He knew what had been said.

  Eli was the strongest. He just continued to rub Ruthanne’s shoulders. “Let it go, Ruthy. None of us could have known the extent of HOPE’s alterations—certainly not Gracie. Now they will sleep, their last instructions complete. They will sleep until we can heal them, and take back our HOPE. We can do nothing now. You must let it go.”

  Teresa turned her head into Brant’s chest. She didn’t know these people well enough to let them see her tears. She didn’t understand the strange ways of these four individuals, with their oddities and unique characteristics. But she knew she trusted them. Ruthanne’s declaration, then, came as a heart wrenching absolute. Teresa had no doubt. Gracie was gone.

  The desperate rush to reach Sandcastle now dwindled. And although the transport moved ahead, her boy pilot had eased back on her engines. He would no longer jeopardize his wounded craft for time’s sake.

  Inside the Sandray, time seemed to pass as the erosion of rock, compounded by the thick fog of sadness. There were sniffles now and then, and the occasional, plaintive chirp from Three-Of-Ten, but other than that, no one spoke. Then, sooner than anyone realized, the Sandray slowed and drew to a complete stop.

  They had just come over a subtle rise; the same approach which Jacob had taken so many times on his way back from some secret night adventure out in the desert. But this time, his home, his beautiful desert oasis which had always towered above in the distance—its pinnacles shimmering from powerful spotlights; its glistening glass façade casting out a welcoming illumination onto the desert’s dark face—did not show up on his screen. The computer-generated terrain, which had always been so accurate, showed nothing but flat sand in all directions. Yet, according to the Sandray’s directional computer, they had arrived?

  “I can’t open the windows and see for myself,” Jacob sniffled. “And if I could, I’m afraid I wouldn’t have the courage.” He unbuckled his seatbelt and stood. “Brant. Would you step outside and tell us what you see?”

  Brant startled. He didn’t expect this request. Yet, all eyes now fell upon him in a desperate plea for confirmation.

  Teresa raised her head from off his chest and nodded. “I’ll go with you.”

  They stood and moved to the rear entrance. Brant pushed for the door to open. It was a brilliantly bright day, and sunlight poured in.

  The Four turned their faces away.

  Brant stepped cautiously out first, then he motioned for Teresa to follow. Their feet sank into deep, warm sand. They looked out into the distance, turning in all directions. There was nothing. The desert terrain looked identical as far as the eye could see. Brant sighed. He reached down and scooped up a handful of the pristine granules. They were perfect somehow. Yet he couldn’t say why? “Salt and sand,” he whispered.

  “They’re so white,” remarked Teresa. “Like beaded snow.”

  They rejoined hands and turned, pensively, back. There was no longer any doubt. Everything was gone. But as they walked, a sudden sparkle of reflected sunlight caught Teresa’s eye. “What’s that?” she stopped and pointed. She let go of Brant’s hand and strode about twenty steps. She looked down, perplexed. Then she reached and picked something up from the sand.

  Brant soon joined her, his curiosity peaked. “What is it?” he asked.

  She held out her hand. “It’s a key,” she spoke, curiously. “And it looks like it’s made of gold.”

  Brant’s heart sank. “Yes. It is,” he whispered. “The purest of gold.”

  Teresa looked a question at him, but then caught sight of something marked on the key. “There’s something engraved on the back of it.”

  “What does it say?”

  “Hope’s End.”

  --

  The Avalon Prime sanctuary was no less a marvel of engineering and beauty than its predecessor had been. Built far from Sandcastle, it was designed to be the Four’s underground home for the rest of their lives, once HOPE had been deemed fully operational. But this premature, forced occupation was not to have happened . . . and not without Gracie. There was still much to have been done at Sandcastle—final preparations to be accomplished before the complex was abandoned. Only then, and of their own volition, was the exodus to take place. The transformation of Sandcastle—along with all her underground tributaries into natural elements of the desert—was to be a departing celebration of reverence and respect, not an event of sadness, death and disaster. Yes. Things had gone terribly wrong.

  Soon after arriving at Avalon Prime, Eli and Jacob had powered up the nuclear pods and got the heart of their new home beating. After that, their first priority was to secure the HOPE satellites—a task which they accomplished in hours. The two orbiters were shut down, put into stealth
, and made dormant. But like sleeping giants, they could be awakened at any time. An exploit which was soon to be used . . . there was a deal to be struck.

  The devastation of losing two secret bases—both populated and vastly invested—dealt a terrible blow to the military’s infrastructure. The political aftermath was horrific. Head’s rolled; departments reorganized; officials censured; and agendas, revised. Yet, as far as the public were aware, the headlines went something like this: Utah’s Desert Icon, Sandcastle Estate, Collapses into Underground Salt Sinkhole. Billionaire Mother and Son Duo, Lost!

  But amid the public and political storm, one individual remained as a single liaison: Ex Colonel Carl C. Briggs. He was the first to be contacted by the Four, and was subsequently conscripted into an undisclosed correspondence between his military superiors and the group of four obscure scientists, long since presumed dead.

  The negotiations were clear: the HOPE satellites would remain inactive if, and only if, the military destroyed all evidence of EMR, and buried all plans to advance their weapon technology. There were no stipulations. The Four made it very clear that they would be watching with eagle-eyes from their stealth birds orbiting above the earth. In addition, the deal also included a complete immunity package: Brant, Teresa, Jessie and Sam were to be unequivocally released. There was to be no contact, no questioning . . . they were to be deemed untouchable, and their lives fully restored.

  Not surprising, a deal was struck.

  But this jumble of covert dialog and bureaucratic red tape, did take time. And it was in this waiting period that Brant, Teresa, and the two kids grew to love the unique Four so completely. There in the Avalon Prime sanctuary, a family union was forever forged. But visiting too long in a Utopia is like staying too long in a dream. Each passing day made their planned departure that much more difficult.

  Brant and Teresa had never lost sight of why they were there, and the importance of leaving. But the kids, Jessie and Sam? It was like trying to talk the stars into deserting the heavens. Especially for Jessie. She struggled more than any of them. Having Jacob so near, while knowing she must let him go, was tormenting—for both of them. And even though the rest of the group had continually tried to intercede, to caution them, to prepare them for what must be—it had been a vain endeavor. Love, it seemed, knew no logic. And when the time came—and come it did—the separation was excruciating.

  It wasn’t until after Brant and Teresa were married, and the kids adopted, that Jessie’s heart began to heal. Within their newly created family unit, life slowly began to return to normal. And only because normal meant that none of them would ever speak of their desert experiences again. It was agreed, as much for their own safety as anything else. Only by the gradual cathartic of passing years, did their adventures change to dreams. And then, like all dreams, they simply faded away all together. But for years, on summer nights, when the storms rolled over the west range of the Oquirrh mountains, and the sky exploded in brilliant flashes of energy, Brant could still find Jessie out on the front porch. Her arms folded, her gaze transfixed far beyond the city bustle and dancing lights. Out somewhere beyond the west horizon . . . in the realm of the salt desert.

  Chapter 63:

  The air swirled around Brant’s ATV, and he chilled. Only his hands felt warm, and only because he held the journal so tightly. His head hurt, having recalled so much of his past, especially memories which he had tried so hard to forget. But having just seen Jacob . . . having talked and laughed as they once did, well, it felt almost like he was one of them again . . . almost.

  Brant stared down upon the opened pages of the journal. There was no mistake. These were his words, the very same he had written so many years ago. He smiled. Jacob was clever. Brant settled in for a short read. And as he began, an old nostalgic friend hugged him. And he knew. All qualms that had been, vanished; all doubts that had come, were dispelled. Yes. He was there.

  Sandcastle, Journal of the Five, Archive 522: Excerpt Entry by Brant Stephens

  “. . . As a man of science, I have never believed in what my mind, my senses, could not justify through practical reasoning. If I could not tie an equation to the problem, then it was simply a fabrication—unreal, imaginary, non-existent. The universe and all of her mysteries, I dogmatically believed, could eventually be explained, clarified and understood through formula’s, proofs, and equations. Given enough time, all unknowns must inevitably submit to this fate. But I was wrong.

  It seems that there is infinitely more, dear reader, to the conception of this great universe than mere formulas and equations. And in fact, I would propose to all who thrive in the language of science, who bask in the light of discovery, a different ideology. Hiding surreptitiously in the very soup of all calculations, computations and formulas; indeed, bound in the glue of Newton’s equations and Einstein’s relativity, is a hint of the unexplained, and—for the lack of a better word—a touch of magic. I do not speak of the hocus pocus of folklore and fantasy, but a real and thrilling essence. So real in fact, that I have touched upon its face, felt its breath, and witnessed its power. Once more, I have stood in adulation among those who revealed it, tamed it, and once controlled its magnificence.

  It was not spawned of fiction, rituals or beliefs. No. There is but one gateway, one facet, one portal: knowledge. Yes, the truth is sometimes too simple to comprehend, yet vast and overwhelming as the fabric of space and time. Knowledge then—and no small amount of it—coupled with an intelligent mind, an enlightened spirit, and a pinch of perseverance, can fashion an individual who by all definitions could challenge the greatest of today’s fictional heroes. Those of whom we hold in admiration and awe, yet exist only within the pages of a book or the pixels on the screen. Oh, to have them in flesh and blood!

  It is in this pure comprehension of knowledge that the true source of power is revealed—the ability to perform and act upon what was once unexplainable, to alter the unalterable.

  Having witnessed this ousting of the immutable, I can justly make such claims and testify of such events. The once governing laws of science, physics, and mathematics—shattered. Their previously known rules, postulates, theorems, proofs, formulas—changed. The conqueror now conquered, forced to acquiesce to an understanding; a manipulation of human reckoning. This, my friend, is the real essence of heroes, and I must avow what my eyes have witnessed: the extermination of the fabled and folklore. Replaced instead by real, flesh and blood. Individuals of unimaginable knowledge and understanding, fueled by their love for all humankind.

  Believe me when I say that these remarkable people wield this knowledge, this power, as easily as a tornado tosses a dried leaf, yet they are no different than you or I. Born of this earth, they feel, laugh, cry, hope, believe, and yes they bleed. Blood flows through their veins just as it does yours and mine. Their bodies are delicate and can be hurt. They are in fact our equal in every way, except for one: they comprehend what we do not. They have mastered the esoteric—particle manipulation, quantum transformation, and molecular control . . . to name a few. They have solved the unsolvable. And if the greatest minds of our time could stand in their company for just hours, there would be such astonishment, such resolve for change that all humanity would be forever thrust forward in great evolutionary plunge, one which would force the very hand of destiny for all creatures on this planet.

  As for my insignificant part, I have been instructed—bound, if you will—to one day reveal what was once forbidden: Sandcastle’s incredible gifts—her knowledge and her secrets. Not for my benefit, but for all humankind. And above all, for hope. Hope in the knowledge that we can believe in a world that promises wonder, goodness and wellbeing. Hope in a future that shouts with the voice of billions: look to tomorrow with enthusiasm, and be at peace! We have the ability to ascend above all that now crushes down upon our shoulders, and those of our children, and our children’s children! We can push aside the fear the uncertainty and all pessimism! For ours will someday be the envy of worlds no
t yet known.

  And so, dear reader, I must adjourn for now. But know that one day, in God’s good time, I will breach these pages again, for all humankind. When Sandcastle falls her veil and reveals her secrets. Then will HOPE arise once more, from salt and sand . . .”

  Epilogue:

  The LANL (Los Alamos National Lab) complex was asleep. Security had made their rounds—twice—and noted, as always, Research Building, No. 4D. One window on the top level of the building remained lit. It was the office of the Director of Special Projects. It was no surprise. Its occupant often worked late into the night, his silhouette casting down from the patterned glass to the sidewalk below.

  He was a young man. In fact, the erudite professor was the youngest of all who had ever held administrative positions at the prestigious complex. But his age did not prejudice his station, nor his status. He had earned the respect of all his fellow professors. He was brilliant, hardworking, charismatic and very popular with the other academia.

  At 4:47 A.M. his desk phone rang. He reached for it as if he had been expecting the call. “Yes,” he spoke, anxiously.

  “You were right. It was the boy, Jacob,” came an accented voice.