by David Klass
Terrified dog yowl all the way down: YAAAAAAAAAAAAA!
I follow in the wake of the one-dog avalanche. Make it to the bottom. Water lapping against bank. Gisco? Where are you?
I’ll get you back for that. Don’t think I won’t. I’m part bloodhound. You can’t hide from me.
You’re the one who’s hiding. Where are you?
Dead. I’m dead and this must be dog heaven. But what would a miserable human like you be doing in dog heaven?
I spot thrashing dog paws. He’s upside down with his head and snout wedged deep in what looks like the entry hole to a rodent’s nest, dug into the mud bank.
I grab hold of his hind legs and tug.
Ouch! What are you doing?
Trying to pull you out.
Gently, fool. A canine’s anatomy is like a finely calibrated Swiss watch.
Beams of light sweep over us. Drone of motorcycles above us. The Dark Army! Atop the mud cliff.
Some of them slide down after us while others raise weapons.
I yank dog’s hind legs again, with all my strength. Either I’ll rip Gisco out of hole or I’ll dismember him.
There’s a loud sound of reverse suction, as if a giant bottle of champagne has just been uncorked. Gisco pops loose from the hole and his backward momentum carries him toward the river. I’m still gripping his legs. We splash together into the Hudson, as the Dark Army’s laser beams melt the mud bank we were just standing on.
River dark and cold. Strong current catches us. Where are you, Gisco?
Out here. They’re coming. Hurry.
Ponderous pooch may not be built for distance running, but he sure can swim. Buoyant as a manatee. Can dive like a walrus. His head pops out of the river, and he looks like a grizzly bear happily hunting salmon in an Alaskan river. Come on, slowpoke!
Motorcycles reach river. I glance back and see hideous forms massing on the bank. Rabid red eyes search the surface. Flared nostrils sniff for our scent. Sharp teeth glint in the moonlight. Genetically manipulated mutants and hellishly engineered cyborgs from a future gone mad.
Some of them shine spotlights over the dark waves and eddies. Others plunge into the water and swim blindly into the darkness after us. Still others are busy launching what looks like a racing boat.
I’m fifty feet from shore. Fighting the current with every stroke. The cold saps my strength.
Just a little farther Gisco is waiting for me, treading water around a dilapidated yellow dinghy.
That’s your boat?
Yes, help me in. Dogs can’t climb.
What good will getting on board do us? They’re coming in a speedboat. How are we going to escape them by trying to row away in that pathetic wreck?
You ask too many questions. It’s always been one of your problems. Now shut up and help me in.
I heave dog into boat. Not an easy thing to do. He weighs a ton, and his wet coat doesn’t exactly help.
I grab the side of the boat and clamber up and over. Tumble to floor of dinghy. Shivering. Exhausted. But none of that will matter. Because I can see the speedboat setting off from shore. Powerful engine launches them forward like a rocket. Searchlight flickers over river. Shadowy shapes are hunched near the front, weapons at the ready.
Gisco, we should dive back into the river. Swim for shore. It’s our only chance.
It’s no chance. We’ll never make it.
But they’ve seen us. They’re coming! They’re much faster than we are!
So what? Let them come. Damn the torpedoes. Full speed ahead. Dog stands at prow of boat and raises one paw, striking a heroic pose, like Nelson at Trafalgar. Right foreleg waves in the air, as if wielding an invisible sword.
No, Gisco’s not fencing with shadows. He’s operating what looks like a miniature control panel! Using his paws and when necessary his nose.
There’s a strange sound, like a long zipper opening.
A transparent bubble encircles the top of our dinghy. Don’t ask me where it came from. It appears overhead and clicks tightly shut.
I can see through it, to the stars above. This glass dome is nifty, but I very much doubt that it’s going to save us from a laser attack.
And that’s exactly what’s coming. Because they’ve spotted us! The speedboat’s spotlight pinions us. We’re bathed in brilliant white-silver.
The sleek racing craft roars in our direction.
Gisco! You’ve trapped us in our own pathetic wreck of a boat. Now we can’t even swim for it. There’s no possible way out of this.
Oh yes there is. One very good way.
Lasers sizzle the water to steam all around us. We’ll be vaporized any second. Fried like fish and chips. Or, rather, like dog and boy and chips.
Would you mind sharing it with me? What’s our one good way out of this mess?
Down.
8
Gisco, what do you mean “down”? They’re going to laser us into subatomic particles at any second. If you have a plan, this would be a good time to …
Hold on.
Hold on to what?
A red button flashes on the small control panel. Gisco punches it decisively with his snout. Voilà!
And nothing happens.
Button keeps flashing.
Dog punches it again, with less certainty. Showtime!
No show. Nothing at all happens.
Gisco? We only have a few seconds … !
Strange. It must be low on power. a Either that or it doesn’t like dogs. Third time’s the charm. He hits it a final time. Tries to sound confident, but he’s not fooling anyone. Let ’er rip!
Nothing rips. Nothing even frays. There’s a slight reddish glow, but that’s it. My hopes sink with every second. Dog has trapped us in floating frying pan with a glass lid, and we’re about to be put on laser burner.
Wait a minute, hold on a second, it’s not my hopes that are sinking, it’s our dinghy!
Now the water is up to the oarlocks, now it’s above the sides of the boat but it’s not splashing in, it’s washing against the transparent bubble as we slowly descend.
Our pursuers in the speedboat figure out what’s happening. Fire a desperate fusillade at us.
Orange-yellow laser beams fork down through the water like the tentacles of a giant jellyfish. They stab all around us. But they don’t score a direct hit.
And then it’s too late.
Because the water lapping at the top of the bubble comes together to form a liquid ceiling above our heads, and the stars disappear.
We’re under the dark surface of the Hudson River. Sinking into an inky abyss.
Gisco, what the hell are you up to?
Weren’t you complaining a few seconds ago about my pathetic little wreck of a boat? It just saved your life.
Okay. I admit it’s a doozy of a dinghy. But what exactly is it and where did you get it? Did you bring it from the future?
No, I bought it at Kmart.
Spare me the canine sarcasm.
Spare me the human third degree. Enough questions. We got away.
That’s the good news.
What’s the bad news?
They saw how we gave them the slip. They’ll start sweeping the river bottom for us, with every surveillance technique at their disposal. And …
And?
We’re low on power.
Great. Can’t we recharge?
I don’t know. I’m not an engineer.
How far can we go with what we have?
Hopefully, far enough to get away.
And then we’ll have to surface?
Unless we develop gills.
And they’ll be waiting for us, right? I escaped downriver last time. They won’t let that happen again. This time they’ll be sitting around every bend of the river between here and Manhattan. They’ll spot us when we come up for air. Fish us out, gut us, and fillet us. Is that what you’re worried about?
You put it well, if a bit too vividly.
What do you plan on doin
g about it?
We’ll confound them. Instead of going downriver to Manhattan, we’ll do the unexpected. Sail upriver!
That’s your plan? We’re going to try to escape by heading inland? That may just be the stupidest thing I ever heard. There’s no outlet to the ocean, there are no population centers to hide in, we’ll be easy to track …
Hold on, Jack.
Why?
We’re about to hit bottom. Don’t worry, it’ll probably be a nice and gentle landing on soft river mud.
Jarring, scraping impact. Dinghy comes to a grinding stop. We are motionless in darkness. Mired in what I assume is murky river bottom.
I’m worried, dog. I’m very worried. “Extremely” would not be too strong a word. We’re stuck at the bottom of a river. Do you know how to make this thing move?
Of course. That is, I believe so. Or perhaps I should phrase it another way: I can eliminate several methods of steering and propulsion which definitely will not work, but sadly they include all the alternatives that I thought would work, leaving us with …
Not a clue.
Indeed. But there’s no reason to panic. Hard times require clear minds, as my uncle used to say, before he was torn to pieces by a pack of mutant wolves after fleeing in blind panic right into a trap they had set—
Enough, Gisco. More than enough. Before we find a way to extricate ourselves from this nautical nightmare, I want you to tell me exactly what’s going on. What happened when you vanished into thin air above the Atlantic? Is Eko still alive, too? Why is the Dark Army chasing us again? And, most important, how did P.J. get involved in this mess?
Sure, the dog responds. Good questions. Superb, in fact. Unfortunately I can’t answer any of them right now.
Don’t be evasive, Gisco. I’ll skin you for a quilt.
It’s not that I don’t want to answer your questions. The problem is that I’m not feeling well.
You seemed fine when you sprinted out of that wrecked police car. And you just swam like an otter.
A burst of dog adrenaline. But I believe that when you crashed that police car I sustained an injury. Or perhaps it was a lucky shot from one of their guns. Yes, I believe I was hit. Now I seem to be fading out, like a candle in the wind. You’re going to have to take over, Jack. I know you can do it. You are our beacon of hope.
Take over what? Why do you need a beacon of hope? We saved the oceans, right? Gisco, I can’t work this thing.
Find a way. We’re running out of power. I always liked the song “We all live in a yellow submarine,” but I have no desire to die in one. Now I need to sleep.
Dog, don’t do this to me.
Gisco’s telepathic voice weakens. If I never wake, into the hands of the Great Dog God I commend my soul.
Gisco? You useless coward. Stop praying to the Great Dog God, get back up, and help me!
I grab him. Yuck. He’s covered in muck.
No, wait. That’s not slime. It’s warm and smells salty. It’s blood! Gisco really is seriously injured!
I stroke his head very gently. He’s out cold.
It’s dark and very quiet. I can hear his shallow canine respiration. Poor fellow.
I’m all alone. At the bottom of a river. With a dying dog. In a futuristic submarine that’s rapidly losing power. What could possibly be worse?
As if in answer, I hear something. A faint, cheerful musical whisper. Buzz, buzz.
Maybe it’s an insect that will keep me company as I try to figure a way out of this. A friendly firefly. A lighthearted ladybug. Buzz, buzz, buzz.
No, wait, not buzz, buzz, buzz.
Drip, drip, drip.
Water! Dripping from the bubble ceiling.
We’ve got a leak!
9
I grew up near the Hudson. Went swimming in it. Fished in it. Used to make out with P.J. in a car parked high above a scenic river lookout. But I never wanted to die in it, or rather under it. Never had a desire to personally contribute to the sediment on the river bottom.
Dark sub. Unconscious canine. Tons of water above us, slowly leaking into craft. All in all, not such a great situation.
I step over prone Gisco to miniature control panel. Always been good with new technologies. Pick up new computer skills the way babies catch the sniffles in winter. Expose me to something once and I’ve got the hang of it forever.
But this isn’t like any computer I’ve ever seen before. And whoever put this dinghy together didn’t bother to stick an operating manual in the glove compartment.
In the light of the flashing red button I see a few weird symbols on the panel that might as well be Egyptian hieroglyphics. A couple of funky-looking dials. Nothing remotely like a screen. How can I take over the steering of this submarine if I can’t read the controls or see an outward projection of the thinking processes taking place inside?
Short answer: I can’t.
Drip, drip, drip. Leak getting worse fast.
Not much time. Better try to think out of the box. But I’m in a box, under a river, stuck in mud.
I sit. Force myself to calm down. Breathe regularly. Okay. Stop thinking like a Mac user from the twenty-first century. I need to discard every assumption I have about computers. Because if this thing is from a thousand years hence, the odds are that nothing I know is going to help.
I’ve read books and articles speculating about what the future of artificial intelligence will be. The big disagreements seem to be about whether computers will ever become conscious. But whether they achieve consciousness or not, everyone seems to agree that in the far future the relationship between humans and machines will be less and less human-directed, and more and more of a collaboration.
So maybe I should stop trying to take over the steering of this sub. Because maybe the sub doesn’t need me to grasp a steering wheel, or pull a rudder.
That’s an old way of thinking.
This sub is probably fully capable of freeing itself from the river bottom and steering us to safety. What it probably needs is guidance and direction, not operation.
But how do I direct it? What is the mechanism of establishing collaboration? I’ve never seen it done.
Wait a minute. Maybe that’s not true.
I remember Eko at our beach house on the Outer Banks. Every time we came home, she would check a device in the living room that measured the threat level to our security. It was a blue cube. She wouldn’t say anything to it, or turn any dials. It would bathe her in a bluish glow. And when the glow faded, she would have her answer.
I spread my hands on either side of the control panel. Come on. Turn on. Bathe me in some kind of glow.
Nothing happens.
I address it telepathically. Hello? How are you today, Sub? Can you read me? Is any of this registering?
No response, audible or telepathic. Nada.
Drip, drip, splash, splash. The water is starting to stream in, in a widening rivulet.
I’m frustrated, furious, and very scared, staring at the control panel with its blinking red button.
That’s the button Gisco kept pushing to get us going. It’s what brought us down here, to the river bottom. I assumed it must be the “down” button.
But it’s unique. The only blinking button on the panel. There’s no “up” button.
So what if it has nothing at all to do with steering the sub? What if it’s actually the way in?
When Gisco was trying to get us to move, he kept hitting it. He punched it three times with his snout before it finally responded and gave off a reddish glow.
The cube that Eko used to consult in the beach house on the Outer Banks gave off a similar, bluish glow. First she would gently stroke it, as if conjuring it to life, and then spread her hands to either side and commune with it.
Maybe these things don’t need to have a key turned in their ignitions, or a switch flicked on. Perhaps what they need is brief physical contact with the person they’re about to collaborate with. Maybe in order to get on the correct w
avelength, they must establish the right chemical or electromagnetic bond. Gisco said in frustration that this sub didn’t like dogs. Maybe he was right. Perhaps touching the panel gives the sub a chance to scan a user’s body chemicals down to his DNA and establish the necessary link. Possibly it’s not programmed for dogs.
I get to my feet. The trickle of water splashing onto the floor of the dinghy has increased to an ominous little waterfall. Any second the tons of water above us may crack apart the bubble ceiling, and the river will force its way into this sub like Niagara Falls prying open a tin can.
I touch the red button. Hi. Jack Danielson here. I’d like to establish a collaboration. We have a little leak problem to fix. Then we need to get off the river bottom and head north. Do you read me? Can you answer?
Nothing.
No, not nothing. A faint reddish glow emanates from the panel. But no words come back at me. No operating instructions are projected with holographs.
A faint reddish glow is cheerful enough, but how is it going to get me out of this mess?
Wait a minute. Something has changed. I can still hear Gisco’s shallow breaths, but beyond that, the tiny sub is now completely silent.
No more splash, splash, splash. The leak has stopped.
Did you do that, Yellow Submarine? What next?
No answer. Just a flickering nimbus in the darkness.
I stop trying to talk to it telepathically. It clearly doesn’t have that ability. But, at the same time, it glowed after I touched it, and it stopped the leak when I asked it to, so it must be aware of me.
I put my hands into the center of the reddish flame. Try to open my mind to whatever’s reaching out to me.
A very strange thing happens.
10
I am Jack Danielson, standing before the control panel of a souped-up dinghy at the bottom of the Hudson River.
But I am also the dinghy. I am aware of the water all around, pressing down on me. I feel the darkness and the cold. I am weak from my ebbing power supply.
This is not the kind of back-and-forth telepathic contact I have with Gisco. It’s less about communication and more about a deep symbiotic sharing of knowledge and abilities for practical purposes.