Sandstorm (Page 138)

“But the right half. Your mother was Rahim. It was her mitochondria that were passed to your cells. And there is a condition in nature called ‘hybrid vigor,’ where the crossing of two different lines produces stronger offspring than crossing the same line over and over again.” Danny nodded to the side. “Mutts are basically healthier than pure-breds.”

“You’re new blood,” Coral concluded. “And the mitochondria like it.”

Omaha stepped to Safia’s side. “You want her to walk to the trapped sphere. Through that electrical storm.” Coral nodded. “I believe she’s the only one who could make it.”

“Screw that,” Omaha said.

Safia squeezed his elbow. “I’ll do it.”

8:07 P.M.

O MAHA WATCHED Safia standing out on the sandy path in the courtyard. She had refused to let him come. She was alone with the hodja. So he waited in the entryway. Painter stood vigil with him. The man looked none too pleased with Safia’s choice either. In this, the two men were united.

But this choice was Safia’s.

Her argument was simple and irrefutable: Either it works or we all die anyway.

So the men waited.

Sandstorm

Safia listened.

“It is not hard,” the hodja said. “To become invisible is not a concentration of will. It is the letting go of will.” Safia frowned. But the hodja’s words matched Coral’s. The mitochondria produced charged buckyballs aligned to the energy signature in the room. All she had to do was let them settle into their natural alignment.

The hodja held out a hand. “First you’ll need to strip out of your clothes.” Safia glanced sharply at her.

“Clothes affect our ability to turn invisible. If that woman scientist was right with all that mumbo jumbo, clothes might interfere with the field we generate over our bodies. Better safe than sorry.” Safia shed her cloak, kicked her boots off, and shimmied out of blouse and pants. In her bra and panties, she turned to Lu’lu. “Lycra and silk. I’m keeping them on.” She shrugged. “Now relax yourself. Find a place of comfort and peace.”

Safia took deep breaths. After years of panic attacks, she had learned methods for centering herself. But it seemed too small, a pittance against the pressure around her.

“You must have faith,” the hodja said. “In yourself. In your blood.” 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.

Sandstorm

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.

Sandstorm

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.

Sandstorm

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.