by C. W. Trisef
“Of course there’s no element up here!” Lye continued to rant. “There’s no land up here—no continent. This isn’t even real ground,” he booed, stomping on the solid floor of ice. “The elements hide themselves deep inside the earth, not the ocean!” Thoroughly miffed, Lye leaned against the handlebars to contemplate his next move. He sighed, “This was so much easier with the real Ret.”
With the drama benched, Thorne relinquished the lens. Finding it free, Mo took a turn.
After a few minutes, Mo said with uneasiness, “Uh, I think he sees us.”
“What?” Coy asked incredulously.
“He hasn’t taken his eyes off of us for a few minutes now,” said Mo.
It was true. Lye had noticed the dorsal fin a long time ago, but, in his excitement upon arriving at the North Pole, he hadn’t given it much thought, assuming it was nothing more than a whale. But as he was sitting on his sled, still groping to find anything out of the ordinary that might be a clue to finding the next element, he was growing more suspicious of the lone fin with each passing minute. He realized the fin hadn’t moved in a long time. In fact, he had never heard or seen the whale come up for air. What’s more, he thought it strange to find a whale so far north, especially alone. Perhaps it was lost or stranded. Or, as Lye concluded, it was dead.
“Should we leave?” Thorne asked, his voice a worried whisper.
“Hold on,” Coy instructed, watching for Lye’s next move, hoping he would just look away.
Knowing the carcass would provide a hearty meal for his dogs before embarking on the long journey back to land, Lye decided to reel in the dead animal and serve it up on an icy platter. He gathered the water around the whale and lifted it out of the ocean like a giant raindrop. The former silence and stillness of the desolate Arctic was ruined by the sound of great slabs of ice breaking and crashing. The dogs sprang up in alarm as they felt the floor shake. Lye moved the bubble to the side and then set it on an intact section of ice, which cracked slightly but held together despite the heavy load.
The setting inside the submarine was a bit shaken up. Coy and Thorne were gripping their seats with white-knuckled hands, and Mo had done a face plant into the eyespot’s window.
“Nobody move,” Coy breathed with uncharacteristic caution.
Lye studied his catch. Its exterior was coarse and plated, not smooth and velvety as he thought a killer whale’s skin ought to have been. He stepped forward for a closer inspection. He could see sheets of metal and rows of bolts. He stopped near the nose and tapped on it, which was like knocking on a tin roof. With growing distrust, he knelt down and wiped the frost from a portion of the eyespot, where he found Mo’s face smashed against the window. Mo fluttered his fingers to politely wave at the stranger. Lye’s suspicions were confirmed: Shamu was a sham.
Knowing his secret was shattered, Mr. Coy entered defense mode. A panel under each pectoral fin slid open, exposing the barrel of a machine gun. The firearms erupted in shots, swinging back and forth in a half-circle motion, the bullets creating wide arcs of divots that were purposely perforating the ice sheet. At the same time, a large torch at the killer whale’s mouth began belching forth flames, quickly melting the ice all around it.
Though not Coy’s target, Lye ran for cover, dashing back to his sled to assess the situation. He had just made it back when, as Mr. Coy had hoped, the battered and melted ice around the submarine gave way, returning the sub to the sea. Coy threw the controls into overdrive and took off.
Lye didn’t take kindly to spies (besides his own, of course). Although he didn’t know who these snoopers were, he feared they had seen too much, especially considering their quick getaway. Although he preferred to keep his enemies alive so he could ruin their lives and feed off their misery, sometimes it was easier just to eliminate them and move on, especially when, as in this case, the public would simply ascribe their disappearance to being “lost at sea.”
The first step in the execution of the fugitives was to halt their escape. Standing a few steps from his sled, Lye grasped his cane with both hands, raised it high above his head, and then jammed it into the ice. He sent a tremendous bolt of electricity into the icy ocean waters, letting the power flow for a good while. Although his view of the ocean was blocked, Lye could feel the electricity surging far and wide throughout the water, being conducted by the ions of dissolved salts.
It made for quite a surreal sight under the water, with several auxiliary bolts branching out from the main one.
“Whoa!” Thorne shouted upon seeing the ocean light up behind them.
“That can’t be good,” Coy assessed, maintaining his usual collectedness.
“What?” Thorne wondered. “What is it?”
“The old man’s cane is some kind of superconductor of electricity,” Coy explained. “I don’t fully understand it; I just try to avoid it.”
“I can see why,” Thorne remarked.
It didn’t take long for the fleeing submarine to get caught in the chaos. First, the lights inside the sub began to flicker. Then, when the overwhelmingly metallic sub got struck by a bolt, the power completely died, and the sub went pitch black.
“Ah!” Mo screamed like a little girl.
A moment later, the backup batteries kicked in, restoring the power but at a much lower level.
“What’s going on?” Thorne cried out.
“Where are my engineering students?” Coy bellowed in the dimness.
“We’re here!” came their immediate replies.
“I need you to inspect the circuitry,” Coy ordered. “Check the breakers, the fuses, the wires—whatever the problem is, fix it. And fix it fast. We don’t have much time.”
“Yes, sir!”
“We don’t have much time?” Thorne asked.
“The backup batteries are mostly to keep us from sinking and being crushed to death,” Coy answered. Mo swallowed hard. “Besides, I don’t think the old lightning striker’s done with us yet.”
And he wasn’t. Lye freed his cane from the ice, pointed the top low to the ground, and began to move it in small circles. The sound of sloshing could be heard as the ocean below began to crash against the ice under his feet. The sled dogs, sensing some kind of disturbance, huddled together to whimper. Lye gradually enlarged the circles he was tracing in the air. Soon, water could be seen splashing up through the leads in the surrounding area. Lye was creating a massive whirlpool.
Stalled in the sea, the submarine was powerless against the swirling waters, getting sucked in like a bath toy toward a tub’s drain. The crew members could feel themselves making a never-ending turn as they were dragged farther and farther toward the churning center. Soon, they were spinning on the inside of the funnel. Most of the ice at the top had broken away, now that it had no water beneath it, but Lye had saved one section, allowing him to look over his creation and continue to stir it as a witch would mix her cauldron.
“Got any ideas, Coy?” Thorne said, trying not to panic as he held onto his chair as if on a carnival ride.
“I’m thinking,” said Coy calmly, scanning the many buttons before him.
“They didn’t train us for anything like this in the Navy,” Thorne commented.
Mr. Coy settled on the harpoon button. He reasoned it might just work. He’d only have one shot but only if his students got the power reengaged.
“Come on…,” Coy whispered encouragingly as if the students could hear him, hoping to see the power gauge come alive.
Lye smiled to see the submarine swirling helplessly deeper and deeper into the ocean. He wondered if he should let it keep sinking and thereby be crushed by the pressure or if he should just get on with it and blow them to bits now.
“Come on…,” Coy said with more anxiousness, his finger poised to push the harpoon button.
There was little room for error, for Lye had decided to cut to the chase and blast his foes to smithereens. From his icy perch above the whirlpool, he raised his cane into the air, preparing
to strike the sub with a deadly bolt.
But the students came through. Full power was restored just in the nick of time.
“Yes!” Coy cheered, smashing his button of choice. A large, steel harpoon shot from the side of the sub, not out across the empty center of the whirlpool but away from it in the other direction. Mr. Coy hoped the harpoon had enough line to reach the ice that had remained intact around the periphery. It did. As soon as it became lodged in the ice, Mr. Coy reeled the sub in, pulling it free from its whirling doom.
Once they reached the open sea and could overpower the force of the whirlpool, the crew cheered, celebrating their miraculous escape.
“Only Ben Coy saves a whale with a harpoon,” Thorne said merrily, slapping his friend on the back. Coy breathed a sigh of relief himself.
But it was all premature. Lye, the world’s sorest loser, was willing to move ocean and earth to get his way.
The mood in the submarine had relaxed considerably, everyone a bit relieved to be heading home. They were coming up on Canada’s Queen Elizabeth Islands, the first landmasses after being at sea for many days. They were preparing to navigate through the islands when unsettling signs of unusualness returned. The sub had not changed its depth, but the water level above them was getting lower and lower. There was also a growing sense of drag working against them, slowing their pace.
Like before, it was the work of Lye. He had harnessed the enormous kinetic energy of his whirlpool and transformed it into a gigantic wave, with him and his dogsled fixed on a piece of ice, riding it like a surfer. It was truly a colossal sight, so big that it was draining the water in front of it to feed itself.
“That man has got to be, without a doubt,” Thorne marveled, “the most stubborn old guy I have ever seen. What’s your plan, Coy?”
“I’m open to suggestions,” said Coy, feeling like a parent whose child always comes with problems but never any solutions.
“Can this thing fly?” Thorne proposed.
“You know, Thorne,” Coy returned, “that’s the one thing this puppy doesn’t do. Any other suggestions?”
“You could try Fury and Hecla,” Mo spoke up. Coy and Thorne exchanged puzzled glances. “The Fury and Hecla Strait,” Mo explained, matter-of-factly. “It’s a narrow channel that leads to Hudson Bay. A wave that big would never make it through.”
“Mo, you’re a genius!” Coy said happily, liking the idea. “I’m glad you’re here.”
Instead of heading east to use the much wider waterway into Baffin Bay, Mr. Coy took the submarine west toward the much smaller Fury and Hecla Strait. Lye followed in hot pursuit, his wave swelling larger every minute. It was a monster, consuming the water in its path and using it to add to its stature, leaving a trail of destruction in its wake as it crashed into and washed over the uninhabited landforms. The sea level continued to drop in the trough at the foot of the wave, forcing the sub to sink deeper to keep from being exposed.
“There it is!” Mo pointed, seeing the narrow opening of the strait. The water in the strait was shrinking fast, so much so that the submarine threatened to scrape the bottom. They could see the naked sides of the strait, exposed by the receding tide.
“Thorne, do you see that red button over there,” Coy said, “the one under the words lateral torpedoes?” Thorne said he did, showing sudden enthusiasm. “When I give the word, I need you push that button as fast as you can.”
“With pleasure,” Thorne grinned, cracking his knuckles.
Seeing the approaching strait and sensing a plan, Lye decided to make his move. He began to strike the water with lightning, lighting it up in parts to learn the exact location of the meddlesome submarine he wished to destroy.
“Ready…,” Coy said, Thorne’s trigger finger at the ready. Then, as soon as they crossed into the strait, Coy yelled, “Fire!”
Thorne pummeled the button, launching a barrage of torpedoes from the sides of the submarine. They shot out laterally across the strait and exploded into its bare sides, which had become towering cliffs of mud now that the water level was so low. With each detonation, more and more sections of the hillside collapsed, initiating a series of landslides on both sides of the strait. By the time the sub made it through to the other side, they had turned the strait into a wave-breaking shoal.
As if running ashore, Lye’s tsunami collapsed. With no more water to funnel into itself, the base collided into the mudbank and fell to pieces. In a great garbled mess, the wave crashed onto the strait, swallowing the ice floe and engulfing Lye and his sled in a quagmire of dirt and debris.
Upon exiting the strait, the submarine passed into the large Foxe Basin en route to the even larger Hudson Bay. From the safety of the depths below, they watched the muddy remnants of the fallen wave flow out over the surface. When they did not see Lye emerge from the aftermath, the true celebrating commenced and continued all the way home.
The same could not be said for Lye, however. The victorious submarine was long gone by the time Lye staggered to shore, dragging the clone behind him. Exhausted, the elderly man collapsed on the ground. With shaky fingers, he reached inside his robe and retrieved a small flask, which he opened and pressed to his lips. He took a few gulps and immediately sprang back to life.
Only two of the ten dogs survived. The wooden sled was mangled but also floated to safety, washing up several yards away. Lye made do with what he had, regrouping his reduced team, which was his only mode of transportation. He had other, more efficient ways of getting around, but not when he had the dead weight of the clone to lug around.
Night was coming on. Lye let the dogs roam the vicinity to scrounge up a meal while he sat down next to his clone, pondering his next move.
Lye was losing his touch. He had fallen on hard times recently. It all started with the destruction of his Vault—his entire life savings, gone in a flash. Ore had been the most expensive element yet, and, for the first time in thousands of years, he was in need of cash. And it was all downhill from there. Not long after losing the Vault, Stone abandoned him, leaving him understaffed, and then Ret disappeared, forcing him into the business of collections. Moreover, when you factor in the events of the day—his Arctic vacation a total bust, getting outsmarted by a phony whale (twice), eating it big-time on the world’s tallest wave, the subsequent mud bath (talk about dire straits), not to mention eight dead dogs (man’s best friend, you know)—heck, if Lye wasn’t the worst person on earth, you might be tempted to feel sorry for the guy.
He certainly wasn’t getting any sympathy from the clone. Lye wondered what he was going to do with the almost worthless and completely unintelligible mass of cells. Thus far, it had been about as useful to him as a department store mannequin. But the clone was about to redeem itself.
All of a sudden, the clone came to life. Without receiving any help from Lye, it rose to its feet. Startled, Lye looked to see what was going on. Instead of there being sparks of electricity in the clone’s eyes, there was a stream of green light running through them. Standing still, the clone had its head cocked upwards, as if looking to the sky, prompting Lye to do likewise. There, in the darkening sky, Lye could see the initial bands of the Northern Lights. He was well aware of the aurora, but he had never before seen the clone come to life by itself.
Suspecting a connection between lights and clone, Lye eagerly inspected the scar. The stationary barb was on the bottom of the circle, pointing south as always. However, the other barb—the moveable one—was on the top, pointing north, which confused Lye since the clone wasn’t facing north at the moment. He moved the clone in all directions, watching for what effect this might have on the moveable barb, but it never changed. With its pennant, the north barb looked like a firmly-planted flag, officially marking the Northern Lights as the right spot. And if that was what the north barb meant, then the south barb clearly pertained to the Southern Lights in Antarctica. A satisfied smile curled Lye’s pale, thin lips: now he was on to something.
Just then, as if comin
g into consciousness on its own wasn’t enough, the clone started to walk away. Amazed by his clone’s newfound zest for life, Lye followed after it. He quickly called the dogs back, harnessed them to the sled, and gladly let his clone lead the way.
The trek started off slow. The clone walked at a steady but unhurried pace. Except for a random berm or occasional patch of grass, the landscape was mostly flat and overwhelmingly barren, allowing the clone to blaze its trail without obstruction.
The clone’s pace gradually quickened until it started to run. As the night wore on, the deserted wilderness became enveloped in profound darkness, which caused the Northern Lights to shine ever brighter, casting a dim but welcome gleam on the otherwise obscure ground. The clone maintained a southwest direction. It was running toward the lights, following the dancing arc as a treasure hunter might seek out the end of a rainbow.
Lye didn’t have much time to analyze the lights, however, for he was too busy trying to keep up with his clone. There was neither snow nor ice on the ground, making for a rough ride on the dogsled. Occasionally, they would come to a small lake or pond, the waters of which Lye would part to allow him and his guide to pass through on dry ground without abatement.
With the lights getting closer and shining brighter, the clone’s speed grew in intensity until it entered a full sprint. Unlike the world’s greatest athletes, the clone never stopped. It never took a break to rest or get a drink. It didn’t need to, for it was drawing its energy from the energy in the sky. All it required was a little solar wind. The lights’ power was the clone’s power, and the stronger they shined, the faster it ran.
