“Back outside. I don’t even know where the power comes into the building,” I say, a little too loud and with a broad smile.
I spin around and head out the door. I feel Sofie’s hands on my back and a light push.
“You dork! I was so scared. Don’t ever do that to me again,” she says, but she’s laughing a little. She knows I didn’t do anything.
I follow the power lines into the building. Power to the pumps must run underground from the building, because I don’t see any visible connection.
Back inside, I find the breaker panel easily in one of the garage bays. Sofie is rooting around the office. There was a rack for paper maps in plain sight, but it was empty. The idea of a physical atlas feels antiquated, like something circa Christopher Columbus.
The panel has a pair of fifty-amp fuses labeled “Pump Sub.” I realize this may take more time than I thought. Hopefully the pump sub is in the office?
In the office, Sofie is bent over the bottom drawer of a filing cabinet. I have to squeeze by her to get to what looks like the panel for the pumps. Touching her sends a shiver up my spine. I know that it’s hormones and adrenaline rushing through my veins, but the warmth feels good, and confusing. I have to pause and collect my thoughts.
Does she have any idea how she makes me feel? Maybe this is how every guy she has ever met acts so it seems totally normal. Or maybe I’m weird and I frighten her.
I open the little door and find keys on hangers. Some are labeled with numbers, others with letters. Nothing useful. And I’m still distracted with feelings and self-made drugs. So I slam the door and growl.
“Can I ask you something?” Sofie is looking up at me with a puzzled look. “Why is anger your first reaction to everything?”
It’s not, though. My first reaction to this question is embarrassment. Anger is not an emotion I have ever associated with myself. Frustrated and annoyed sure, but never angered. Is this how other people have always seen me? The angry nerd?
“Back home, I worked in a coffee shop.” Sofie is staring at nothing, remembering a past that she shares only with herself. “The smartest man in our town, maybe even the whole world, used to sit in a booth for hours on end. People from all over would come in and see him. There were never introductions, they just sat down across from him and he would ask, ‘How are you? What’s going on?’ Some people were short and to the point; others told long stories that just ended with no real question being asked.”
I want to tell her that people asking you questions does not make you smart, it makes them dumb. But it seems like she wants to get this off her chest so I sit quietly.
“He never had answers for them. He would just ask them questions. Some would get up and run out after a few questions, others sat quietly and enjoyed coffee,” she says. She is now smiling and I think her story is over.
I don’t see the point. How does any of this relate to me, or show me that this guy was smart. “So what made him so smart?” I ask with a contorted face.
“That right there. Embracing questions, enjoying what he didn’t know. Curiosity.” She’s back to the filing drawer and going through papers. I’ve got to get on with my project, I’ll think about her “lesson” later. One thing’s for sure, though: I’m going to work on not growling at people.
Maybe her story and Dad’s story about the hockey guy go together. I have more time than I think and it’s okay to not know the answer, learn from the questions. Like where is the panel for the pump sub? It should be obvious, right out in the open.
Then I realize that I live in a small town in New Hampshire. They have not changed the pumps or electrical configuration at this gas station in forty years. So I crawl under the counter and head towards the cash register. There on the wall of the cabinet is a breaker panel with a piece of masking tape across the front. Faintly written in what might be crayon is “Pumps.” I grab the handle and open the door, expecting to find two circuit breakers, one for each pump. But there are eight and they are not labeled.
I start following wires. There is white-and-black shielded electrical wire, and they seem to be bundled with blue Cat5. It’s easy enough to get out of the breaker panel, but I lose the line I’m tracing quickly. This is spaghetti. They must have updated the pump system more recently than I had expected. Except they seem to have done so with leftover wire and scraps from other projects.
Finding where the power comes into the sub is my priority. The trunk line is grey and easily identified, but it goes through a device I have never seen before. It’s almost like an emergency shut-off, but it appears to be homemade.
It’s been more than an hour and I completely forgot about Sofie. Where is she? I hope she wasn’t talking to me. The panel and wires had me so wrapped up I was deaf to anything else. Now I’m worried. She could have been taken or fallen and injured. I need to find her and make sure she’s safe. Not only have I not made progress with the pumps, I’ve lost Sofie.
I burst out of the office door, ready to yell her name, when something catches the corner of my eye. I spin to my right and assume the closest thing to a fighting stance that I can imagine. There’s Sofie, sitting on the beat-up old chair in front of the garage. She’s got the atlas on her lap and she looks over at me smiling. “Figure it out, Exxon?”
“No, I didn’t. You can’t just leave without telling me,” I say. We cannot afford to be careless and flighty if we want to survive. I’m angry but relieved.
“I didn’t leave, I just came outside.” She’s smiling, and beautiful.
I want to scream at her. Instead I decide to turn my emotions loose on the office.
“Well there’s one thing I want to try before we leave.” I’m not conversational, just stating a fact, as I turn to go back into the building.
“Okay, but remember that your Dad said not to touch anything!” She’s yelling after me as if I’m miles away. How can she not tell that I’m angry with her? Or does she know I’m angry and she just doesn’t care?
Inside the gas station, I knock the computer and all the other junk off the counter. I’m not being quiet or delicate. This is a bonus of post-apocalyptic life, efficiency. After the crap is cleared, I pull up on the laminate countertop itself. Sports were never my forte so I’m not strong, but the top doesn’t even seem to be fastened to the cabinets. It comes off easily. I should have done this an hour ago.
With the area of interest more exposed to light, I should be able to work faster. I grab a screwdriver and a pair of pliers. My anger has come down a level, but I am working quickly and efficiently.
At the pump sub-panel, I go right to work on the top of the box. I can’t imagine what this unit does; I have never seen one before. The four screws are removed and I am not very careful pulling the cover off; what I’m interested in is inside. The cover snags on something, but I pull a little more firmly and it comes right off.
The words “Tamper Proof 9000” are stenciled above a display that reads “LOCKED,” and I see a place for a wire to be inserted or a pin reset button. There are two electrical wires and a blue Cat5 wire coming out of the bottom of the unit, but no other information. This isn’t a real product; it’s some hack from the owner/manager who was too cheap to pay for a real solution.
I don’t understand this setup. As I look around the office for clues, I remember the cover. I’m starting to piece things together. There’s a wire attached to the cover. I take the stripped end of the wire and feed it into the unit where it seems to be an obvious fit. I expect the screen to change to “UNLOCK,” but it doesn’t. Uh-oh.
Sofie walks through the door with a smirk. “You’re supposed to be inspecting an electric panel, not redecorating.” She’s laughing a little. I bet she knows she drove me to destroy the office. Even though it was the best way to work efficiently, I do not like it when emotion takes over. It may be funny to her, but not to me.
The bell indicating a new customer has arrived dings and it seems so loud it could shatter the windows. Sofie screams an
d jumps four feet across the room and right into my arms. I’ve inhaled so deeply that I’m worried that all the air in the tiny office is gone, and it feels like I’m suffocating.
I look out the window and see Dad climbing out of a Cadillac Escalade with an ear-to-ear grin. I didn’t even realize how much tension there was. We have been doing such a good job of faking confidence that I forgot there was a gnawing fear in my subconscious, and apparently I’m not alone. “It’s okay, just my dad coming for gas,” I say quietly into Sofie’s ear. Her hair smells so good. Feeling her body pressed so close to mine is beyond words.
Dad is through the door, “Okay, break it up you two.” He must know he scared us both because he is not teasing or pretending to be upset. He gives Sofie a minute to let go of me before he continues. “I see you did some redecorating. I would like a million dollars on pump one, please.” The idea of free gas has my father almost giddy.
“I don’t think it’s going to work Dad.” I’m working on a story that doesn’t make me look bad but I don’t have it yet.
“What happened?” Dad has lost the giddiness. “Did you fill the Cayenne when you got here?”
Hmmm, understanding a baseline before you begin tampering with something makes sense. I know this, but these damn hormones are not helping.
“No. I found this thing called the ‘Tamper Proof 9000,’ and it reads ‘LOCKED.’ It’s at the top of the pump sub panel and I think it controls the pumps.” So far, I haven’t lied.
“Was the office torn apart when you got here?” Dad may be ahead of me on figuring this one out.
“No, I did that trying to figure out these pumps,” I offer, still not sure what I am going to say about this. I can see no reason why the pumps would not have worked when we got here, but I don’t know for sure. What I do know for sure is that they don’t work now. Do I confess to my Dad that I broke them and didn’t follow his direction not to touch anything, or do I let this go as a mystery and hope he doesn’t push?
Dad’s thinking. And he is mad, I can tell by his face and the fact that he isn’t saying anything. He looks around the office but doesn’t move. I probably look guilty, if that helps him make up his mind.
“Okay, it’s almost dark and we need to get moving. Time for Plan B.” Dad is on his way out the door. I have never been a fan of “Plan B.” If you have time to spend making a “Plan B,” it means you should have spent more time on Plan A to ensure that it would work. I usually quit if I find out that Plan A doesn’t work. Dad doesn’t have the option of quitting, and neither do I.
I follow Dad out to the Cadillac as he is getting in the driver’s seat. “Go back inside and look for a pump. Also see if there is anything to indicate what type of fuel the underground tanks hold. Even though this ride was free, I don’t want to put diesel in and ruin it. That would be a hassle.”
I can’t tell if he’s mad or just motivated. Sofie is standing in the parking lot in some sort of limbo.
Then she speaks: “Where are you going?”
“I’m going to the garage to get a pump and some hose,” he says, just before pulling out.
Chapter 10
As I lie in bed, I’m recapping how yesterday ended. Filling the cars with gas turned out to be pretty easy. If we had gone with the plan of pumping it directly out of the ground tanks in the first place, it would have been quicker and far less stressful. But if we have to bring the pump and hoses for every fill-up they will take up space in the Cadillac. That space could have been used for my lab equipment.
Sofie went home ahead of us and when we arrived she and Grace were working on dinner. I’m glad Gracie likes to cook, and she is good at it. We basically had a feast; steaks, chicken, shrimp and grilled vegetables. Whatever we wanted to eat and as much as we wanted. The freezer was emptied and there was no anxiety about waste. If we didn’t eat it, we couldn’t have used it anyway.
Liam and Dad washed the dishes and Dad cleaned up around the kitchen. I guess some of his habits are hard to break. Grace, Sofie and I acted like it was Thanksgiving and headed to the family room and put on a movie. We were semi-catatonic when Dad and Liam came in, but then everyone was asleep within minutes.
Not getting the pumps to work is still gnawing at me, probably why I’m awake at 5:20 in the morning. I know I have only hurt myself. Another approach to the problem isn’t clear to me though. Sure, I didn’t have to tear apart the office, but that really had no effect on the pumps. I had to take that cover off to know what was underneath. I don’t really consider it “touching” the system when I just remove a cosmetic component to inspect inner workings. How could I have known it wasn’t just cosmetic?
I doubt that Dad thinks I really did anything either. While I was standing with the pump filling the Cadillac, he inspected the “Tamper Proof 9000.” All he said when he came back out is, “That’s a weird setup. Did the cover come off easy?” Fortunately the truth is that it did come off easy. My “Yup” was true and natural, so we left it at that. The rest of the time filling the gas tank was spent with speculation about other gas stations, particularly those along the highway, and their use of anti-tampering devices. A garden hose and a sump pump take a lot longer to fill a tank than the regular gas pump.
This frustration is getting me nowhere. I might as well get up and work on packing the lab. Dad has given me two long Thule roof carriers. I know it is generous and accommodating, but it’s not nearly enough space for the things I want to bring.
While my father tells people I have an eidetic memory, the truth is I don’t. Dad does not know the definition of the term eidetic. I have a high IQ, some innate memory skills, and have developed tools to help me. I rely on a database when the volume of information is high. My lab inventory database is killer. Several terabytes of data stored in the cloud with a mirror on a local server in the corner. Not only do I have every piece of equipment inventoried, I also have all the experiments and tests inventoried. At any time I can see what I am using a given piece of equipment for, the types of interconnects needed, and the time left until the equipment will be available for other experiments.
Standing in my lab, I am torn. Do I pack based on experiment or equipment value?
I think equipment. I survey my space looking at the size of individual items. If there is something that’s too big, I can easily rule it out and move on. But there is nothing that can’t be broken down small enough to fit in the space I have allotted in the Thule’s. Small, tight and efficient has been the priority for my reactor, and it has held true for my development equipment, too. I wonder if I should add a physical dimension field to the equipment database? It seems weird that I don’t already have that. I guess physical space restraints have never been a part of my life.
I decide to evaluate based on processor code. A great deal of my work has taken advantage of existing microprocessors. I find used ones online and buy them cheap or I get them free from local electronic recycling days. The result is spaghetti code. Some of the programming interfaces are older and not intuitive. When the internet goes down for good, I may not be able to get back to the information I need to properly modify syntax.
I run a report based on coding language and then sort the results into an ordered list. This may turn out to be a valuable exercise. I see that there are a few processors I have replacements for and others that I am no longer using.
Now that I have a plan of attack, I can start powering things down. In eight years, I have never powered down my entire lab at the same time. I see another shortcoming in my documentation. No shutdown procedure. I have no advanced experiments running, but still I need to pause before I shut down each piece of equipment. If it is controlling another device or aggregating data from somewhere, I need to power down the remote before I power down the control. Nothing catastrophic will occur if I don’t, but I hate parsing through error logs that I have created.
I’m not sure why I didn’t know it would take this long. I could really use an assistant. But I could never work
with anyone if they weren’t almost as smart as me. Having a lab partner at school was like high comedy. I would be sorting the results of the experiment, thinking of derivatives of the data and criticizing the teacher while my partner was reading the first sentence. It wasn’t because I did the experiment quickly either. It was because I could tell what answer they wanted before the experiment started. It was never about learning; it was always about getting the answer right.
“Seamus, do you want breakfast?” Liam is yelling down the stairs. Volume control was never his strength.
Oddly, I’m at a perfect time for a break. It still annoys me that Liam is the one interrupting me. “Yeah, I’ll be up in a minute,” I answer back quietly, trying to make the point that the yelling is unnecessary.
Upstairs, Dad has waffles, apples with cinnamon, bacon, eggs, sausages, and toast cooked. No cereal; I had the last of the milk. Otherwise the feast mentality has continued to breakfast. Sofie is trying to help but Dad won’t let her.
“You’re a guest in our house. You don’t serve breakfast,” he tells her as he swats at her hand with a spatula.
“But I grew up in a coffee shop, breakfast is totally my thing!” she protests.
Grace is busy working on a breakfast soundtrack. She’s calling out songs that Liam and Sofie are saying yes or no to. Then she moves it into a playlist and the beat goes on. And that’s Gracie, trying to put on a happy face for everything and everyone. I wonder if she can really be as oblivious as she acts sometimes or if it’s calculated because she knows it’s comforting for the rest of us.
“I think Seamus could still learn a thing or two about domestic chores,” Dad says, looking over at me. It’s like he waited until I sat down.
“I don’t see why anyone has to be a server, can’t we just fend for ourselves?” I’ve sucked the fun right out of the room. This is the problem with being myself. I’m a total downer. Just because I was able to take a break from the lab doesn’t mean I shut my brain off and switched to party mode.
Annihilation (The Seamus Chronicles Book 1) Page 6