Silence greeted him as the wind blew shifting grains of sand around him. Sandstorm had always been the reticent type, one most likely to observe but not act unless necessary. That was his program in life, and he rarely deviated from it.
On the other hand, Paul reflected, the sandy creation had saved his life more than once. Sandstorm had his own weaknesses—mainly anything sticky—and had been stopped cold once. It was understandable he’d be leery of getting into anything dangerous again.
Fear—it was the one emotion capable of overriding logic and reason. Paul knew that only too well. He’d lived with fear most of his life—fear of being hit, fear of being hurt and the fear of being alone. It could have turned him into a craven coward, but instead, it had toughened him to the point where, while he didn’t exactly welcome it, he knew what it could do, and he dealt with it accordingly.
Fear also worked on another level—it was the fear of the different, the other. Once he’d come out of the chamber in his hybrid state and once he’d met people face to face—ordinary people and not criminals—he realized what they thought and felt, and he knew things could never be the same.
As the sun beat down on him, he saw in his mind’s eye the image of someone he’d known at the orphanage. “Yeah, you’re a worm,” Stuart had said.
Paul had been eleven at the time. Stuart, taller, older, strongly built with a shock of red hair, an acne-spotted face and a permanent sneer to his mouth, was six years his senior and had just received the news that he’d been adopted by a family somewhere in Queens. Good thing, too, as the older kid had been picking on him for what had seemed like forever. The beatings had hurt, but what hurt more was that no one else had bothered to help him.
Like many top-down institutions, there had been rules to follow. Orphanages weren’t much different. Rule number one—pain comes in many forms. Rule number two—it comes at any time from anyone. Rule number three—say nothing about the first two rules.
Stuart had liked to beat on other kids, too, apparently only because he’d been able to, but for some unholy reason, he’d made Paul his favorite target. “I’m leaving soon, punk, and I want you to remember me,” he’d said and he’d launched a punch that connected when Paul emerged from the men’s room. He’d continued his assault. “Remember me, you worm!”
The beating had continued until one of the teachers broke it up and had hauled Stuart away. As he’d gone, he’d screamed out, “I’m not gonna forget you, punk!”
His words had had a chilling effect and Paul had started to shake, not just from his bloody nose and bodily pain, but from the threat. Brother Max had come around and escorted him to the nurse’s office. “Things will get better,” he’d said, as he gently dabbed at the injuries with a wet cloth. “You have to have faith and courage.”
Max had meant well, but hearing those words had made Paul want to vomit. Courage had been something he hadn’t really known anything about. If courage meant not screaming when he got the living snot beat out of him, maybe he had been brave.
As for the faith deal, he hadn’t been Catholic. St. Joe’s was a Catholic institution. He was Jewish, not religious…but at the same time it had been a total waste trying to tell the other kids that. They hadn’t listened—hadn’t wanted to listen—and hadn’t cared.
No one had, he’d felt. Life had gone on, though. Stuart left, and years later, after the transformation, Paul had gone on duty in the streets of New York, laying beat-downs on any criminal who deserved it. He’d shown no favoritism—except once.
A scuffle in a nearby alleyway had gotten his attention. Midnight, summertime, two large men had been busily working over a lone defender. He’d heard the words “You steal from us? Is that what you were thinking?” followed by the thud of fists on body parts and smacks to the face. “You tried to rip us off?”
Paul had dropped in without so much as disturbing the dust on the concrete. He’d strode over to where the two men stood pummeling their prey, and he’d been about to grab them and toss them to the far end of the alley when he’d seen the face of the victim. Red hair, acne scars… “Stuart?”
The men had stopped the beating and turned around. Fear had laced their features, and they’d hastily taken off. After taking a closer look at the man on the concrete, now bloody all over and barely conscious, Paul had been certain who it was. “Stuart, that’s you, isn’t it?”
The man had lifted his head. “Who are you? How do you know my name?”
It had been him. He’d had the same hair, the same bad skin…and now he was in trouble. About to launch into an exposition of the not-so-happy days at the orphanage, Paul’s throat had seized up. This hadn’t been about the good ol’ bad days. This situation hadn’t called for nostalgia. It had called for an ambulance. He’d started to go over then halted in his tracks when Stuart had asked, “Are you some kind of freak or what?”
Apparently, his attitude hadn’t changed. Reaction possibility number one—answer calmly and explain how things had come to pass. Reaction possibility number two—get angry. He’d just halted a mugging, and this had been the response he’d gotten? Expecting a thank you from this moron had been expecting two words too many.
After going back and forth between the options, he’d decided to go with number two but had left the anger on the back burner for the moment. “Yeah, I’m some kind of a freak. I remember you smacking me around. The question is, do you?”
Stuart’s eyes had held emptiness and he’d shaken his head, a slow, painful-looking movement. “Nah, you’re just a freak. I don’t know you, man, and I can take care of myself.” He’d started to get up, but collapsed against the brick wall.
“I can see that.”
Since he hadn’t seen any point in hanging around when no help was wanted, Paul had moved out of the alley. To his right, one of the attackers had remained behind, leaning against the wall. With a wary look in his eye, the hoodlum had stood out of range of getting hit, although it wouldn’t have been too difficult for Paul to catch him. “Whatcha gonna do, man?” Paul had asked.
When there was no response, his eyes had danced to their right in the direction of the alleyway entrance. Clearly, the man had wanted to finish what he’d started. “I don’t have to save him if I don’t want to,” Paul had said, “but I can still stop you. It wouldn’t be difficult. Think about it.”
The other man had nodded and waited. He hadn’t made any threatening moves, just waited. “Hey!” a voice had called out.
Spinning around, he’d seen Stuart crawl out of the alley. “Well, are you going to arrest the creep or not?”
Indecision had run through Paul before he’d replied, “Before I do, give me one good reason why I should.”
“He and his friend busted me up.” Stuart had grunted and spat out some blood. “You gotta help me.”
“Why’d they bust you up?”
“I stole their money.”
So the two men had been right. Debate in that case had been useless. With a sense of resignation, Paul had turned on his heel and walked away. He’d heard the footsteps of the attacker march back into the alley, had heard Stuart begin to scream and he’d shut his ears to the onslaught.
At the time, he’d wondered if he’d been too callous, too unforgiving…then decided not to think about it.
Justice came in many forms and many ways.
His mind came back to the present when a mound of sand ten feet in front of him began to shift and a swirling mass emerged from the mound.
“Hi, Sandstorm, how’s life out here?”
It wasn’t the cleverest of all questions, but he really didn’t know what else to say. Sandstorm did, though, rapidly forming words with his body. It’s hot and dry, and I get to practice making constructs all day. That’s what I do. I like my own company…but there isn’t anyone to talk to, either.
Paul sensed loneliness in the sand-being’s words
. Sand couldn’t convey emotion, but all the same, he felt his friend and former housemate missed human contact. He could relate, and a sense of curiosity came over him. “How much sand can you control?”
In response to his question, the sand fell to the desert floor and an enormous figure of a tank rose up, followed by a helicopter, a shark, a fig tree and an ice cream cone. The latter made Paul feel somewhat hungry, but he didn’t have time to view any sort of exhibition, as impressive as it was. “Cool, Sandstorm,” he said. “But I need your help.”
A second later, Sandstorm shrank in size by shedding most of his excess and formed the picture of a question mark. “There’s trouble out in Los Angeles,” Paul said. “Peterson is back. He’s got other things like him.”
The question mark swirled around a moment before falling to the ground. Paul waited, but when nothing happened, he wasn’t the least bit surprised. Being here was a whole lot safer than traveling to a place where death was most certainly a possibility.
“I get it,” he said. “You don’t have to come. Angela, Ooze and I are on it. You can stay here. No biggie.”
Heaving a sigh of resignation, he turned around and started to walk back to the helicopter, frustrated he’d come all this way for nothing. As usual, it would be him and Angela against the threats. They’d done it before. They’d do it again.
However, a hundred meters into his trek, a large wall of sand rose up and formed into a hand. It then shifted into one word—Wait.
Paul did so, feeling the heat envelop him and the sand work its way into his shoes. It wasn’t unpleasant, but all the same, being a nomad wasn’t for him. “Well?” he finally demanded.
I’ll help.
This was surprising. Paul had expected his sandy friend to give the usual excuse of saying he wasn’t into joining, he preferred to practice or he wasn’t interested. “That was fast.”
I don’t like Peterson. He tried to glue me shut once. I couldn’t move, and that was the worst thing. I almost went mad. I want in on this.
“Come with me.”
Making his way back to the helicopter with Sandstorm trailing behind, Paul found his girlfriend patiently waiting. Stander was talking on the radio, but cut the conversation short and hung up. “We got movement,” he said. “We just had a report on those things.”
After giving the pilot the order to get the helicopter started, Paul clambered into the back. Sandstorm flowed in to form a small ball at the rear of the enclosure. “Hi, Sandstorm,” Angela said. “Are you ready?”
No…but I’m here.
“Damndest thing I’ve ever seen,” Stander said in wonder as the helicopter lifted off. “I knew these creations were special, but I’ve never seen living sand before.”
I exist, signed Sandstorm. Is it good enough for you?
Stander didn’t even blink. “Yes, it is.”
The helicopter rose into the air and banked left. “Where are we going?” Paul called out over the noise of the engine and rotors.
“Omaha, Nebraska.”
Chapter Four
First Contact
From San Diego, they found a transport plane waiting for them, courtesy of a call Stander had made. They sat in the large and dirty cargo bay. It was loud and uncomfortable, but comfort was the last thing on Paul’s mind. He was replaying his last fight with Peterson, thinking of moves and countermoves, and he wondered if he’d be ready when the time came.
The bay was empty, save for a few crates. Stander tapped him on the shoulder, disturbing his reverie. He shouted over the roar of the engine, “We’ll meet our men at the airport and take it from there.”
“Are your guys really ready for this?” asked Paul, expecting the worst. He threw a glance at Sandstorm. The sand-being occupied a separate space on the floor, an unmoving lump. Perhaps he was sleeping. Does sand sleep?
“Like I told you, we’re battle-trained,” Stander said, and a testy note entered his voice. “All of the men with me have been through hellholes in Afghanistan, Europe and other places. We don’t do extraordinary things. We do the basic things extraordinarily well.”
It sounded like a quote, but Stander didn’t elaborate. Instead, he excused himself and walked forward toward the cockpit. Once the door closed, Ooze whipped out his computer, booted it up then started typing furiously. In spite of the size of his fingers, his hands danced lightly over the keyboard and he never missed a stroke. “This thing can get reception from anywhere,” he gushed. “I love science!”
“What are you looking up?” asked Angela.
A second later, he turned the laptop around and a picture of Stander appeared, along with all the biographical data.
Lawrence Stander, born July 4th, 1971, Augusta, Georgia. Attended Lakeview High School. Attended US Army Ranger School. Majored in humanities and communications. Assigned to the Seventy-Fifth Ranger Regiment as an officer. Participated in Desert Storm. Piloting experience with helicopters, as well as various types of aircraft, expert in hand-to-hand combat.
“This guy’s done it all and so have the guys he commands,” Ooze said as he closed the laptop. “They’re the elite. They’ve had training in parachute drops, light arms training, hand-to-hand combat and they go through all kinds of territory and in all kinds of weather. Bottom line is they’re killers, just like the guys we’re after.”
“Nice to know you think so highly of them,” Angela put in, with only the faintest trace of sarcasm. She leaned against the side of the plane, her face calm and composed. “They can’t fly, though, and they aren’t bulletproof.”
“Not to mention they’ve never been up against what we have,” added Paul. Thinking about it, he suddenly got a very bad feeling. Going up against a traditional enemy armed with rifles and grenades was one thing. They were about to engage an enemy that didn’t fight by any sort of conventional rules, one as savage as any army in existence—worse, if such a thing was possible.
Ooze shrugged, and his body bobbed back and forth. “Just giving out the information is all. We’ll see once we get there.”
Naturally, the question he wanted an answer to most—integration—remained unanswered. It was what Angela wanted most too, Paul knew, and now that he was on the other side, he understood it as well. Ooze and Sandstorm seemed to have accepted their lot in life. They were beings, yes, but seemed not to care what other beings of flesh and blood cared about, save a little conversation now and then.
In reality, Stander’s offer seemed to be no offer at all. Angela dozed off, but Paul couldn’t sleep and whispered to Ooze, “Do you really trust this guy?” and jerked his thumb at the cockpit.
“You mean Rocky Ranger?”
“Yeah, that’s who.”
Ooze turned off the computer. “I know how you’re feeling, you and your lady. Angela’s into you big time, and don’t tell me you don’t have the feels for her, too.”
At the mention of his personal life, Paul felt his face grow hot. This wasn’t the time or the place, but Ooze plowed ahead. “Look, for me and Sandstorm, that’s one thing. Stick me near an ocean and I’ll be happy. Let Sandstorm loose in a desert and he’s good.
“But you two, you’re different. I know you’re hurting. I heard what Angela said and how she sounded, and I remember people chasing us. Thing is, no matter what we do, they’re always going to think of us as being different. That’s the way people are. That money offer is a joke, and you know it.”
Paul did. Sure, if they managed to survive, he might get a little money to go back to school and finish off his education…and people would still spit on them in the street or try to tear them down during news broadcasts and exposés.
His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the cockpit door opening. Stander made his way back to inform them that they had another hour to go. “We’ll be landing at about four p.m. local time.” He glanced at Angela, who was still sleeping. “I kn
ow her powers don’t kick in until nighttime, so you’ll meet the men first. We’ll wait it out, then we’ll do this.”
He gave a reassuring nod then returned to the pilot’s area. Once he was out of earshot, Angela muttered, “This is going to be fun.”
Surprised, Paul asked her, “You weren’t sleeping?”
“I heard every word.”
She sat up and put her arms around Paul’s neck. The water in Ooze’s body bubbled as he laboriously got up. “Well, don’t I feel like an idiot for shooting my mouth off about you and your boyfriend.”
As usual, his quip came out in full sarcasm mode, and it made Angela chuckle. “I’ll second the idiot part, but you’re okay in my book.”
“Uh-huh. I’ll give you two some fun time,” he said, as he turned to walk off to the back of the craft where he sat down and peered out the window.
“How much fun can we have on an airplane?” Paul asked.
Angela hugged him close to her. “You holding me is my fun time.” She whispered in his ear, “I don’t trust Stander, either. But you and me”—she drew back to regard him with a grave look in her eyes—“we’re together, and that’s all I need.”
“Thanks.”
Just hearing those words from her made Paul feel a little more reassured. He snuggled close to his girlfriend and felt himself begin to nod off. They were going to go into action soon, and he needed to rest.
****
“Hey, wake up,” a voice said.
He blinked and opened his eyes, but the pull of sleep was strong, and he closed his eyes again, only to feel a small but powerful hand grab him by the shoulder and shake him. No, how about not? I need to sleep now.
The shoulder shake came once more, and this time powerful fingers dug into his muscles and the pressure forced him awake. Once he opened his eyes, he saw Angela smiling down at him. “Get ready, boyfriend. We’re here,” she said with a tiny smile. “Welcome to corn country.”
Integration Page 6