THE SEA OF SAND

1) Operations Commence

Makan Al-Jinni

Cyrenaica

Libya

9th June 1940

The man ran. Ran without hope, without looking and without caring, in the unco-ordinated, flailing fashion of a runner nearing exhaustion. He had already lost his turban, after falling in a patch of soft sand, and his burnouse flapped raggedly in the chill desert night. A stitch wracked him and he stopped running, drawing in rasping breaths, leaning forward and resting his hands on his upper thighs. Above, diamond-hard stars looked down uncaringly. Apart from the gentle soughing of wind, nothing disturbed the centuries-old silence of the Libyan desert.

Looking back across the sands, nothing showed up against the desert. Ibn Al-Hassan allowed himself a momentary flash of hope, which dimmed and died within seconds. The Demon rolled over a dune top, following in his footsteps. Whilst not fast, it never slowed down or stopped, following him implacably. It's devil senses allowed it to track him over bare stone where his feet left no trace; he'd tried that an hour ago, when the demon first appeared out of the sands. Legless, squat and not bothered by the soft sands that slowed Al-Hassan considerably, it had emerged straight out of a dune and came directly at him, waving spindly black arms.

Yes. Only an hour ago, at dusk, Ibn had been squatting comfortably atop a dune, smoking one of the cigarettes the expedition distributed generously to their labourers. He was the night watchman for the site, a job he anticipated being easy – after all, out here at Makan Al-Jinni, there were no other people but the ferenji, the foreigners who came to dig and explore. The Bedu never came near the place. So a night watchman would have an easy time of things. Never mind that the other workers had left, making claims of demons, hauntings and spirits of darkness.

Ibn Al-Hassan cursed the ferenji for putting him near the excavation, he cursed the Demon following him, he cursed his own poverty and greed that made the expedition payments look acceptable, and he cursed his stupidity for dismissing uncle Hassan's warning about Makan Al-Jinni.

He began to run again, wearily, being forced to the south by the pursuing demon, further into the desert sands and away from the campsite and help. The adrenaline surge that allowed him to outpace it earlier was a distant memory.

Yes, when the dune nearby the one he sat upon to watch the excavation quivered, rumbled and suddenly burst open to reveal the demon, he'd jumped upright in fear, dropping his cigarette and running headlong into the night.

The stitch came back again, worse than before, slowing him to a painful shuffle. His bare feet burned, his throat spasmed. Once more he bent forward, seeing the gritty sand up close. His mouth felt dry as a stone, his tongue like a towel.

Foolish man, he said, to the wind and sand. To take the lire and cigarettes and be happy with them. No living thing heard his despairing words; in this the most silent of regions there were no creatures to hear him.

Once again the soft soughing of the Demon caught his ear, and Al-Hassan managed to stagger on for a few paces, until his ankle gave way. He pitched to the sands, sprawling, feeling the cold grains dash against his face. The hissing grew louder very quickly, as the pursuing monster slid down the dune face towards him.

Ibn Al-Hassan's upthrown arm and hopeless wail of despair failed to stop the monster. He died there, on the desert sands, and nobody ever knew.

Makan Al-Jinni

Bartolomei/Templeman Expedition Campsite

June 10th 1940

Roger Llewellyn emerged from his stuffy canvas tent into the morning sun, already feeling gritty and hot, his eyelids assaulted by the glare. Brushing his wayward hair away from his eyes and hastily donning sunglasses, he waved a greeting to Professor Templeman, who was already up and arguing with Ben Cherif, loudly.

'Good morning, Mister Lewlin,' said Cherif, in his guttural English, ever polite. The Egyptian couldn't quite manage to pronounce the graduate's surname but tried gamely every day.

'You'll wake the others, Professor,' warned Roger, casting an eye over the other tents. Still asleep. The French members of the expedition hadn't been working with any commitment in the past few days, not that he could blame them. The war news from France, heard on the camp's radio set, was bad: the Germans had broken through at Sedan, rolling up the French Army, and the British Expeditionary Force was being pressed back in the north.

'Good!' said Professor Templeman, typically intolerant and abrupt. 'That'll teach them to lie in. And we need them even more, now.'

Roger cocked an eyebrow, uneasily aware that he could predict what the Professor was going to say.

'Don't tell me – Al-Hassan has vanished?'

Cherif nodded gravely, without speaking.

'Doubtless clutching a collection of booty,' commented the Professor. 'Again!'

Cherif frowned at this, and Roger cast an appraising eye at the lean, aged supervisor. Privately, Roger didn't believe that the labourers were stealing artefacts and it seemed Cherif shared that opinion, but the graduate couldn't very well disagree openly with his senior.

The argument had caused some of the expedition's other members to wake. A canvas tent flap twitched open and the tousled hair of Fulgoni preceded the Italian archaeologist, who rubbed his eyes, stretched and yawned enormously, then set to getting breakfast ready. The French members emerged from their tent, looking unhappy, conversing in a low mutter. They headed straight for the radio tent. Fulgoni spared them a single glance, then unfolded a collapsible table, normally used for dealing with finds. He unpacked the battered enamel plates, cups and cutlery from the cardboard box they usually sat in, checking each time he lifted a plate that no desert insect life had settled in the box overnight.

'What are you arguing for, Professore?' asked the Italian, lighting the primus stove to boil water. 'Another disappearance?'

Templeman chewed his lip, then his thumbnail.

Damnation! he thought. Our last Libyan labourer gone, vanished into the night like the others, and with his arms full of looted finds the expedition would never lay eyesight on again. That meant only the European expedition members and Ben Cherif remained, which meant that excavating would slow down even more. Damned untrustworthy natives!

'Eh?' he said, realising that Fulgoni had spoken to him. 'More delays, Fulgoni, more delays!'

One of the Frenchmen, Valette, left the radio tent looking more miserable than when he went in.

'No use,' he announced to nobody in particular. 'We cannot hear French radio.'

Templeman glared at him. Fulgoni was more practical.

'Is the radio set still functioning!' he asked sharply. When the Frenchman nodded he let out a sigh of relief. After all, in a crisis it was their lifeline – literally. They'd had to use it to summon aid for Benvenuti, stricken with appendicitis. Count Ricardo, "gallant knight-explorer of the air" had flown down specially from Benghazi to pick up the incapacitated archaeologist.

Roger unfolded half a dozen canvas chairs and set them around the breakfast table. He liked the morning ritual of breakfast, even if the meal was a travesty of what he considered right and proper. Back home breakfast meant kippers or bacon, toasted crumpets or porridge made with cream and honey – out here they had coffee, tinned milk, stale bread and tinned ham. Their weekly supply truck would be in tomorrow – oh happy day! – with fresh fruit, eggs, bread and vegetables.

'You should try again tonight,' said Fulgoni to Valette. 'Atmospherics will be better. Or at least different.'

The Frenchman darted a venemous look at the speaker. He might have made a barbed comment in his native tongue had not Bartolomei, the expedition's leader, emerged from his small tent. As usual, the Italian's moustache was neatly trimmed, his hair brushed and oiled and his chin freshly dashed with aftershave. His linen suit, salty, creased and dirty, nevertheless gave him an air of importance. The jacket would come off during work at the dig, the only concession Bartolomei made to heat and sunlight.

'Gentlemen, I heard raised voices,' he chided gently. 'There is no need to export the unpleasantness of Europe here, into Libya. Let us begin the day in a civilised manner, if we can.'

Taking a seat at the head of the table, he sliced up stale bread and began to sip the strong, milky coffee that Fulgoni had brewed. Professor Templeman glowered in annoyance at being told off, and attacked his bread and ham with a vengeance. Borguebus left the radio in disgust and joined the seated party, choosing only coffee. Di Fellica, the last man to wake, came late to breakfast and got the dregs of the coffee.

Finally, when he deemed everyone to have finished, Bartolomei looked mildly at Professor Templeman and moved his head slightly forward, a gesture of invitation.

'The last Libyan ran off last night,' said Templeman. 'Now all we have to help us is Ben Cherif.'

Bartolomei looked puzzled.

'Another disappearance? After we doubled his wages? Really, this is most odd.' He muttered quietly to himself in his native tongue for a few seconds. Templeman stoked up his meerschaum whilst others smoked cigarettes.

Ben Cherif paused in passing behind Roger.

'It is this place. I have seen the lights at night, and heard wind when there is none. The demons of this place took them,' and he hawked and spat on the sand, moving on. Roger looked after him uncertainly.

Roger and Fulgoni took the dirty plates and cleaned them with sand.

'The Professore is not happy, eh?' remarked Fulgoni, twitching one shoulder in the direction of the table. Roger nodded whilst shaking sand off the plates.

'His one intention is to finish this dig and get it published in the journals. Nothing else matters to him. Not me, or you, and certainly not the Libyans and Egyptians.'

Fulgoni made a wry face.

'He has to care now. With seven labourers gone, we are his labourers.'

They finished abrading dirt off the dishes and replaced them in the box. Di Fellica came over to point out Roger.

'Doctor Bartolomei asks you to stay and catalogue the site sketches.'

The young graduate shrugged. His turn to avoid heavy work today, which meant he'd be out on the dig tomorrow. A reasonable assumption, yet completely wrong.

Ben Cherif and Bourgebus went to the tool tent and emerged, pushing two very battered wheelbarrows, each laden with shovels, picks, balls of string, wooden planks and pegs. The other members collected cameras, sketch pads, pencils, rulers and other equipment too fragile or valuable to be left in the tool tent. The motley collection began the trudge across the sand-strewn gravel, heading to where the dunes began. The dig was another half a kilometre further into the dune sea, a tiring slog in the loose sand.

'Well, better get rolling,' said Roger to himself, liberating a bottle of mineral water from the stores tent.

The seven members trudged doggedly into the dunes, leaving the rolling, undulating gravel plain behind them. Long practice meant the only sound came from the two squeaking wheelbarrows; conversation would be saved for the actual dig itself.

Fulgoni felt the familiar sinking feeling in his stomach when the massive black pillars appeared over the dunes ahead, a nameless dread he couldn't explain or rationalise away. He didn't believe the missing Egyptians and Libyans had run off; no, their disappearance was directly linked to this dark and sinister place. The how he couldn't imagine, but a man didn't simply run away in the night in this trackless waste, without food or water or shelter. Unconsciously he crossed himself, only realising what he'd done when the brooding Valette blinked in surprise. Fulgoni glanced around, to discover that all the other member's attention lay on the buildings ahead. The only good thing to say about this place in the armpit of the desert was the total absence of flies, which were usually an annoying and persistent torment for any dig.

The group topped a final dune before the excavation, pausing to look over the site. Once again Fulgoni felt that anticipation of awe and dread, taking in the vista as if for the first time.

He stood, alongside the others, at the rim of a vast, shallow bowl in the desert fully a mile across, in the middle of which lay the buildings excavated so far, and giant rolling billows of sand that hinted at other constructions hidden under the yellow drifts. Makan Al-Jinni. The enormous rectangular black building dubbed "The Temple" was the only one completely uncovered, standing fifty feet tall atop a podium that was itself thirty feet high. Massive pillars held up the roof, and equally massive steps led up each face of the podium. Further into the bowl lay the partially un-covered circular construction, which Templeman and Bartolomei dubbed "The Dais". Standing erect from the multi-hundred ton mass of The Dais was the feature that had originally attracted attention in this desolate spot, the tapering black pylon. Much of the overburden had been removed from this part of the structure, leaving a mass of sand still lying around the base. Fifty yards away another pylon, identical to it's more apparent brother, showed less than half its height through the layers of sand.

Wheelbarrows creaking and squeaking, the group made their way down the slope to the planked walkway and into the bottom of the shallow depression, Fulgoni casting a last longing look at the sky behind. Every member of the troupe seemed to bow their shoulders once they lost sight of the dune sea. A stillness and silence hung over the abandoned buildings, made heavier by the passing of countless centuries since people had walked or worked here. Only Professor Templeman seemed entirely ignorant of the atmosphere, stoutly proclaiming that work today ought to begin on further removing overburden from the second pylon. Doctor Bartolomei disagreed urbanely and a discussion took place whilst others took tools from the barrows and waited for a decision.

Di Fellica nodded back over the way they had come, where sand slid down to fill their footprints.

'I'd prefer to be where the boy is,' he said, using their nickname for the young graduate.

'He might have vanished too, when we get back,' said Fulgoni, only half-joking. 'Ah, we're wanted.' Doctor Bartolomei waved them forward.

'Gentlemen,' he said. 'We are going to take down the overburden on the second pylon. Can you set up a path with wooden planking for the wheelbarrows? Take it out to the eastern spoil heap.'

Thus began several hours of toil, moving tons of sand from around the pylon. Gradually the tapering column emerged from the concealing sands, and Fulgoni studied it with a practiced eye. Whilst he might lack the depth of Templeman's experience or Bartolomei's knowledge about archaeology, his degree in Classical Antiquities gave him an insight. He chatted to Di Fellica whilst they sweated, not feeling like conversing with the sullen French duo: Templeman and Doctor Bartolomei would undoubtedly not wish to hear his musings.

What did he know about this unquiet site? Firstly, the black pylons did not exhibit any wear or erosion. Not even at their tips, where they had been exposed to the elements for God alone knew how many years. Naturally the shroud of the overburden would have protected them once covered over, yet they stood as if their mysterious builders finished contruction only yesterday. What were they made of? The material looked like polished jet, glossy and dark, but it resisted the picks and hammers used to take samples. Fulgoni suspected it of being a vitreous enamel coating, perhaps similar to that used in the vitrified hill forts in Northern Europe. Likewise, the massive bulk of The Temple stood pristine, untouched by the literal and metaphorical sands of time.

The absence of any style or decoration puzzled him, too. No heiroglyphs, no pictograms, not lettering or embellishment of any sort. It was possible that applique decorations had originally been painted onto the black material, and been worn away, revealing the starkly functional architecture. No personality, that was how he defined it. Nothing but what was strictly necessary.

Overall, the site so far demonstrated that same lack of personality. Normally on a dig there were finds, artefacts, remnants of the builder's lifestyle or the people who used the buildings. Not here. Not so much as a single pot sherd had come to light. Fulgoni didn't believe that the six Egyptian and two Libyans had absconded with armfuls of relics, whatever Professor Templeman might say, as a reason the site had been bare. One welcome change from every other site in the desert he'd visited, and Cairo too for that matter, was the absence of flies. The absence of flies he could put up with in this strange collection of buildings.

And the scale! The size of the steps leading up to the interior of The Temple meant an undignified scramble by the expedition members. Finally Professor Templeman refused to embarrass his dignity (and his considerable size) any longer and a wooden scaffold had been erected, when the Egyptians were still around to build it. Steps so large a man would have to be a giant to use them.

Sighing, he pushed another barrowful of sand up the spoil heap, reflecting that his puzzlement at least had the benefit of passing the time. In an hour or so the sun would be at it's zenith and the whole team would spend the hottest part of the day lying under canvas shelters, or make their way back to camp.

Having managed to put the most recent collection of sketches in order, with annotations about them in the log book in English, schoolboy French and laborious Italian, Roger went back into his tent to lie down and read for a little while. The sun was not yet at it's peak and the endless vistas of level rock, dust and sand quivered and throbbed with heat. He continued with his dog-eared volume of Keats, until boredom made him sit up again.

How dull and dead this landscape was! The Nile valley was positively idyllic compared to this, he told himself, looking out of the unlaced tent. Even a breeze would only stir up the fine dust outside, giving everything the appearance of being floured. Sure enough, the winds were blowing from the north and stirring up a dirty grey blanket of grit.

'It's a truck!' he exclaimed in surprise a full minute later. 'The supplies must be here early!'

Slowly the moving dust cloud drew nearer, trailing a long hanging plume of grey behind it. Roger saw a small car leading the truck, making him frown. Who could that be? Makan Al-Jinni was so remote that there was no passing traffic. Only those with business here ever travelled out this far – the supply truck, in the first instance.

The closer the truck and car came, the less happy he felt. The car appeared to be painted in a camouflage scheme, meaning it belonged to the Italian Army. The big Fiat truck behind it was definitely a military vehicle, since two soldiers sat in the back.

The car swung in behind the row of tents and came to a halt. The driver jumped out and opened the passenger side door for an officer, who stepped out and looked around. The truck pulled up behind the car, engine revving, until the officer waved a hand at the driver. Once again a silence fell.

Feeling an unpleasant lump in his stomach, Roger stood and left his tent.

'Hello? Can I help?' he asked the officer, who looked startled for a moment, before recovering his poise.

'Tenente Cabrillo,' said the officer, giving Roger a smart salute as he strode over.

'Ah,' said Roger, mentally translating "Tenente" into "Lieutenant". 'Roger Llewellyn, of the Templeman-Bartolomei expedition. What can I do for you, Tenente?'

The two soldiers had jumped down from the truck and were looking at Roger with curiosity. Roger was deciding to try out his poor Italian when the officer spoke again.

'This is rather embarassing, Signor Llewellyn, but I am afraid you are my prisoner,' said the officer, with a sad smile, unholstering his pistol.

The words took several seconds to make sense to Roger, whose jaw then dropped in comical fashion.

'Prisoner? Prisoner? Your prisoner?' was the most coherent he could manage. The two soldiers had unslung their rifles and were fixing bayonets.

'Indeed,' said the Tenente. 'I trust you will not make difficulties?'

'Why – why are you doing this!' exclaimed Roger.

The officer looked keenly at him.

'You are not aware? You did not know? Signor Llewellyn, a state of war now exists between England and Italy.' Seeing Roger's genuine bewilderment, he carried on. 'Il Duce declared war on England and France earlier today, Signor. Consequently I have orders to arrest the enemy members of your expedition.'

Roger, aghast at the prospect of being a prisoner, leaned weakly against the tent, which sagged and shed dust.

The Italian officer stood back and looked perceptively at Roger. The Englishman didn't look like a menace.

'Are the other members of the expedition not present?' asked Cabrillo, as the two soldiers poked amongst the sleeping tents.

Roger shook his head.

'No. No, they are all at the dig. At the excavation,' he added, seeing the other man's lack of comprehension. 'Oh – except for Benvenuto. He was evcuated by air several weeks ago. Appendicitis.'

'Ah,' nodded the other man. 'Please wait in the staff car whilst my men and I detain your comrades. The path leads to the excavation?'

Roger nodded, then numbly walked to the small staff car, to sit in the back whilst the swarthy driver watched him with muted suspicion. Half an hour later the seven excavation members hove into view over the sand sea, pushing their wheelbarrows. The Tenente walked at the front of the column, the two soldiers at the back, once again with their bayonets fixed. When the group got close enough, Roger saw that Templeman's face was a muted purple, indicative of baffled rage. Valette and Bourgebus looked both sullen and dismissive, managing to convey Gallic contempt for ther captors. The Italian members of the expedition looked as stunned as Roger felt.

Professor Templeman and Doctor Bartolomei displaced Roger from the rear of the staff car.

'Are you leaving, too, Doctor?' asked Roger. The dapper Florentine made a wry face.

'Certainly, Roger. With only three of us left the work cannot progress. Fulgoni and Di Fellica are collecting the data we have. I regret you will have to join them in the truck as the Tenente wishes the Professor and I to remain close to him.'

Templeman was muttering under his breath into his beard, sounding immensely angry.

It's a good job that officer's got men with guns to back him up! thought Roger. The old man's angry enough to kill him with a pick-axe.

His last view of the tent collection comprising the Templeman-Bartolomei expedition came from the back of the truck, under the watchful eyes of the two Italian soldiers.

It was desperately hot, dull and hard work, but I never imagined I'd miss it! And who left a wheelbarrow at the top of the dunes? The damn thing's falling down the dune. No, wait a bit, they brought both barrows back into camp. What was that thing?

Further worries about the distant object were replaced by more immediate ones, like where they were going to get water from in their journey. And food, too. No supplies from the supply truck, only stale bread, tinned ham and coffee, thrown into a sack by Di Fellica in considerable haste.

Unseen, concealed by heat haze, dust and distance, Roger's "wheelbarrow" moved slowly towards the tent encampment with the deliberation of a machine and the caution of an animal.

2) Farmers of the Sea

Farmer Selig wafted his scoop over the barely-moving waves, standing knee-deep in brine and feeling his footwebs scrape over the sandy ocean bottom two metres below. He believed that agitating the algae with a few near passes made them provide more energy when harvested. Perhaps only fractionally more energy per square metre more than algae left strictly alone. Regardless, he was still here and harvesting algae when half of his fellow hatchlings were long gone, fodder to the Warriors.

Realising that the suns had passed noon-and-noon-and-a-half, he stopped his sweeping motion, standing up to look further out to sea. The shallow lagoons lay baking under the sunslight, busy creating life energy. In fact it was time to stop harvesting and make for the shore, to stock up on water and bottled algae. Not that Farmers like him were permitted to wear a watch of any sort, farmers not being entitled to technology, but long usage and experience told him that he could make for dry land.

The long, low hutments that served as the Farmer's accomodation stood well inland, beyond the sand dunes and bordering the barren hinterland, that desolate sweep of continent where nothing lived or grew. Farmer Selig needed to walk there to get his supplies – their Overseers at this subsection of the coastal colony made certain only those who got to the buildings got fed and watered. He plodded along, his footwebs beginning to stir up the powdery, dead dust once he moved off the beach dunes. It tickled his nose and lightly coated his proboscis, meaning he had to stop and shake the irritating grit away.

Ahead of him earlier arrivals were also making their slow and weary way over the dead ground to the hutments. This time an unpleasant surprise awaited him and other arriving Farmers – a Warrior stood inside the granite structure, behind the door and facing inwards, looking at the room, the tables and the shortly-to-be-dining Farmers.

Under this hostile gaze, the nervous and hungry Farmers absorbed their energy quotient with haste. The Overseers remained at their own table, conversing quietly, until one nodded at the Warrior.

A late arrival came into the hutment, a Farmer the Overseer must have seen hurrying to get what remained of the food and water.

'Violator!' snapped the head Overseer. Taking his cue, the Warrior strode forward and extended his proboscis forward, the hundreds of tiny probes in the end connecting with the Farmer's back. The hapless victim instantly became rigid, unable to even scream, as his life energy was drained out of him. In the space of twenty seconds the bulk of the Farmer shrivelled and collapsed inwards, until all that remained was a dry, lifeless husk on the floor.

'Violator punishment, serfs,' said the Warrior loudly, bristling with energy, as well he might be. 'Lateness is inefficient. Be warned in future!'

Farmer Selig pushed aside the bowl of dried algae revenants, ducked his upper torso and left the hutment quickly, not daring to look up at the Warrior. He only straighened up outside, scared and humiliated.

Another Farmer dead, of a supposed "Violation". A Violation that hadn't existed until now, he told himself bitterly. A Violation invented so the Warrior could indulge himself in life energy.

Farmer Selig set himself away from the desert and towards the sea.