Oracle--Solar Wind Page 13

  “Look, dude,” Dusty returned, losing his patience with the annoying stuffed animal at the door, “you’re not saying it right—”

  “It says right here,” Mo pointed out with similar frustration, showing Dusty the slip of paper from Mr. Coy, “that I’m supposed to find a Mr. Thorny and escort him to the hangar.”

  “Yeah, but all I’m saying is—”

  Suddenly, Thorne’s voice was heard. “You must be Mo,” he said pleasantly, stepping behind his son and interrupting the escalating disagreement.

  “Yes,” Mo told him. “And you are?”

  “Why, I’m Mr. Thorny,” Thorne said with a smile.

  Dusty protested, “But Dad—”

  “Let it go, son,” Thorne quickly mumbled under his breath. He turned to the messenger and said, “Coy told me he’d be sending you up to get me. Must be time then?”

  “Yes, Mr. Thorny, sir,” Mo replied, in all seriousness.

  “Wonderful,” said Thorne, fetching his luggage. Then, sharing a farewell embrace with his son, he cautioned, “Now don’t get into any trouble while I’m gone, okay?”

  “Yes, Mr. Thorny, sir,” Dusty promised with a sly grin, mimicking Mo.

  “That’s my boy,” said the father. “Now then, Mo, lead the way.”

  “Aye aye!” Then, turning to Dusty, Mo said, “Good day, Mr. Thorne.”

  Dusty shook his head and gladly closed the door.

  Out in the southwestern sector of the Manor’s underground hangar—past the runway for the jet, beyond the launch pad for the hot-air balloon, away from the airstrip for the helicopter, and far below the driveway hanging from the ceiling—was the harbor. The yacht was there, the same one that had once gone to the Bimini Road and back, now moored to the dock that was surrounded by jagged rocks. The dark water was rhythmically disturbed by a gentle current, making it obvious that the small inlet was somehow connected to the ocean.

  Assuming they’d be making their Arctic voyage in the comfort of the yacht, Thorne strode onto the dock and over to the luxurious vessel, with Mo lugging the luggage behind him. On his way, however, Thorne was startled by the sudden appearance of large air bubbles, coming from the center of the harbor. They grew in size and quantity until, to Thorne’s utter surprise, a killer whale emerged from the water. He watched in shock, but the creature was staying as still as he was. A few moments later, he could hear what sounded like the muffled footsteps of someone climbing a metal ladder, and the noise seemed to be coming from inside the whale.

  All alarm subsided when, with the squeaky opening of a rusted metal hatch, Mr. Coy appeared at the top of the fake fish’s blowhole.

  “Ahoy!” yelled Coy. “What do you think of my submarine? I call her the USS Shamu.”

  “You’re one of a kind, Coy,” Thorne told him, shaking his head and sporting one of those you-never-cease-to-amaze-me looks.

  “She’s an old boomer,” Coy said of the sub, “like the ones you and I used to train in, remember?”

  “Oh, I remember,” Thorne returned, subconsciously rubbing his lower back.

  “The Navy let me have her years ago after they decommissioned her,” Coy explained, guiding the submarine closer to the dock. “I’ve since made a few modifications—reshaped it, reinforced it—and removed the nuclear reactor, of course. Now it’s smaller, faster, and safer.”

  “That and it looks like a whale,” Thorne reminded him.

  “Ah, the ultimate undersea camouflage,” Coy beamed. “A healthy killer whale has no natural predators, you know.”

  “Camouflage?” Thorne teased. “For all your top-secret missions?”

  Ignoring the impertinence, Coy stated, “It never hurts to be a little—coy.”

  “You didn’t happen to modernize its firepower while you were at it, did you?” Thorne hoped.

  “I might have,” Coy smirked in the affirmative. He extended his hand to help his old military comrade onboard the ship, smiling, “Just like old times, friend.”

  Then Mo prepared to board, handing over Thorne’s bags and proudly reporting to Mr. Coy, “I found Mr. Thorny, sir, just like you asked.”

  “Mr. Thorny?” Coy muttered.

  “Don’t ask,” Thorne whispered back as he started down the ladder.

  “Well done, Mo,” Coy complimented him. “Welcome aboard.”

  It wasn’t exactly roomy inside the submarine. It was mostly dark and impressively compact, so much so that Mo thought a more appropriate name for it might be USS Claustrophobic. In fact, there was probably more space to be found in Mo’s bulbous snowsuit than in the boat’s narrow aisles, which he frequently clogged as members of the crew hustled about the cabin in their final preparations before departure. The deckhands consisted of students from the Manor: one who was interested in sonar, another who had a love for marine biology, some who were studying engineering, a few who planned to join the Navy themselves, a pair who really liked torpedoes, and one who came along just to see a penguin in the wild.

  Mr. Coy and Thorne took their seats at the controls. It was your typical control room, its walls lined with all sorts of electronics. However, this one was located near the bow, in between the fake whale’s two white eyespots, which were actually large windows that had been tinted with a light-colored film. Although the glass was extra-thick, this sub was not intended to dive more than a few hundred feet, which was on par for a real killer whale. Coy was going for as natural a look as possible with his pseudo orca. While the dorsal fin on top aided in steering, the pectoral fins, which could be flapped up and down, were just for show.

  As its nuclear reactor had been removed, the vessel moved by way of an electric motor that was connected to a propeller. The power supply began at the whale’s exterior, where the long torpedo shafts had been repurposed so that seawater entered and passed through them while in motion. They were like the gills of a fish. Inside these tube-like holes was a series of small turbines, which spun rapidly as water flowed past them. Each turbine was attached to a copper coil within the submarine. When the turbine spun, it rotated the coil among magnets, whose magnetic fields attracted electrons for the coil to collect. This electrical current was then conducted to the motor. Any extra energy was used to charge the backup batteries on board.

  Like the pectoral fins, the large fluke in the back also moved but only to scatter the constant stream of bubbles coming out of the tubes, which otherwise would have been a dead giveaway of the whale’s mechanical status—either that or made it look like the mammal was constantly passing gas.

  The closing of the hatch marked the opening of the journey. The harbor was enclosed on all sides by rocks, but only above the surface of the water. There was an underwater outlet on the far side, granting immediate access to the ocean. So the harbor was almost like a cave, the kind whose mouth is only visible at low tide. Of course, a portion of the wall could be parted, which is how the yacht got in and out, but the submarine simply passed under it.

  It was no small voyage they were undertaking. The first day got them all the way up the eastern coast of the United States. On the second, they rounded the island of Newfoundland and started up Canada. It took two days to make it through Baffin Bay. Then they stayed close to Greenland before finally entering the Arctic Ocean.

  Even though the purpose of their adventure was to spy on Lye, Mr. Coy had little idea where he would find him or if the dark lord was even still in the Arctic. The whole trip was somewhat of a gamble, based on the vague information Jaret had told him that Lye might be up to something near the North Pole. Coy planned to make the North Pole his first stop, really hoping Lye would be there, for, if he wasn’t, Coy didn’t know where in the vast Arctic world to begin looking for him.

  As they floated toward the North Pole, Mo was on top of the world—in more ways than one. Ever since their course had gotten them near his native land of Greenland, he had been straining to get a glimpse of it, which was difficult to do in a submarine that stayed well below sea level and never stopped to
surface. Sitting in the control room with his face plastered against one of the large, oval windows, Mo began to talk to whoever cared to listen.

  “Ah, the beautiful Arctic,” he said, his voice full of nostalgia, “where there’s ice that never melts, winters with no sun, and subzero temperatures that freeze my nose hairs—how I’ve missed it.” Thorne winced at such bleak conditions. Mo continued, “We’re a lot different from Antarctica, you know.”

  “Is that right?” Coy responded, encouraging his student to share his knowledge. “How so, Mo?”

  “Well, Antarctica is an actual landmass,” Mo answered, his warm breath condensing on the cold glass. “It’s an island continent, totally surrounded by ocean. But the Arctic is the exact opposite: it’s an ocean that’s almost entirely surrounded by land.”

  “Interesting,” said Thorne. “Anything else?”

  “And there are no penguins up here,” Mo pointed out.

  An earshot away, a crewman (the one who had come on the trip solely to see a penguin) mourned, “Aw, man!”

  “Antarctica can get much colder than the Arctic,” Mo added, “but it’s still cold enough up here for the surface of the ocean to freeze. Just look at all the sea ice!”

  “Oh, I’m looking at it,” Coy said with more worry than wonder. Having arrived near the North Pole, he was currently in the hazardous process of bringing the submarine as close to the frozen surface as he could so that he could take a look around.

  “See any leads, Thorne?” Coy asked, employing the proper term for a narrow area of open water within a wide expanse of sea ice.

  “There’s a fairly large one over there,” Thorne informed him.

  “That’ll work.”

  With the help of the killer whale’s eyes, which were actually cameras, Coy maneuvered the submarine under the long crack in the ice so that only the dorsal fin rose up out of the water. There was a scope on the fin, allowing him a good view of the Arctic world above the water.

  Ice. Nothing but ice. As far as he could see and in every direction—ice. And it wasn’t the smooth kind of ice that forms when a pond freezes over—the kind that makes for an ideal skating rink—oh no. This ice was rough and jagged. It sat in heaps and mounds. It looked like the abandoned parking lot where snowplows dump their loads. These were not icebergs that had broken off of glaciers; they were ice floes that had formed with the whips and waves of choppy ocean waters. Mr. Coy felt like an ant on top of a poorly frosted cake. The entire landscape was a field of ice, anything but level and uniform. As much as it looked like snow-covered tundra, you had to remind yourself that you were in the middle of the ocean, not on land.

  After a thorough look, Mr. Coy pushed away the scope’s remote lens and fell back into his chair. He had seen no sign of Lye.

  “Well?” Thorne asked, curious to learn what Coy had seen.

  “Brr,” Coy shivered in response.

  “What exactly are we looking for, anyway?” Thorne questioned.

  “An old man with a long, white beard,” Coy said nebulously.

  “Santa?!” Mo exclaimed with the glee of a child.

  “No, not Santa Claus,” said Coy. Mo seemed deflated.

  “No one could live up here anyway,” Thorne concluded, further bursting Mo’s bubble, “let alone have a workshop. You said it yourself: there’s no land, it’s just a layer of ice.”

  “Well,” Mo mumbled to himself, “I still believe.”

  And so began their tour of the Arctic Ocean. For days, they followed a simple pattern: travel a fair distance, surface in a crack, look around. But it always yielded the same result: a whole lot of ice but no sign of Lye. Travel, surface, look—ice. One time they saw a polar bear; another, a few birds. But, otherwise, it was travel, surface, look—ice. In a way, the redundant ritual reminded Mr. Coy of when he and Ret traveled down the Amazon River not too long ago, stopping every now and then to look for a golden arch. Except that procedure had been much more productive. And warm.

  Sometimes, they arrived in regions where the blanket of sea ice showed signs of breaking up. Mo, whose Arctic knowledge seemed as endless as the ice itself, was quick to point out that they were nearing the time of year when Arctic sea ice reaches its minimum, explaining that much of the younger ice melts during the summer. He claimed it was fortunate that their expedition wasn’t taking place during the winter, when sea ice extends far beyond the bounds of the Arctic Ocean, even past the Arctic Circle. Thorne had never met anyone who knew as much about sea ice as Mo did, but the Eskimo’s positive outlook did little to boost the sagging morale of the fruitless wanderers.

  In time, Mr. Coy began to feel like one of those overzealous explorers from centuries past who saddled a crew and embarked on a crazy mission into uncharted territories, only to be mutinied and never heard from again. He frequently had to remind himself of his objective, which was to find Lye and see if he had any clues as to the hiding place of the next element. But, with each unsuccessful look above the ice, Mr. Coy felt more and more foolish, like he was wasting his time and should just give up. He was coming to the unwelcome conclusion that he couldn’t do this without Ret. It was Ret who bore the scars—Ret who possessed the keys—that were necessary in order to gather the scattered elements and fill the Oracle. Little wonder, then, why Lye needed Ret so desperately—or at least his scars.

  For meanwhile, elsewhere on the frozen Arctic Ocean, there was an old man with a long, white beard, driving a dogsled across the same fields of ice that the faux whale was roaming under. With a face as cold as death, the musher gripped the sled’s handle bars with only one of his claw-like hands, the other firmly grasping a white, spirally-twisted cane. His long robes, whose blackness contrasted brilliantly against the scenery’s overwhelming whiteness, flowed freely in the bitter wind. His frail body was apparently unaffected by the freezing temperature. There was only one man on earth with blood like ice: it was Lye.

  The evil lord kept his focus on the path ahead, which he was constantly clearing and smoothing to create a flat trail for his team of dogs. Using his apparent power over water, Lye paved a way through the ice, which was technically still water though in a frozen state. The dogs, ten of the strongest and most ferocious canines ever bred, were pulling the sled with great speed, finding little friction on the slick ice.

  Once in a while, Lye would take his eyes off the road to check something in the sled’s cargo bed. He would bring it close to his face, look at it for a moment, then set it down and sometimes slightly adjust course. It was likely a compass of sorts.

  Back in the belly of the whale, the instruments were finally showing signs of activity.

  “I’m picking something up on thermal radar,” Thorne announced.

  “What is it?” Coy asked eagerly, the control room suddenly filled with interest.

  “I’m not sure,” said Thorne, studying the screen. “It looks like several small bodies of heat, all moving together in a line.”

  “More birds?” Coy said without hope.

  “No, they’re going too fast to be birds,” Thorne countered.

  “Maybe reindeer?” Coy suggested.

  With renewed faith, Mo chanted to himself, “It’s Santa!”

  “I don’t think so,” Thorne dismissed. “Look how straight it’s moving.”

  “Well,” Coy said after inspecting the screen, “I’d say it’s worth taking a look.”

  But the unidentified sledding object refused to stop. It was going north, leaving the coast of Russia and heading toward the middle of the ocean. Mr. Coy decreased the submarine’s depth, following close to the ice in hopes of locating a lead and stealing a quick glance, but the unknown creature was simply traveling too fast.

  They followed it for many miles. Keeping an eye on their present latitude and longitude, Mr. Coy’s heart took courage by the fact that the mysterious mover was leading them back toward the North Pole. Finally, the specimen in question began to slow until it finally stopped—right next to the North Pole. With gre
at stealth, Mr. Coy slowly positioned the dorsal fin into a crack in the ice a safe distance away. Then he anxiously peered through the scope.

  There was Lye. He had dismounted the sled and was pacing around, as if surveying the area. He was clearly searching for something—looking high and low, in the sky and along the floor. He even began to chip away at some of the chunks of ice, hoping to find something—anything. After several minutes, he angrily threw up his hands and returned to the sled. Mr. Coy was too far away to see what Lye was rummaging through in the cargo bed. Then, suddenly, there was a small flash of light, and a second individual came into view, standing up in the sled. Mr. Coy was stunned to see who this other person was. It was Ret!

  CHAPTER 11

  A CRASH COURSE IN LIFE

  The start of the new school year helped establish a sense of normalcy after what had been a very eventful summer. A few days after the reunion with Jaret, the lost-and-found father returned to the Deep. It wasn’t the family’s preferred choice, of course, but Jaret convinced them it was better for everyone if he pretended to still work for Lye, at least for now. Jaret knew the evil lord would hunt him down if he were to disappear, which would especially endanger Pauline and Ana. He promised to come back and visit whenever he could sneak away. Jaret exchanged extra-long hugs with his wife and daughter before departing.

  These days, there was a noticeable difference in the school spirit at Tybee High, not on account of pep rallies but because of the new principal on campus. Despite a thorough search for Stone, the school board had been unable to track him down, so, on the eve of the new school year, they hired his replacement: Ms. Brown, a delightful woman who was as nondramatic as her name. A lifelong educator, she was an older lady who had never married but found great joy in being a caretaker of her students. Compared to her forerunner, Ms. Brown was a breath of fresh air, and no one seemed happier than her assistant, Mr. Kirkpatrick.

  For Paige and Ana, junior year would be their toughest yet. Each of their schedules listed plenty of rigorous courses that were sure to challenge their minds and strengthen their preparation for college. Ana, who had an exponential distaste for math, sought help in this subject from Paige, while Paige was aided by Ana in the realm of, what she called, more practical things.