Lighthouse Prometheus

By Alex Pierce

As The World Teeters On The Edge Of A New Dark Age Abyss One Man Dares Illuminate What Lies Beneath

Billionaire Michael Solaryn, owner of Hyperion Optics, has created a world altering technology he has code named, "Prometheus." He plans to install his invention on his own specially designed lighting towers around the globe. But first he must shakedown his prototype. Solaryn and his leaders establish a grueling seven-day testing schedule and choose as test site a derelict lighthouse along the Northern California coast near the town of Camelot

Camelot, hailed by the press as "America's First Holy City," is co-governed by conservative Reverend Martin Papen and postmodern liberal Mayor Dalton Fuchs. When a mysterious illness breaks out in the town during Solaryn's tests, its leaders blame him and his device.

With the future of his company hanging in the balance—as magnates of the world's largest shipping concerns nervously fidget awaiting results, with competitors hot on his heels and hundreds of millions of dollars in play—Michael Solaryn must succeed in his tests of Prometheus while dealing with the corrupt tyranny of a town thrown back into the Dark Ages, its leaders intent upon destroying his invention and having him and his VP of R&D, the woman he loves, thrown in prison.

Or killed.

He has seven days.

· Rejected by over 65 literary agents and 13 publishers
· Too provocative I was told—to both the traditional and the postmodern
· Now you, the reader, can decide for yourself

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Nov 27, 2020
• ISBN: 9781098346362

Book preview

The ragged relic and the antiquated precedent, the monk and the monarch, will molder together. ―Thomas Paine

Fix reason firmly in her seat and call to her tribunal every fact, every opinion. Question with boldness even the existence of a God; because, if there be one, He must more approve of the homage of reason, than that of blindfolded fear. ― Thomas Jefferson

Welcome to Your Not-Too-Distant Future

Why would a primarily conservative town elect a postmodern liberal government?

Why would the fundamentalist Reverend of the town’s church and the atheist mayor form a legal covenant to co-govern the town?

Why would the postmodern editor of the town’s newspaper and the leading postmodern professor from the nearby college approve of such an alliance?

And why would a billionaire industrialist choose a lighthouse near such town to test his new invention?

This is the story of one man’s quest to find the reason for a devotion as old as mankind.

Billionaire Michael Solaryn, owner of Hyperion Optics, has created a world altering technology he has code named, Prometheus. He plans to install his invention on his own specially designed lighting towers, but first he must shakedown his prototype.

These are the men that threaten Solaryn’s venture:

Reverend Martin Papen, whose ambition it is to reclaim for religion what it lost in the Renaissance and to make America great again in the eyes of the Lord

Mayor Dalton Fuchs, who seeks to convert humanity to his postmodern god, an inclusive god before which all men, diverse in biology but identical in mind, will kneel and worship in the perfect equality of conformity

Dr. Neal Isom-Bouchier, who—preaching a postmodern Genesis—fastidiously lobotomizes the minds of his students, leaving them emotion driven savages

Saul Kantsler, owner-publisher of the Camelot Register—the man to whom everything is nothing, inciting anyone in the hopes of destroying everyone

As tests proceed, Solaryn soon realizes the medieval and postmodern are fundamentally alike. Unless he can discover what lies beneath them—what dark dread animates them—he’ll not only fail in his endeavor, he and his leaders may not survive the week.

And mankind may not survive the 21st Century.

With the future of his company hanging in the balance, Michael Solaryn must succeed in his tests of Prometheus while dealing with the corrupt tyranny of a town thrown back into the Dark Ages, its leaders intent upon destroying his invention and having him thrown in prison.

Or killed.

He has seven days.

________________________________________

Lighthouse Prometheus combines the action of an adventure story with the mystery of a psychological—perhaps even a philosophical—thriller: One man’s quest to learn what lies beneath a devotion as old as mankind.

The theme of the novel is that religion and postmodernism are fundamentally alike. The main conflict, reason vs. supernaturalism, dramatizes how postmodernism’s politics is but religious dogma, which not only threatens everyone’s liberty, but also corrupts everyone’s thinking, endangering everyone’s life as well.

In memory of

_________

Alisa Zinov’yevna

© 2018 by Alex Pierce

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or medium by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without prior written permission from the copyright holder, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales, commercial concerns or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Cover © Philip Hart/Stocktrek Images

ISBN: 978-1-09-834636-2

THANK YOU

For your encouragement when I was just beginning, Cathy P.

For taking the time to read my rough draft and giving me your take, Edward P.

For reading my final draft and giving me your evaluation, Anna.

For your encouragement and steadfast optimism, Lisa.

For your patience and wisdom and strength, E.

For your expertise…and your kindness, Lee.

And, finally, to my proofreader and editor, Stewart: Your insights, advice and suggested pruning made my work better than it was.

CONTENTS

One: World of Tomorrow

Part I: Light-Bringer

Part II: Descent into Eden

Part III: The Idealists

Part IV: Virtuous Vices

Part V: Illumination

Two: The Two Foundations

Part I: Motives and Mechanism

Part II: Ideal Illusions

Part III: Sacred Superstitions

What Lies Beneath

Part I: Rage Against the Absolute

Part II: Earlier Than You Think

World of Tomorrow

Part I: Light-Bringer

1

"If God did exist, faith would be a sin."

Dazzled by the white-gold brilliance of the early morning sun, Reverend Stiles couldn’t distinguish the boy’s face. The boy had said it politely but absolutely, as a fact, like that of the sun rising behind him. He stood on the stone steps outside the church, Sunday services shortly ended, his slender form dwarfed by the iron gray Gothic mass looming before him, its granite blocks set in a grove of ancient oaks, immovable for almost two centuries while a metropolis had in deference been built around it.

His long-sleeved white dress shirt illuminated by the sun, the boy stood with his arms at his side—shoes shined, slacks creased, necktie properly knotted, posture straight—and waited patiently for the Reverend to respond.

Shifting his position so the sun wasn’t blinding him, Reverend Stiles saw the boy’s face was blank, save for an earnest attentiveness in his wide set ebony eyes. The eyes looked straight at Reverend Stiles. He’s not seeking an argument, thought the Reverend uneasily, he’s searching for an explanation.

Seeing hesitation in the minister’s expression, the young boy gently prodded him, asking softly,  Can you tell me then, why?

Reverend Stiles squinted back at him, his expression—like Apostle Peter in Rembrandt’s portrait—frozen by a haunting recollection. He knew the why the boy was asking; years ago, he’d asked himself that same why.

But I wasn’t nearly so young, he thought with astonishment. Dear Lord, this boy can’t be more than 10; and, he reflected with a jerk of recognition, already filled with the pride of Paul. 

Reverend Stiles started to say something and stopped. He looks, thought the Reverend, trying to shade his watery blue eyes from the sun’s glare, as if he thinks what he’s said is incontrovertible, like the world revolves or the Earth orbits the sun, and expects me to agree with him.

Nonetheless, moved by the child’s quiet certainty, for a split second the clergyman actually imagined a Universe without God. In the next split second he felt a soaring elation, as if he’d been held prisoner for half-a-century and had just been liberated. In the third split second, however, he mercilessly crushed this budding joy—this mutinous last bit of himself—under an avalanche of guilt and fear.

The boy’s mother, initially shocked speechless, regained her composure and, glaring down at her son from the height of her high heeled shoes, shook him by the arm and snapped, "Boy, hush your mouth! Turning to face the minister, her voice became a desperate plea of humiliation, Reverend Stiles, I am shamed to tears."

Don’t fret yourself, Aphelia, replied the Reverend, his smile forgiving her, her son and, with a resigned shrug, himself. He’s just a boy. As he grows older, he’ll develop faith in God.

But Reverend Stiles—

"Hush up, boy! Lord help me!"

He shall, sister, the minister assured her firmly, almost fervently. Trust in Him, and He shall.

"Young man, you’re coming’ with me," hissed his mother, and still clutching him by the arm, yanked her 10-year-old son down the steps of the old Queensborough church.

Regaining his balance at the bottom of the steps, the boy walked steadily on at his mother’s side. His arm still tight in her grip, they followed the old cracked concrete sidewalk that led away from the church, heading for the parking lot around the corner.

Looking over at him, shaking her head in disgust, she said in a low voice, almost as if to herself, "Papa! Papa put those thoughts in your head," and she released her hold.

Sparks of an emerald iridescence from a nearby yard caught the boy’s attention as several dragonflies—the devil’s darning needles older members of the congregation called them—darted and hovered amid sunbeam-pierced shadows and, smiling at a memory, the boy thanked his grandfather for doing so. Then, for about the thousandth time, he wished his grandfather were raising him, instead of this strange, fanciful woman beside him.

Yet his grandfather—who adored the child—never told him, God didn’t exist; never criticized those who had faith; in truth, never mentioned religion at all. He simply read to the boy—sitting on the edge of his grandson’s bed in the radiance of a reading lamp as two wide eyes looked out at him over the covers—and played what he called the Wondering Game.

He had started the game when the boy was four by wondering about the what of things; as the boy learned, the old man’s wonderings turned to the how of things; and, finally, to the why of things. The Wondering Game was his way of teaching his grandson to think for himself, to guide him along the path of reason. It was a path along which the boy had at first toddled, then walked, soon gaily skipped and, by age 10, happily dashed.

I wonder, the boy began one evening several months prior to his encounter with the Reverend, lying stretched out on his bed in his Zorro pajamas, elbow sunk into the pillow, head propped on his hand, coal-black eyes looking directly into his grandfather’s, why, if God made us reasoning people, He asks us to believe in Him based on feelings—on faith—instead of through reason?

Astonishment turning to pride, his grandfather looked at his young grandson’s face alit by the bedside lamp and replied, struggling to keep his voice steady, Mm, I wonder why, too.

His grandfather still in his thoughts, the boy slid into the car’s front seat next to his mother, who slammed her door shut in her frustration.

I should of known it’d come to this after I gave you your first Bible, she fumed, steering the car into traffic while the boy lowered his window to enjoy the cool October air.

Her son had treated the Holy Book—her gift to him on his seventh birthday—as a collection of myths, much like the book of Greek mythology his grandfather had read to him at bedtime when he was six. Except he found the Greek gods and heroes much more interesting and, in the case of Odysseus, far more inspiring. When his mother asked him his thoughts on the Bible a few weeks later—looming over her young son, arms folded, face somber yet eyes hopeful—he told her exactly that, coolly and courteously.

His mother continued her harangue as they traveled down Grand Avenue. Half-listening, the boy turned his mind to the question whose answer he’d hoped to elicit from the minister, the Why? behind the Why? he’d asked his grandfather: Why do people believe in religion?

When asked, his grandfather had slowly shaken his head and replied, I’ve never figured that one out, child, but it’s a question not many have had the courage to ask.

Unfortunately, the clergyman—whom the boy was certain had asked that question at least once in his life—wasn’t among those who had pursued an answer, instead burying his question forever beneath the rubbish of obedience and dread.

"You’ve never had a lick of faith!" said his mother with raised voice, and accelerated to make it through the intersection while the light was still yellow.

Beneath her anger was a desperation to reach her child and—the voices of her own childhood echoing in her mind—save him from eternal damnation in the Lake of Hell’s Fire. Those harsh voices had long ago drowned out the calm, reasoning voice of her father that had comforted her when as a child she’d woken up screaming in the middle of the night from a dreamt horror of flames and burning flesh.

Fear isn’t a reason for being good, sweetheart, he had told his daughter, sitting on the edge of her bed and gently cooling her fevered forehead with a damp washcloth. "It’s a reason for not being bad. All one need do, Aphelia, not to be bad is, well, nothing. But to be good, ah, my daughter, one must do something. It’s the difference between idleness and action; between stagnating and growing; between just being and choosing to live. Choose to live honorably, honestly, and no hell will ever touch you, my darling," he finished, and gently stroked her cheek, watching the fear vanish from her eyes.

Eventually, though, the voices blaring fire and brimstone won out. The woman’s fear for herself became permanent. Added to it now was fear for her son.

Stopping at a red light, she glanced over at him and said, her voice no longer reproachful but instead pleading, Faith can move mountains, son. Faith is the rock which our religion rests on.

That’s part of it, mused the boy. But faith is just the how, not the why. However, he admitted his mother was right. He hadn’t a lick of faith. Perhaps that’s why he’d always marveled at her own depth of belief; enough, he reflected, to fill the Vatican: attending prayer meetings throughout the week, Bible study classes Saturday mornings and, of course, Gospel singing every Sunday.

He knew it didn’t end there, either. She brought her religious fervor to her work, too, in the national government’s local office for human support services. Blessed are the poor, in character or income, for I shall find the means to fund them could have been her personal beatitude, he thought—rendering unto God by rendering unto the poor by rendering unto Caesar.

He put the issue aside to consider later, free from the distraction of his mother’s scolding, which had resumed anew as they approached a line of stores in a business district. The boy felt braced by the brisk autumn draft through his window, evoking in him a sense of adventure, and by the sight of the shops. Noticing some of the display windows, he realized that Halloween was only a week away, and he still lacked a costume.

Keeping his head facing forward while his mother went on with her lecture—pointless to upset her further, he reflected—the boy shot occasional glances out the corner of his eye at the shop windows passing by. A few blocks on he spied a Captain America outfit hanging behind the large, plate glass window of a mom and pop five-and-dime, one of the few left in Queens. Wonder what I could use as shield, he thought. Wait, I know!

Boy, began his mom and stopped, realizing her son wasn’t listening.

It isn’t as if he’s intending to be disrespectful, she thought, glancing over at him. He’s looking straight ahead, trying to listen, but he’s sneaking peeks at the store windows. He’s just bored listening to me. Bored hearing about the Almighty!

Lord, she began to herself; I need your help with my son. He isn’t a bad boy, Lord. Goodness knows he works hard in school, practically living at the library. And he does his chores around the house—well, except when he’s caught up in those goldarn experiments of his in the basement. He just needs to discover the power of faith, Lord. Please, please, Dear Jesus, help him.

If, she thought with some bitterness, his dadgum father’d help me just a pinch, just a bit … and letting her thoughts trail off, she turned into a middle class neighborhood of row houses and tiny green yards framed by wrought iron fences.

2

Looks likes ya made out likes one a them bandits, boy, said his father, leaning a hip against the kitchen stove, arms of molded muscles folded across a belly straining against buttons and belt.

His son smiled at him and nodded. He was inventorying on the kitchen counter his Halloween candy from the evening’s trick-or-treating. He still wore his Captain America costume, cowl pulled back, with his shield—a painted plastic trash can lid—leaned against a cabinet by his feet.

Mama let me stay out a bit later, since this is my last time trick-or-treating.

"Yor gittin’ older, boy. Soon ya’ll be workin’ fer a livin’. And yor daddy’ll be damned proud when ya are."

Yes sir.

His father suddenly let out a roar of laughter and, gasping between his guffaws, said, Yor mama tole me ‘bout last Sunday.

Yes sir.

Peers, boy, he remarked eyeing his son closely, even white teeth flashing a wide smile, "you jus’ might have ya some a yor daddy’s guts afta all."

I wonder, the boy thought later as he got ready for bed, if papa’s like granddad. His dad had always been a bit removed from the day-to-day raising of his son, believing it was his wife’s job to rear their only child. Hugs good night, the infrequent spanking when he was younger, occasionally playing catch in the back yard or hoops out front in the driveway—that had covered his father’s involvement up to now. I wonder, thought the boy as he slipped off to sleep.

A few evenings later, lying on the carpeted living room floor of their home doing some schoolwork, the boy looked up at his father in his easy chair, feet on ottoman, reading a newspaper and, tapping his pen against his cheek, asked, What do you think of religion, dad?

Buncha damned foolishness, replied his father evenly from behind the spread pages of the paper.

Why do people like it so much?

Down came the paper in a crumple.

Theys likes it, he replied with contempt, looking down at his son, ‘cause it tells ‘em all they gotta do is pray to git sometin’, ‘stead a sweatin’ for it. Prayin’s jus wishin’. Leaning forward, the newspaper bunched on his lap, he fixed his son with a piercing stare and added, Sweat’s only holy water ya need, boy, an’ that’s a fact."

His son gave him a small nod, and his father returned to his reading. Maybe he is like granddad, he thought. So he opened up to his father that night, telling him why he liked Captain America—because he reminds me of the Greek hero, Perseus—and about some of the things he was studying in school.

After a few nights of this, his father interrupted the boy in the middle of his enthusiastic retelling of solving a math problem. Sitting forward in his chair, planting his scuffed, brown leather work boots firmly on the rust red carpet, his father lifted his arm and pointed to the large, flexed bicep bulging from the rolled up sleeve of his denim work shirt.

"This is what gits things done, boy, not no book learnin’."

An employee of a unionized construction company contracted with the city, his father was as devoted to muscle as his mother was to religion. His personal maxim was along the lines of: We’re all in it together. As union rep he helped union muscle insure his company and the city were in it together whenever it came to any public building project.

Politely listening to his mother’s sermonizing and his father’s preaching, their only child—playing his grandfather’s wondering game—went on as he’d done since he was four: he pursued answers, rather than accept assertions.

In junior high, his quests ranged far and wide: from Archimedes and Eureka! to Brunelleschi and engineering to Alberti and linear perspective; he soared with the Wrights and the Four Forces and continued up into the cosmos with Copernicus, Brahe, Kepler and Galileo—his first real life hero.

Weekends found him at a local used bookstore in Elmhurst, which owner—she a retired librarian—allowed him to sit on a stool behind the counter and read in exchange for helping her keep the place organized and to find titles for customers during busy periods. There, with help from Pasteur, Priestley and Newton, the boy’s quest led him into the worlds of microbes, molecules and matter and forces.

Never one to take anyone’s word for it, he put what he read to test, running a variety of experiments in the basement of his home, which ran the gamut in high school, from Earth science and biology—"You get that ugly old cut up salamander out of this basement right now, boy! Lord give me strength."—to chemistry and physics.

Throughout, he observed the ill effects religion had had on science, particularly in the case of Galileo. He took note, too, of Pasteur’s battle with a particular religious viewpoint. Reading of that battle helped him make an important distinction in his mind early on. He noted how some men had believed, before Pasteur proved his germ theory, that illnesses were a sign of God’s retribution. He realized, recalling the sermons he’d sat through in church, that such ideas grew from the belief a deity, as creator of reality, closely governed existence and arranged men’s lives according to some holy plan. Thus, if any ill—or benefit—befell men, it was God’s Design. The distinction he made was between motives and mechanisms, between men’s choices and the mechanics of nature.

When he was 14, he observed that religious belief first hand in the person of his mother. He came home early one evening to find her staring horrified at a television news report about several towns along Tornado Alley struck by a line of tornadoes.

How dreadful, said his mother, adding with a sigh, but the Lord has His reasons, as she watched aerial shots on the television of twisted metal buildings in an industrial park, overturned buses beside the crumbling brick walls of an elementary school, a hospital whose roof had been torn off, and flattened homes marking the haphazard course of a tornado through a large subdivision.

The boy knew he oughtn’t, but the words seemed to form themselves in his mind and then to leap from his lips before he could stop them, Things that happen in nature only have causes, Momma, not reasons.

He expanded the scope of