Three Times Chosen

by Alan J. Garner

  They were descending more slowly, more cautiously, now fifty feet above and slightly astern of the downed aircraft. Falsely clinging to her first impression that the wreckage was the husk of an unidentifiable behemoth, Najoli felt revolted when Durgay suggested they take refuge in the beast's innards. “Hiding out in that thing's gut or getting consumed by a fish with an overbite. Either way I'm winding up in the belly of a monster,” she lamented.

  "Who's the piker now?” taunted the old Fisher, taking back the lead as fascination replaced fear, survivalism outweighed repulsion. Scanning their find more thoroughly, his biosonar confirmed that its “insides” were largely hollowed out, the immense gut practically devoid of obstructions.

  Dwarfed by the immensity of the contraption, the awed Cetari glided purposefully in for a closer inspection, Durgay searching for an access point into the shell wide enough to accommodate his mermale bulk, yet small enough to deny the following megashark entry.

  For its age, the plane wreck boasted a remarkable state of preservation, the damage sustained during its emergency splashdown notwithstanding. The starboard wing had sheered off when the airliner flipped over, cementing the doom of everyone onboard as seawater gushed through the rent in the sundered wing root metal, drowning all hope of escape. Firmly belted into their fabric seats, the hard wearing cloth long since mouldered into waterborne dust particles along with the corpses they cushioned, the trapped occupants suffocated secure in the knowledge that airline safety stayed paramount.

  That catastrophic wing loss had a secondary impact on the crashed plane. Swiftly dipping beneath the bubbling ocean, spiralling lazily downwards with deathly grace, the wreckage righted itself and made touchdown belly up on the ledge fated to be its final resting place. If the right hand wing had not tore off in the smash the starboard winglet would have scraped against the rock face, shunting the steadily sinking aircraft into the abyss, missing the shelf completely to descend unimpeded until the structural tolerance of the fuselage, stressed to withstand high velocity winds and subsonic g forces, would have compressed like folded up tinfoil on reaching crush depth. As it was the remains settled gently on the sill, undisturbed by the passing years. That is until two runaway merfolk intruded on the ancient crash site.

  Bafflingly putting the nagging shark threat on the backburner, Durgay loitered over the aft fuselage, his curiosity taken by the oddball tail appendage he construed gave the craft its means of propulsion. The only engine out of the three powerplants not to disintegrate when the plane somersaulted disastrously onto its back, the centreline truck-sized propfan sat skewiff atop its listing vertical pylon overhanging the trailing edge, twisted almost to breaking point by the force of smashing into the concrete-hard sea. Outwardly a mechanically backward blend of turbofan and turboprop, the unducted fan with its multiple contra-rotating blades was, in its heyday, an economical, if noisier, advancement over the dominating jets. Installed in a pusher, as opposed to the typical tractor, configuration, the doubled-bladed props, many bent at awkward angles from the collision between metal and marine, spanned twice the length of the enthralled Fisher, aeronautically parodying a ship's screws. Propellers functioned equally well in and out of water.

  Overanxiously glancing about, Najoli quipped, “Queer looking tail."

  Durgay took the subtle hint and instantly lost interest. Releasing her hand he moved off, the nervous mergirl copying him skimming above the central body contoured like a flattened bubble, looking for a way in. Finding no openings along the port side of the windowless, double-decked fuselage, the Fisher's disappointment greatened after he made for the gash at the starboard wing root, seeking entry there. Backed up against the precipice, the otherwise undistinguished crag sheering away upwards with vertiginous flatness, he investigated first with his echolocation, followed by an outstretched hand. While the ragged, elongated tear appeared deep enough to admit their tailed forms when scanned from above, the hopeful entrance was as unreachable as the sky; Durgay could scarcely fit his arm into the space between the immovable edifice and the curve of the airplane's hull that was so promisingly fractured. Peeved, he refused to give up.

  Floating toward the battered nose section, Durgay got pulled off course by an indiscernible eddy cutting the watery dark, the invisible tendrils of the diverting flow dragging him haphazardly across the expansive wing area opposite. Through the dim violet haze the decrepitude of the slowly corroding wing could be made out. The peeling skin turned out to be just that. The aluminium casing panels, alloyed with copper to produce a tensile strength better than the mildest grade of steel before coated with durable, creamy nanopaint, was progressively rusting and lifting off in great flakes like metallic dandruff that dirtied the black water. The underlying framework of aluminium-titanium alloy spars and ribs, exposed by the flaking sheets, shimmered dully silver tarnished with spots of contaminating orange-red. Even the hardiest metals eventually oxidised after prolonged immersion in saltwater.

  Thrashing free of the unseen current, Durgay worked his way along the broad leading edge of the dilapidating wing, glossing over an unopened emergency exit, intent on reaching the windowed cockpit. Further on, he was brought to a standstill outside the black space where the innermost of the three cabin doors had once sealed off the pressurised interior. Sensing rather than seeing the welcome opening, he called urgently to Najoli. She responded directly, zeroing in on his whistles, avoiding getting sidetracked by the fortuitous current.

  "Merladies first,” Durgay said, shoving Najoli through the rectangle of intangible inkiness before she could curse his good manners. He promptly ducked inside afterwards, confident the megashark would not be able to negotiate the six by six foot aperture.

  They found themselves in weightless pitch black. Combining their biosonar imaging skills, the paired Cetari quickly built up a three-dimensional map of their alien surrounds. Having entered a wide promenade that faithfully followed the curvature of the leading edge of the vast unbroken wing, an extraordinarily spacious cabin opened before them, bisected by a broad, central aisle utilised as a workspace by the bustling flight attendants who operated from the galleys located in the rearmost section of the fuselage ahead of the requisite toilets. Two partitioning walls divided rows of two and three abreast seats, the identicalness of the seating a nonconformity troubling to a people used to the asymmetry of nature. Moulded from the same thermoplastic resins and polymer laminates lining the contoured ceiling and sidewall panels, plus the clamshell luggage compartments overhead, the rigidly constructed chairs, impervious to rust, outlasted their degradable coverings and sitters.

  Whistling in alarm, Najoli shrilled, “There's something alive moving in here!” alerted by a discernible scuffling rising from the floor.

  Bringing his trident to bear, Durgay manoeuvred in front of the sharp-eared mergirl, his already taut nerves stretched to breaking point. Any further surprises today were most unwelcome. Honing in on the faint scrabbling sounds, he glided over the regimented seats like a scouring sea eagle. The disquieting noises emanated from the legroom spaces fronting the ergonomic sculptures of industrial strength plastic. Grabbing the stiff backbone of a denuded headrest to halt his drift, the tensed Fisher stabbed downwards, and snagged on his barbed spearheads a two-foot long shape wriggling angrily.

  Najoli's relief matched his when he pronounced, “It's only a lobster. Correction ... lobsters."

  A living floor of clawless spiny lobsters carpeted the cabin from wall to wall, the restless scratchings of the deepwater crustaceans magnified by the naked metal floor panels having long since shed their original wool pile.

  Durgay brightened. “At least we won't starve.” How could a merman be aware of the ghastly reputation tarnishing airline food!

  A blunt thud instantly gloomed him again. The Cetari did not need clairvoyance to know that the shadowing megashark, detecting the hideout of its prey, had come knocking. Precisely where the dogged hunter was trying to batter its way in was impossible to pinpoint, th
e rippling blackness confusing their senses. Suspenseful minutes dragged by before the water shuddered again from fish slamming against fuselage.

  Durgay moved decisively. With only one way in and one way out, their haven turned prison, the walls in danger of being breached. He could not have possibly known that the ramming megashark, for all its instinctive determination channelling the brute strength behind a primitive feeding impulse unchanged over 400 million of years of evolution, realistically stood no chance of biting through the upper fuselage plating; a fibreglass-reinforced aluminium composite formulated specifically to resist buckling, thereby improving the odds of making plane crashes survivable disasters. Pity it had not been leak proof as well. He reacted with his gut and retreated deeper into the roomy cabin, its dimensions exuding a comforting cave-like quality. Funnily enough, the Cetari sightseer cowered smack dab in the middle of tourist class.

  Panicked, Najoli fled back along the arcing promenade away from the riskily exposed passenger doorway. Cursing, Durgay abandoned his safer concealment and bolted after her, giving the entrance a wide berth. He caught her up at the bottom of the staircase leading to the upper deck housing first class.

  "This wasn't a living beast,” she surmised with a frightened intake of water. For her, the cavernous belly projected a distinctly artificial feel to its watertight uniformity. Durgay's muteness authenticated her guesswork. “What is it then?"

  "Sanctuary, for the moment.” Wrenching the impaled lobster off his trident and flicking the carcass aside, he coaxed her up the stairs away from the intermittent thudding plaguing the lower deck. “Let's continue exploring."

  First class, once showcasing the swanky opulence afforded by the wealthy, lounged stripped of all elegance, as austere as the economy seats below. When disaster struck, money and riches counted for nothing, the affluent and underprivileged made equal by the impartial touch of Death. Furniture was no different, reduced to a fundamental core, in this case bare plastic bones.

  With comfortably spaced seating for twenty-eight of the elitist minority, Durgay and Najoli found ample room to stretch out their tailed bodies in the uppermost story of the oval fuselage. Positioned dead ahead, the mausoleum flight deck, the steel antiterrorist door locking off the pilots” tomb long since rusted away, provided no glimpse into archaic machineries, the digital flight computers and corresponding CRT displays for the electronic instrumentation despoiled into shapeless junk by the corrosive seawater.

  What did catch the Fisher's curious eye were the unbroken cockpit windows displaying a faceted, purpled sea vista without. The transparent panes of triple acrylic glazing, suitably toughened but brittle and scratchable still, came through the rough and tumble crash with not a one shattering, though all crazed with hairline cracks. They were the only windows to be found on the entire plane. Aircraft designers controversially deleted fuselage windows as a cost and weight saving measure that served also to enhance structural rigidity, a move generating instant disfavour with a travelling public used to seeing scenery. Manufacturers appeased disgruntled fare-paying passengers by screening outside views on the uncluttered cabin walls from externally mounted cameras, the added expense of “windowseat projections” accepted in higher ticket prices.

  He felt Najoli at his side, her smaller, curvier body trembling. “Sharks terrify me,” she admitted again, the repetitive thumping reinforcing her qualms.

  Awkwardly placing a comforting arm about her quaking shoulders, Durgay said, “I'm not overly fond of merman-eating fish myself. But you've got to admire them."

  "What's admirable about murderous fish with teeth the size of my hand!"

  "Their purity.” Durgay's idolising smile was lost in the violet-blackened water. An underground, or rather underwater, religious sect devoted to undiluted shark adulation existed amongst the hardcore Fishers, despite the Merking's best efforts to stamp out the sacrilegious rival faith. But the former instructor was no cultist. Fundamentally agreeing with the essence of their worship revering the minimalist streamlining of the predacious fishes aesthetically proportioned bodies, matched only by their unremitting hunger, a chronic drive for food unencumbered by emotion or morals, his spiritual heart belonged to the tried and trusted Sea God shepherding the Cetari. “There's a perfection to them that can only have been shaped by Nupterus Himself."

  "Durgs, you can be amazingly deep sometimes."

  "I'm a lot deeper than I'd like to be,” he grumped, unhappy at the chillier, blacker water around them.

  The distant banging, muffled by the sound dampening effects of fibreglass skinning and cooler seawater, persisted. Najoli shuddered. “Are we going to survive this?"

  "Megajaws is bound to grow bored and give up."

  "I'm talking about later. What kind of life will we lead out in the open ocean chased by big fishes, while ourselves chasing littler fish?"

  "It's better than the alternative; dying or enslavement on Bounty Reef."

  "Castle Rock shouldn't have to fall to Landhopper aggression."

  For the first time ever in his adult life, Durgay, of his own accord, rebelled. “They condemned us. Their fate is no longer our concern."

  "You've changed your whistle!"

  "Maybe I've finally learnt to be selfish."

  Najoli cuddled him impulsively and mumbled into his chest, “The Cetari needn't die."

  Unbalanced by the wanton hug, he paid no heed to her muttering, preoccupied with her arousing closeness. Wondering if their companionship was progressing beyond platonic, Najoli furthered Durgay's confusion by pressing her quivering lips lingeringly against his. “I'm not sure this is appropriate...” he murmured.

  "Shut up and kiss me back,” she encouraged him.

  "I'm a virgin,” he grudgingly publicised.

  "Lucky for you I'm not.” Najoli clasped him to her tighter, urgency in her desirous clinch.

  They locked lips coyly, then vigorously as mutual passion flared. Their timid kiss strengthened, probing tongues entwining in an inner embrace, rising ardour competing to outdo each other. Durgay groped Najoli's breasts, jiggling with anticipation, his fumbling hands a dead giveaway of his inexperience. Pulling away, she placed her hands over his, guiding his unpractised touch back to her tingly bosom, showing him how best to gently knead her receptive mammaries in pleasing circular motions. Her groans of pleasure as he tenderly cupped and massaged her teensy boobs (anything more than a handful is a waste) escalated his excitement.

  Lowering his head, Durgay latched onto the nearest nipple, stiffly pink with arousal, and suckled like an infant, consoled on a primal level from being at the breast. The merman's stimulated tongue went to work again, furiously licking and teasing the hardened teat, before transferring his fixation to the forgotten boob. His needle teeth playfully nipped her dugs, Najoli's pleasure boosted by the mild pain sensation, her moans upping into the beginnings of screams of ecstasy.

  His mermanhood unstoppably on the rise, Durgay let loose his concealed weapon. In the interests of sleekness Cetari genitalia was tucked away internally, male and female physiology appropriately distinct. For the merwoman gender, her sex and excretory organs were conveniently tucked behind a single urogenital slit, while the mermale had his privates divided by a separate anus slit, guaranteeing enough storage space for his enviably huge organ.

  Durgay's penis emerged and unfurled, all shyness gone, swaying in the supporting water like a mesmerised cobra. Feeling the head of his cock brush excitedly against her tingling body, Najoli grasped the nosy shaft, sliding her expert hands along its fourteen-inch length. Durgay's turn to gasp gratifyingly, he threw his head back and revelled in her sensuous stroking of his engorged tool.

  Seemingly acting with a prehensile will all its own, guided by the contracting muscles at its base, his organ slid out of Najoli's grip, instinctively aiming for her vaginal slit—and missed. Frustration began deflating the novice lover as the second and third attempt failed too. Though procreation is the most natural impulse in the world, the
act itself amongst the higher organisms is learnt behaviour, and we all start off inept beginners. Giving her merman a helping hand, Najoli stroked his downhearted ardour, before guiding his reinvigorated penis into penetrating her internally moist passage. Squealing from the pleasurable insertion, her arms wrapping around his midriff where torso became tail, she arched her back as the grunting Fisher intuitively commenced his rhythmic pelvic thrusts.

  Precious few creatures in any of the Animal Kingdom realms, whether that be on land or in sea and air, copulated face to face. Birds were the absolute rarity, the honeyeater stitchbird the only known avian to sometimes mate this way. Amongst the evolutionary exalted primates the bonobo, a Congolese pygmy species of chimpanzee that substituted copious sex for aggressive tendencies, this position was favoured for one in three couplings. Bottlenose dolphins, equally licentious as the fornicating apes, enjoyed belly-to-belly coitus. For these two organically dissimilar, yet intelligently sophisticated mammals, coition went beyond the elementary urge to seed the future with their own inimitable genetic strains. Both species grouped in socially complex troops which used polygamous sex as an expressive outlet; the close-knit chimps to suppress their fractious behaviour, genital rubbing allaying violent squabbles over food and territory; while for the dolphins sexual interaction was superficially play-oriented, their intensive snout-to-genital touching not only a frisky precursor to courtship but a reinforcement of societal relations within the pod. No wonder the small whales had a permanent smile gracing their beaks!

  Unable to inhibit his tremendous sexual sensations, Durgay's ejaculation came briskly and dynamically, inundating her love canal with his gushing semen astonishingly able to spurt up to a distance of thirteen feet. She clung to him in orgasmic relief as his throbbing penis emptied, becoming flaccid, and he withdrew, expended. They kissed again, a sensual joining of lips less frenetic than their foreplay pash, but equally intense in its conveyance of carnal love.