SANDSTORM sf-1

by James Rollins

  Safia inhaled deeply. She glanced back to the palace, to Omaha and Painter. In the men’s eyes, she saw their need to help her. But this was her path. To walk alone. She knew this in places beyond where her heart beat.

  She turned forward, resolved but scared. So much blood had been shed in the past. In Tel Aviv…at the museum…on the long road here. She had brought all of these folks here. She could no longer hide. She had to walk this path.

  Safia closed her eyes and let all doubt flow from her.

  This was her path.

  She evened her breathing, releasing control to a more natural rhythm.

  “Very good, child. Now take my hand.”

  Safia reached over and gripped the old woman’s palm, gratefully, surprised at the strength there. She continued to relax. Fingers squeezed, reassuring her. She recognized the touch from long ago. It was her mother’s hand. Warmth flowed from this connection. It swelled through her.

  “Step forward,” the hodja whispered. “Trust me.”

  It was her mother’s voice. Calm, reassuring, firm.

  Safia obeyed. Bare feet moved from sand to glass. One foot, then the other. She moved off the path, her arm behind her, holding her mother’s hand.

  “Open your eyes.”

  She did, breathing evenly, keeping the warmth of maternal love deep inside her. But eventually one had to let go. She slipped her fingers free and took another step. The warmth stayed with her. Her mother was gone, but her love lived on, in her, in her blood, in her heart.

  She walked on as the storm raged in flame and glass.

  At peace.

  Omaha was on his knees. He didn’t even know when he fell. He watched Safia walk away, shimmering, still present, but ethereal. As she brushed through the shadow under the courtyard archway, she completely vanished for a moment.

  He held his breath.

  Then, beyond the palace grounds, she reappeared, a wisp, moving steadily downward, limned in storm light.

  Tears brimmed in his eyes.

  Her face, caught in silhouette, was so contented. If given the chance, he would spend the rest of his life making sure she never lost that look.

  Painter shifted, moving back, as silent as a tomb.

  Painter climbed the stairs to the second level, leaving Omaha alone. He crossed to where the entire group gathered. All eyes watched Safia’s progress down through the lower city.

  Coral glanced to him, her expression worried.

  And with good reason.

  The swirling vortex of charges neared the lake’s surface. Below it, the lake continued its own whirling churn, and in the center, lit by the fires above, a water spout was rising upward, a reverse whirlpool. The energies above and the antimatter below were stretching to join.

  If they touched, it was the end of everything: themselves, Arabia, possibly the world.

  Painter focused down upon the ghost of a woman moving sedately along the storm-lit streets, as if she had all the time in the world. She vanished completely when in shadows. He willed her to be safe, but also to move faster. His gaze fluttered between storm and woman.

  Omaha appeared from below, hurrying to join them, having lost sight of Safia from his post below. His eyes glistened, full of hope, terror, and as much as Painter didn’t want to see it, love.

  Painter swung his attention back to the cavern.

  Safia was almost to the sphere.

  “C’mon…” Omaha moaned.

  It was an emotion shared by all.

  Safia gently walked down the stairs. She had to step with care. The passage of the iron sphere had crushed its way through. Loose glass littered the steps. Cuts pierced her heel and toes.

  She ignored the pain, keeping calm, breathing through it.

  Ahead the iron sphere appeared. Its surface glowed with an azure blue aura. She stepped up and studied the obstruction: a fallen section of wall. The ball had to be rolled two feet to the left, and it would continue its plummet. She glanced the rest of the way down. It was a clear shot to the lake. There were no other tumbles to block the sphere’s path a second time. All she had to do was shift it over. Though heavy, it was a perfect sphere. One good shove and it would roll clear.

  She moved next to it, set her legs, raised her palms, took another cleansing breath, and shoved.

  The electrical shock from the charged iron shot into her, arcing over her body and out her toes. She spasmed, neck thrown back, bones on fire. Her momentum and convulsive jerk shoved the sphere away, rolling it free.

  But as her body broke contact, a final crack of energy snapped her like a whip. She was flung backward, hard. Her head hit the wall behind her. The world went dark, and she fell into nothingness.

  Safia…!

  Omaha could not breathe. He had seen the brilliant arc of energy and watched her be tossed aside like a rag doll. She landed in crumpled pile, no longer ethereal, grounded. She was not moving.

  Unconscious, electrocuted, or dead?

  Oh, God…

  He spun around.

  Painter grabbed his arm. “Where the hell do you think you’re going?”

  “I have to get to her.”

  Fingers tightened on his arm. “The storm will kill you within two steps.”

  Kara joined him. “Omaha…Painter’s right.”

  Cassandra stood by the rail, watching everything through her damned scopes. “As long as she doesn’t move, she shouldn’t attract the bolts. I’m not sure that’s a great place to be when the sphere hits the lake, though. Out in the open like that.”

  Omaha saw that the sphere was almost to the lake. Beyond, the titanic forces swirled. An hourglass hung in the center of the vast cavern. A tornado of charge coming down to meet a rising spout of water.

  And the ball rolled toward it.

  Lightning bolts chased the sphere, stabbing at it.

  “I have to try!” Omaha said, and ripped away. He sprinted down the stairs.

  Painter followed at his heels. “Goddamnit, Omaha! Don’t throw your life away!”

  Omaha landed. “It’s my life.”

  He slid to the entryway, dropping onto his rear, skidding. He yanked off his boots. His left ankle, sprained, protested the rough treatment.

  Painter frowned at his actions. “It’s not just your life. Safia loves you. If you truly care about her, don’t do this.”

  Omaha pulled off his socks. “I’m not throwing my life away.” He crawled on his knees to the entryway and scooped handfuls of sand from the path and poured them into his socks.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Making sand shoes.” Omaha leaned back and shoved his feet into the socks, squeezing them inside and massaging the sand so it covered the bottoms of his feet.

  Painter stared at his actions. “Why didn’t you…Safia wouldn’t’ve had to…”

  “I just thought of it. Necessity is the mother of goddamn invention.”

  “I’m going with you.”

  “No time.” Omaha pointed to Painter’s bare feet. “No socks.”

  He sprinted away, skidding and skating across the sandy path. He reached the clean glass and kept running. He wasn’t as confident of his plan as he had portrayed to Painter. Bolts dazzled around him. Panic fueled run. Sand hurt his toes. His ankle flamed with every step.

  But he kept running.

  Cassandra had to give these folks some credit. They did have balls of steel. She tracked Omaha’s mad flight through the streets. Had a man ever loved her with so much heart?

  She noted Painter’s return but did not look his way.

  Would I have let him?

  Cassandra watched the sphere’s last few bounces. It now rolled toward the lake, aglow with cobalt energies. She had a job to finish here. She considered all her options, weighed the possibilities if they survived the next minute. She kept a finger pressed to the button.

  She saw Painter staring at Safia below as Omaha reached her.

  She and Painter had both lost out.

  Off by t
he shore, the sphere took a final hop, bounced up, and landed in the water with a splash.

  Omaha reached Safia. She lay unmoving. Bolts rained fire all around him. His eyes were only on her.

  Her chest rose and fell. Alive.

  Off in the direction of the lake, a huge splash sounded like a belly flop.

  The depth charge had been dropped.

  No time. They needed shelter.

  He scooped Safia in his arms and swung around. He had to keep her from touching any surfaces. Carrying her prone form, her head resting on his shoulder, he stepped toward the opening of an intact home and ducked inside. It might not protect him from the deadly static bolts, but he had no idea what would happen when the sphere reached the lake. A roof over his head seemed like a good idea.

  The motion stirred Safia. She moaned. “Omaha…”

  “I’m here, baby…” He crouched down, cradling her on his knees, balanced on his sand shoes. “I’m here.”

  As Omaha and Safia vanished into a building, Painter watched the flume of water geyser up after the iron sphere hit the water. It was as if the ball had been dropped from the Empire State Building. It shot toward the roof, cascading outward, water droplets igniting when they brushed the dazzle of the storm, raining back down as liquid fire.

  Antimatter annihilation.

  The whirl in the lake eddied and shook. The waterspout jiggled.

  But overhead, the vortex of static charge continued its deadly descent.

  Painter concentrated on the lake.

  Already the whirlpool settled again, churning away with tidal forces.

  Nothing happened.

  Fire from the plume struck the lake, ignited pools, which quickly extinguished, reestablishing its equilibrium state. Nature loves balance.

  “The ball must still be rolling,” Coral said, “seeking the lowest point in the lake bottom. The deeper the water, the better. The heightened pressure will help trigger the localized chain reaction and direct its force downward.”

  Painter turned to her. “Does your mind ever stop calculating?”

  She shrugged. “No, why?”

  Danny stood at her side. “And if the sphere reaches the lowest point, then that’s also the best place to crack the glass over any Earth-generated cistern, draining the lake water away.”

  Painter shook his head. Those two were peas in a pod.

  Cassandra straightened next to Kara. The five of them were the last ones still on the balcony. Lu’lu had led the Rahim to the back rooms below. Captain al-Haffi and Barak led the handful of Shahra.

  “Something’s happening,” Cassandra said.

  Out on the lake, a patch of black water glowed a ruddy crimson. It was not a reflection. The glow came from deep below. A fire under the lake. In just the half second it took to look, the crimson blasted out in all directions.

  A deep sonorous whump sounded.

  The entire lake lifted a few feet and dropped.

  Ripples spread outward from the lake’s center. The growing waterspout collapsed.

  “Get below!” Painter yelled.

  Too late.

  A force, neither wind nor concussion, blasted outward, flattening the lake, sweeping in all directions, pushing before it a wall of superheated air.

  It struck.

  Painter, half around the corner, caught a glancing shove to the shoulder. He was ripped away, tossed bodily across the room, lifted on wings of fire. Others had taken the force fully and were driven straight back. In a tangle, they hit the far wall. Painter kept his eyes squeezed shut. His lungs seared with the one breath he had taken.

  Then it ended.

  The heat vanished.

  Painter gained his feet. “Shelter,” he squeaked out, waving in vain.

  The quake came next.

  No warning.

  Except for an earsplitting clap, deafening, as if the Earth were being cracked in half. Then the palace jumped several feet up, then down again, throwing them all flat.

  The rattling worsened. The tower shook, jolted to one side, then the other. Glass shattered. An upper story of the tower went crashing down. Pillars broke and toppled, smashing into city or lake.

  All the while, Painter kept flat.

  A loud splintery pop exploded by his ear. He turned his head and saw the entire balcony beyond the archway shear and tilt away. A small limb waved.

  It was Cassandra. She had not been blown through the doorway like the rest of them, but knocked against the palace’s outer wall.

  She fell with the balcony. In her hand, she still held the detonator.

  Painter scrambled toward her.

  Reaching the edge, he searched below. He spotted Cassandra sprawled in the tumble of broken glass. Her fall had not been far. She lay on her back, clutching the detonator to her chest.

  “I still have it!” she hollered hoarsely to him, but he didn’t know if it was in threat or reassurance.

  She gained her feet.

  “Hang on,” he said. “I’m coming down.”

  “Don’t-”

  A bolt of charge stabbed out as she stood, striking at her toes. The glass melted underfoot. She dropped into the pool, thigh-deep before the glass solidified under her.

  She didn’t scream, though her entire body wrenched with pain. Her cloak caught on fire. She still held the detonator, in a fist, hugged to her neck. A gasp finally escaped her.

  “Painter…!”

  He spotted a patch of sand in the courtyard below. He leaped and landed hard, wrong, ankle turning, skidding. It was nothing. He stood and kicked sand, a meager path to reach her side.

  He dropped next to her, knees in sand. He could smell her flesh burning.

  “Cassandra…ohmygod.”

  She held out the transmitter, every line on her face agonized. “I can’t hold. Squeeze…”

  He grabbed her fist, covering it with his own.

  She relaxed her own grip, trusting him to keep her finger pressed now. She fell against him, her pants smoldering. Blood poured where charred skin met glass, too red, arterial.

  “Why?” he asked.

  She kept her eyes closed, only shook her head. “…owe you.”

  “What?”

  She opened her eyes, met his. Her lips moved, a whisper. “I wish you could’ve saved me.”

  He knew she didn’t mean a moment ago…but back when they were partners. Her eyes closed. Her head fell to his shoulder.

  He held her.

  Then she was gone.

  Safia awoke in Omaha’s arms. She smelled the sweat on his neck, felt the tremble in his arms. He clutched tightly to her. He was crouched down, balanced on the balls of his feet, cradling her in his lap.

  How was Omaha here? Where was here?

  Memory snapped back.

  The sphere…the lake…

  She struggled to get free. Her movement startled Omaha. He tipped, caught himself with a hand, then yanked his arm back.

  “Saff, stay still.”

  “What happened?”

  His face was strained. “Nothing much. But let’s see if you saved Arabia.” He hauled her up, still carrying her, and ducked out the door.

  Safia recognized the place. Where the rolling sphere had jammed. They both looked to the lake. Its surface still swirled, eddying. The skies overhead blazed and crackled.

  Safia felt her heart sink. “Nothing’s changed.”

  “Hon, you slept through a whirlwind and a major quake.”

  As if on cue, another aftershock rattled around them. Omaha took a step back, but it ended. He returned to studying the lake. “Look at the shoreline.”

  She turned her head. The water’s edge had receded about twenty yards, leaving a bathtub ring around the lake. “The water level’s dropping.”

  He hugged her tighter. “You did it! The lake must be draining into one of those subterranean cisterns Coral was yammering about.”

  Safia stared back up at the static storm on the roof. It, too, was slowly subsiding, grounding out
. She glanced across the spread of the darkening city, both upper and lower. So much destruction. But there was hope.

  “No bolts,” she said. “I think the firestorm is over.”

  “I’m not taking any chances. C’mon.” He hiked her higher in his arms and marched up the slope toward the palace.

  She didn’t protest, but she quickly noted Omaha wincing with every step.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked, arms hugged around his neck.

  “Nothing. Just some sand in my shoes.”

  Painter saw them approach.

  Safia was riding piggyback on Omaha.

  Painter called to them as they reached the courtyard. “Omaha, the electrical discharging is over,” he said. “You can put Safia down.”

  Omaha marched past him. “Only over the threshold.”

  He never made it. Shahra and Rahim all gathered around the pair in the courtyard, congratulating and thanking. Danny hugged his brother. He must have said something about Cassandra because Omaha glanced to the body.

  Painter had covered it with a cloak. He had already deactivated the detonator and switched off the transceiver. Safia was safe.

  He studied the group. Besides plenty of bruises, scrapes, and burns, they had all weathered the firestorm fine.

  Coral straightened. She held one of the launchers and placed a belt buckle against its side. It stuck. She caught him staring. “Magnetized,” she said, tossing it aside. “Some type of magnetic pulse. Intriguing.”

  Before he could respond, another aftershock rocked the place, strong enough to shatter away another pillar, weakened by the original quake. It fell across the city with a resounding crash.

  That sobered everyone up to the dangers still here.

  They were not safe.

  To emphasize this fact, a deep rumble rose from below, trembling the glass underfoot. A low sound accompanied it, a subway train passing underground.

  No one moved. Everyone held their breath.

  Then it came.

  A whooshing geyser erupted from the lake, fountaining upward, three stories high, as thick around as a two-hundred-year-old redwood.

  Prior to this moment, the lake had drained to a small pool, a quarter of its original size. Monstrous cracks skittered along its basin, like the inside of a broken eggshell.