Oracle--Fire Island

by C. W. Trisef

  Your friend,

  Lionel Zarbock

  P.S. Give my regards to Pauline and Ana.

  “Now there’s a role model if I ever saw one,” Pauline said with confidence. “None of this secretive business or going behind my back—what a professional, what a gentleman! I hope you’ll not let him down, Ret.”

  “Really?” Ret asked, surprised by Pauline’s swift approval.

  “Of course,” she reaffirmed. “Lionel is exactly the kind of man you should emulate. He’s intelligent and successful, very educated and levelheaded. Besides, maybe he’ll even give you a tour of the plant.”

  “So I can go?”

  “Certainly,” Pauline smiled. “I’d be happy to drop you off. I know how much you love science. You might just learn a thing or two, and hopefully it’ll take your mind off other things.” Then, turning to Ana, Pauline continued, “I’m sure you’re welcome, too, dear.”

  “No thanks,” Ana declined, “I’m not one to invite myself to things. I’d never be caught dead in a nuclear power plant anyway. Why does he want to meet you there, of all places?”

  “It must be for his job,” Ret assumed. “Remember that story in the newspaper about how the UN asked him to report on all the power plants in the area?” Ana nodded her head in agreement. “I don’t know how he found out where we live, though.”

  “I might have mentioned it to him,” Pauline admitted, obviously pleased with herself. “You can never have too many good influences around you, children; remember that.” She picked up their finished plates and deposited them in the sink.

  As Pauline scrubbed the dishes, she beamed with joy at the thought of Ret spending time with Lionel. From their interactions in Sunken Earth, she had been quite impressed with Lionel—his sense of right and wrong, his willingness to stand up for what he believed in. She hoped that, by encouraging their association, Lionel would reinforce the ideals and morals that she so painstakingly tried to teach in the home. In some discomforting way, it bothered her that Ret felt so drawn to Mr. Coy. In her eyes, Mr. Coy was irrational and unpredictable, and his vocation was as ambiguous as his parenting practices.

  Meanwhile, Ret shared Pauline’s joy, though for different reasons. He could hardly contain himself in anticipation of his upcoming visit with Lionel. In just the few days when they rubbed shoulders in Sunken Earth, Lionel had proved to be a true friend of immense help, without which they may have never acquired the earth element. It pained Ret when Lionel left so abruptly. You’d think that, having no correspondence with one another all summer, they would have largely forgotten about each other, but, in fact, the opposite was true.

  * * * * *

  A mile or two north and west of Tybee Island, on a completely separate island called Cockspur where the river emptied into the Atlantic Ocean, sat the Savannah River Delta Nuclear Power Plant. Even though its domed containment structure towered unsuitably above the island’s low-lying shrubs and oyster beds, the plant had been a part of the local landscape for as long as anyone could remember. Still, not many Tybee folks spoke of the plant. Some knew it simply as “the big thing that powers my TV,” while others of a more opinionated nature maintained a sort of personal boycott towards the plant. By and large, however, most people had little knowledge of what it was or what purpose it served, which was why Ret was so eager to gather information first-hand.

  Ret walked up to the main entrance with haste, partly out of excitement but mostly to escape the unbearable heat and humidity of another summer scorcher. Through a series of double doors, he entered the main office, where a security officer greeted him.

  “Can I help you?” the guard confronted Ret in a deep voice. He was a large, imposing figure who didn’t seem to take kindly to visitors. Ret read the uniformed man’s name badge: Dread. With one hand resting on his firearm and the other on his bludgeon, Officer Dread waited for Ret to answer his question.

  “I’m here to see Dr. Lionel Zarbock,” Ret replied in a tone as if questioning his own response, hoping he had said the magic word. Apparently, he had, for as soon as Ret mentioned Lionel’s name, Officer Dread’s entire countenance changed.

  “Oh, right this way!” Dread instructed politely. Ret stood still for a moment, in awe at the guard’s transformation from cold-blooded officer to giddy museum docent, before hurrying after him.

  Completely bypassing the security screening, Ret followed his escort into the belly of the plant. They cut through what appeared to be the plant’s receiving sector on their way to wherever they were headed. Every few seconds, Officer Dread exchanged salutations with co-workers he passed en route, never failing to tell them he was taking Ret “to see Dr. Z.” The mentioning of Lionel’s name had the same, profound effect on everyone who heard it, and their faces, which initially probed Ret with a standoffish glare, suddenly became gracious and welcoming toward him as a visitor and newcomer. It was difficult for Ret not to let such star treatment go to his head, for it seemed that just by knowing Lionel, Ret shared his celebrity status.

  At last, they arrived at their destination: a large control room of dizzying magnitude. Every square inch of wall and desk space was covered with buttons and bars, monitors and measurers, knobs and numbers. Ret was reluctant to even move, for fear of tipping some scale or adjusting some gauge. Things were blinking and spinning, buzzing and flashing. The only sight Ret could compare it to was the control panel inside Mr. Coy’s helicopter, and even then it was a fitting comparison only if multiplied exponentially.

  “Dr. Zarbock, sir,” Officer Dread said respectfully, “there’s someone here to see you.”

  A small huddle of scientists, hunched over some computer screen, quickly turned to face them. Their eyes first focused on the guard, then on the visitor.

  “Ret!” Lionel emerged from the powwow and strode toward Ret. “It’s so good to see you.” He embraced Ret, which took Ret a bit by surprise, then grabbed his shoulder and turned to face his associates.

  “Everyone,” Lionel announced, “I’d like you to meet my good friend, Ret Cooper.” Mostly middle-aged men with bald spots and eyeglasses, the other plant workers each took turns shaking Ret’s hand. He couldn’t help but notice the special outfits they were wearing, each highly adorned with protective gear. Ret wondered if he ought to be wearing such garb, but he didn’t want to make a fuss or seem precocious. Surely Lionel would look out for him.

  “The fact that you’re here means you got my letter,” said Lionel, his dark hair and eyes contrasting brilliantly against his white lab coat. “I was hoping you’d come.” Ret smiled. “We were just finishing up here.”

  “Oh, yes, quite right,” the others pattered in unison, getting the hint and submitting to their superior.

  “Would you like to take a look around?” Lionel asked Ret, grinning because he was almost certain of the answer.

  “Would I!”

  They exited the control room and, squinting amid the bright afternoon sunshine, climbed a set of outdoor stairs until they were overlooking much of the facility.

  “A nuclear power plant is very similar to most other types of power plants,” Lionel taught. “Water is heated until it turns into steam.” Ret followed Lionel’s hand motions, moving from the river to the domed containment structure. “The high-pressure steam is channeled into the turbines, whose propeller-like blades spin to generate electricity.” Ret’s gaze continued to follow Lionel’s gesticulations. “Then the electricity moves from the generator to the switchyard and, ultimately, to your living room.” The countless wires and lines in the switchyard looked like an organized mess to Ret, who was all the more impressed.

  Ret proceeded to ask the one question, despite a myriad of others, that was foremost in his mind: “But how—”

  “But how is a nuclear plant different?” Lionel interrupted, knowing he had taken the words right out of Ret’s mouth. “I’m glad you asked.”

  They descended from their viewpoint and started walking toward the massive containment structur
e.

  “Power plants have to supply heat in order to change water into steam,” Lionel spoke as they walked. “Some plants burn coal, others use natural gas or oil. Some even utilize geothermal heat. But a nuclear plant,” he said, almost with affection, “—a nuclear plant, in this regard, is a whole different animal—the most beautiful of them all, in my opinion.”

  Arriving at one of the entrances into the containment structure, Lionel easily gained access and ushered Ret inside. For most Tybee residents, it was this—the power plant’s concrete dome—that had come to symbolize the facility itself. By far, it was the largest and tallest edifice in town, with the exception of Coy Manor, of course. Adults passed by it on their commute to and from work, and youth saw it just as frequently from the school bus. But, apart from the science teachers and the few locals who worked there, no one really understood what took place inside the mysterious building, shaped like half a pill capsule. As such, Ret was ecstatic to find himself on the inside.

  “Precautionary measures,” Lionel remarked when he saw Ret studying the containment structure’s outer shell, which consisted of multiple layers of concrete and steel, many feet in thickness. “It keeps harmful radiation in and things like crashing airplanes out.”

  A network of metal walkways, suspended in the air, carried them deeper into the circular room, their footsteps echoing off the rounded walls. Ret was surprised to learn the dome was hollow. The air felt damp, and a pervasive humming nearly numbed his ears. Besides a wide array of complicated-looking equipment, everything seemed to be built around a single, though stunning, apparatus in the middle.

  “The reactor,” Lionel whispered, as if paying homage to a shrine. Halting, they leaned over the railing of the walkway and looked below them. “This is the heart of the plant, Ret.”

  “It almost looks alive,” Ret said of the scene below them, which glowed and vibrated with its own unique sort of energy.

  “That’s because it is,” said Lionel. “Do you see those long, vertical rods down there?” Ret nodded. “Some of those are filled with uranium.” Ret remembered learning about uranium in his science class last year. “This plant uses uranium-235, a heavy metal that can release a tremendous amount of energy: the nucleus of one U-235 atom contains 92 protons and 143 neutrons.”

  Ret added the two figures together in his head just to make sure their sum was 235. “That’s a lot,” he said, “compared to most of the other elements.”

  “Right,” Lionel agreed, “but what also makes uranium special is that it can be split.”

  “Split?”

  “The scientific term is fission,” said Lionel. “Do you see that particle accelerator over there?” Ret pretended like he could distinguish it from the conglomeration of other devices surrounding them. “That accelerator shoots a neutron at the uranium. Then, when a nucleus of a U-235 atom captures the moving neutron, it literally splits in two!” Lionel was becoming more and more animated, as if retelling a great story. “In the process, energy is released, and the nucleus throws off a few neutrons of its own. Then these neutrons bombard other uranium nuclei, and thus a fission chain reaction is born.”

  Ret wasn’t quite sure if he liked the sound of that. Or, perhaps, it was the sound of Lionel’s tone that he didn’t like. For several seconds, Lionel gaped at the reactor in silent reverence. The whites of his eyes reflected its blue gleam. His knuckles turned pale, so tightly did he grip the balustrade. It was as if he was absorbing some of the energy being released at the atoms’ expense. Lionel was the perfect match for his job, Ret concluded.

  “So why is this your favorite method of heating water into steam?” Ret inquired.

  “Because of how effective it is,” came Lionel’s answer. “Just a single pound of uranium can generate more energy than thousands of gallons of oil or tons of coal.”

  “Yeah, but it seems kind of, you know, unnatural, don’t you think?” Ret put forth. “I mean, how does something like this not get out of control?”

  “Another great question,” said Lionel, patting Ret on the back. “Let’s get down a little closer; it looks like they’re getting ready to refuel the reactor.”

  They stepped down a few stairs and arrived at a platform where a pair of well-clothed workers was interacting with the reactor like operators of a carnival ride. From the safety of their booth, they controlled the core remotely with a system of knobs and levers. Lionel led Ret to a front-row view.

  “In between the rods full of uranium are other rods that contain certain elements that absorb neutrons,” Lionel explained over the clinking and clanking of metal arms and gears. “When Dr. Rich here,” Lionel pointed at one of the operators next to him, “wants to produce more heat, he lifts the control rods out from among the uranium, thus absorbing fewer neutrons. Or, to reduce heat, he can lower them in. Go ahead, Dr. Rich,” Lionel addressed the operator, “let’s see how you refuel. My friend, Ret, here would like to watch.”

  “Yes, Dr. Zarbock,” Dr. Rich obeyed, “as soon as the control rods are fully lowered.”

  “Do it now, doctor,” Lionel overruled.

  “But sir—”

  Lionel gave his protesting subordinate a patient glare. “Do as I tell you,” Lionel insisted calmly. Dr. Rich followed instructions. Lionel turned back around and mumbled to Ret, “You’d think he runs the place.” Ret looked behind him at Dr. Rich, who reached for the clear mask atop his head and positioned it securely over his face.

  Ret watched as the nuclear reactor came into view. He could easily discern which rods belonged to the control group because they were not fully lowered. As the distance between him and the core lessened, Ret could feel waves of energy on his skin, as if sitting in front of a roaring campfire.

  “Can you feel it, Ret?” Lionel asked, his arms extended at his sides like a sunbather soaking up the sun’s rays. “Pure nuclear energy—the product of millions of tiny things splitting into billions of tiny pieces.”

  By this time, the only thing that Ret was feeling was sick. Perhaps brought on by the heat, nausea had gripped his stomach while a headache surged in his skull. Drenched in sweat, he was beginning to feel lightheaded, as if he might hyperventilate. He needed water, some place to sit down. He wiped his dripping forehead with the back of his hand—blood. Blood on his hand. He searched to find where it had come from. Then he saw small droplets of red on his arm—blood, coming through like perspiration!

  Ret stumbled, fell to one knee.

  “Ret?” he heard Lionel say. “Are you—”

  His eyes were going dim, dizzy.

  “He’s bleeding! Quick, Dr. Rich, help me—”

  Ret sensed he was being carried, his feet dragging behind him. A door opened—they were outside. The sun stung his eyes. He felt himself regaining consciousness, strength returning to his limbs. His rescuers stopped and leaned him against something.

  “Here,” Lionel directed, clasping Ret’s hand around a cup, “drink this.” Ret gulped some of the water, then splashed the rest on his face.

  “Sorry about that back there,” Lionel apologized, sounding winded and taking a swig of his own from what looked like a personal flask. “I should have realized getting that close to a reactor can be a little intense for a first-timer.” He slipped the flask back into his coat pocket. “I didn’t do so well my first few times either,” he admitted. “Even now, I always make sure I stay well hydrated.” He patted the pocket where his flask was deposited. “I do hope you’ll forgive me, Ret.”

  “Of course,” Ret promised, “it wasn’t your fault. Besides, Pauline will be glad to hear you gave me a tour.”

  “Oh,” Lionel chuckled, “and why is that?”

  “She wants me to get my mind off the Oracle for a while,” Ret said, his tone signifying he wasn’t very fond of the idea.

  “Well then,” Lionel whispered, stooping down as if telling a secret, “you best not be telling her that’s the reason I wanted to talk to you.” He laughed.

  “Really?”
>
  “Really,” said Lionel, helping Ret to his feet. “Ever since we escaped from Sunken Earth, I’ve been dying to know what happened down there. That civilization’s collapse caused quite a disruption in the Atlantic, and I feel if I better understood what really took place after I left you at the foot of the mountain, then I could better substantiate my claims to the UN. What exactly was at the top of the mountain? Who was this ‘Guardian’ person you mentioned to me? And why—”

  Listening to Lionel’s questions, it occurred to Ret that he had never told Lionel much of anything concerning the Oracle, let alone the earth element. Ret almost chided himself for not including Lionel sooner, for someone as accomplished and knowledgeable as Lionel would certainly prove to be a great asset in their quest.

  “Well, it’s kind of a long story,” Ret warned, though eager to fill him in.

  “Then you can tell me while I walk you home,” said Lionel. “You could use the fresh air anyway.”

  Leaving the power plant, they walked side-by-side along the only road that led from Cockspur Island back to Tybee. Ret paid attention to nothing but bringing Lionel up to speed. He told him everything—the scar, the underwater road, Stone and Quirk, the element, the Guardian. He even fixed every pothole they passed along the road to remind Lionel of his power over everything earthen. Ret held nothing back because he could tell Lionel was sincerely listening to his every word. It wasn’t like talking to Ana, who heard what she wanted to hear and then gave her two cents before moving on to something she found more interesting. Nor was it like trying to communicate with Pauline, whose own agenda and distaste for anything out of the ordinary prevented candid conversation.

  It was different with Lionel. Here was a man of stratospherical repute—a mogul who dined with dignitaries, a genius who comprehended the cryptic—and yet, no one ever would have guessed. He wore fancy neckties, yes, but half-concealed by blue-collar philosophies. He claimed membership in the upper-echelon, obviously, but preferred to do lunch with the entry-level. A prodigy in knock-off penny-loafers, he was attractive and adored yet dictated by neither. Any other person with his accolades and acumen would never search out an adolescent, especially with the intent to be taught by him; such a person would have interrupted Ret not far into his narrative with exclamations of disbelief—“Preposterous!”—or with sentiments that trivialized teenage intellect—“You’ve a fine imagination, my boy.”