Flakes of calcified shell spiralled slowly downward out of chalky clouds of disturbed material as the mermen chiselled in wordless unison. Cussing after the tip of his shark-tooth knife snapped off when he tried to prise loose a particularly stubborn piece of coral, for such a handy tool was not easily replaced, Lasbow resumed excavating with the broken blade.
Determining the age of coral employed a technique similar to dating tree trunks by way of examining and counting the growth rings. Such an exercise was pointless to a people with no use or means for measuring time. Which was just as well, considering that to get to the bottom of the mystery mounds involved scraping away half a thousand years of intensification. Translated into practical terms, Lasbow and Dribben had eight feet of cumulative coral to dig through.
"This is absurd,” moaned Dribben, tiring of the effort in both body and mind. A solid hour of toiling only made a half-inch deep indentation the size of a dollar coin in the mountainous coral formation, Lasbow faring little better. “I came on this adventure of yours to dive, not grub in coral like gnashing parrotfish.” In disgust he let his scored knife float from his aching hand.
"Pick it up and keep digging,” commanded Lasbow.
Against his better judgment, Dribben ceased rubbing his hand and stooped to retrieve the blade from where it settled on the seabed. Angling forwards, he amazingly copped a lucky break when grabbing for the hilt. It had fallen beside a ragged split in the base of the polyp hill, a fissure which snaked upwards to where a chunk of the overlaying coral the size of a briefcase had cracked and broken off at waist height, probably from seaquake action, leaving behind a deep cavity worthy of investigation. Looking into it first with his sound-sight, Dribben reached into the hollow only when the narrow sonar beam showed that no snappy eel lurked inside. Inserting his left arm up to the elbow, he rummaged around with his hand until his fingertips brushed against something square.
"I've got something,” he announced, sounding puzzled.
Engrossed with digging up the past, Lasbow did not even spare the Retriever a courteous glance and mumbled, “If your hands are as sore as mine, it'll be cramp."
Miffed that he was abruptly not the only sour manfish in the sea, Dribben stretched his arm further in, the extent of his reach stopped by his shoulder being too large to fit through the cavity. Concentrating intensely, his groping fingers clamped on to a bulge in a sidewall toward the back of the cavity. Planting his trident in the seabed sludge, Dribben braced his free hand against the coral wall and worked the knob loose, jiggling it determinedly until it came away in his hand. He hauled it out for the Merking's scrutiny, scuffing his knuckles on the hard-edged, stony coral rimming the hole.
"Might this be of interest to you?"
Suddenly paying attention to Dribben's activities, the fascinated Merking glanced down.
"Bring that light closer,” the Retriever told him.
Illuminating the diver's find, Lasbow watched eagerly as Dribben shook the sediment off the faintly white object. When the silt cloud cleared, he presented the Merking with irrefutable proof of a terrestrial intelligence predating the Landhoppers.
In his cupped, shaky hand Lasbow held a crumbly rectangular block about a foot long. Despite having no name in Cetari vocabulary he could ascribe to what was evidently a significant discovery in marine archaeology, Lasbow inexplicably felt connected to the brick. This affiliation was born out of an innate understanding that hands, not unlike his, had crafted this stone in some unknowable past. That the brick was a tooled building block was obvious even to the unrefined mermen, whose level of building expertise did not progress beyond the weaving of simple fishing nets. The fact it was recognisable to them, despite having no previous knowledge of brickwork, only strengthened the indefinable link Lasbow was experiencing. If the brick constituted physical corroboration of Atlantis, then his feeling of affinity for a bygone era authenticated matters on a spiritual level.
Maybe I am getting a handle on this religious guff after all.
Placing the artefact reverently on the seafloor, the wordless Merking hastened from the dig, briskly making for the trunk of the intact edifice he had glimpsed rocketing skywards from his time spent on the surface. Seizing his trident, Dribben went with him, his curiosity admittedly aroused. This deep the currents were sluggish with cold, easing their passage through the dark water.
The constant background clicking as Dulby and Yaggle quartered the waters overhead blotted out fears of the kraken materialising. No alarm whistles meant the exploring mermen were so far the only visitors of noteworthy size to the region. Of course, that did not preclude a leviathan possibly cruising outside their biosonar range.
Hurrying around the landward side of the mound, Merking and Retriever found themselves facing the submerged portion of the towering sea stack. Equally imposing and intimidating under the water as above, the lamp-fish spotlighted only a sliver of the foundation stone's stepped immensity. Easily 400 feet long and nearly half that wide, they kept their distance and circled the five story high base warily, drifting above an encompassing forest of white coral glistening like snowflakes on a winter's night. Regularly spaced openings blacker than the inky sea teased and terrified with their inviting emptiness.
About to swim in closer, Lasbow felt Dribben grip his arm insistently. “Death is the only certainty in life,” the diver profoundly said. “Most mermen are smart enough not to go enticing it. You don't strike me as being stupid, Merking. A detail of divers ought to check out those sea caves before you do."
Pulling free of the other's grasp, Lasbow rejoined, “Even the smartest merperson acts dumbly on occasion. This is my time to be daft."
"Then you do it alone,” said Dribben. “I go no further.” Before the king could try and persuade him to change his mind, the Retriever added, “Don't misconstrue my caution as fear. I prefer to remain alive and prudent, rather than dead and foolish. Besides, I'm more useful floating on guard out here while you take a peek inside. There's probably nothing scarier in there other than a few spider crabs anyway. But I'm not prepared to take that gamble."
"You want me to leave the lamp?"
"I'm not afraid of the dark, Merking. You take it, if it makes you feel safer."
"You're a braver merman than me for wanting to stay out here alone, Dribben. What if the kraken shows?"
The diver laughed off the praise with a sardonic chuckle. “Then I'll direct him inside. I'm sure royal flesh tastes better than mine.
Convinced Dribben was not kidding, Lasbow swam apprehensively for the nearest aperture he could identify with his ranging sound-sight. Pausing outside the measurably rectangular hole situated about eight feet up from the seabed, the circumspect Merking took in the massive splayed cracks fissuring the flattish rock face like burnt lightning forks and wondered just how structurally sound the artificial underwater cave complex was. The effort of finding Atlantis would amount to nothing if the refuge could not be made habitable.
With the hugeness of the problem of providing a sanctuary for his displaced subjects pressing down on him through the hundreds of thousands of cubic feet of stone cladding, his gaze strayed upwards to where the ascending base rock disappeared into the overlying gloom. Picturing the raucous seabirds effortlessly sailing the air currents high above the compacted blackness helped put his mind at ease. Deciding that the strident gulls nullified the strangeness of this place, blessing the stack with their shrill screeches, mitigated the lump of dread rising in throat.
Doubt never plagued Lasbow before. Always, he was as confident as he was caring. But now, on the verge of sourcing a securer future for his wayfaring people, he faltered. With a jolt that rattled his ego, Lasbow realised he was afraid. The white whale predicting his demise came home to roost with the shudder of an albatross clumsily making landfall.
What if the reason that we haven't heard sight or sound of the kraken is that this warren of caves happens to be its lair, with the sea monster lying in wait inside?
&nbs
p; That did not bear thinking about, so Lasbow pushed it firmly from his mind. On that score alone he had no intention forcing the issue of Dribben ushering him further. If indeed this was his time to die, as his gut was telling him, endangering the Retriever just for the sake of company was unconscionable.
Aware how his hesitating must be amusing Dribben no end, Lasbow collected his thoughts and gathered his courage. If, by claiming Atlantis, he forfeited his life in pursuit of guaranteeing the Cetari's continued existence, he considered it a fair exchange. His deepest regret would be widowing Ahlegra before she had the chance to marry him.
Drawn sword grasped resolutely in one hand, light-fish lantern held aloft in the other, Lasbow grimly ventured inside.
Dribben looked on as the discouraging blackness of the grotto, unbowed by the paltry lamplight, ingested the gallant Merking. “Heroes win the mergirl,” he muttered without a hint of jealously, appending, “but cowards get to live longer."
Chapter Twenty Three
Abe Norton never felt freer than when at the controls of an aircraft. Back in his days as a wealthy geneticist he could afford to indulge in his expensive hobby, accumulating a veritable squadron of private planes ranging from executive jets to collectible vintage warbirds. Never having the inclination for romance, he always made time to take to the air whenever his hectic scheduling permitted. An old-fashioned stick and rudder man, he flew them all. He loved flying with a passion equalling his manipulation of genes, and just because he transformed himself into a robot did not mean giving up his favourite pastime.
He was back plugged into the mainframe, this time in the relative privacy of the living quarters he had occupied when flesh and blood, at the helm of the remotely piloted Unmanned Aerial Vehicle steadily winging its way over an adjoining ocean 8,000 miles south of Ice Station.
Experiencing the closest sensation a man could come by to actually flying unaided, Abe was electronically joined to the flight controls of the distant UAV via satellite link. Atmospheric conditions cleared sufficiently for communications to be re-established with the geostationary Watchdog, enabling piloting commands from Norton's end to be beamed into space then relayed from orbit to the reconnaissance drone en route to southern latitudes, thereby ensuring that over-the-horizon contact was initiated before the aircraft flew beyond the range of polar ground-based telemetry.
Physically one with the jet engined plane, the manbot saw in real-time video transmission the puffy airspace stretching ahead of the craft as it streaked through dense cumulonimbus clouds 50,000 feet above the Pacific. Vanguard storm winds rocked the spyplane as the forward facing camera port in its buffeted nosecone showed an unchanging haze of featureless grey, droplets of icy rain veining the pod window.
Thankfully not reliant on visual cues to steer Seeing-eye Dog along its unmarked aerial byway, Norton stayed on track by heeding the automatic data feed from onboard guidance systems which included the essential satellite navigation, compensating for turbulence generated by the strengthening headwind. Outfitted with an advanced avionics suite comprising airborne radar sensors coupled with ground mapping electro-optical and infra-red scanners, the UAV could safely fly anywhere in the world anytime day or night without straying off course by more than a few feet. All that gadgetry was slaved to a high tech autopilot incorporated into the design to relieve pilot fatigue and boredom on long endurance missions. Norton's mechanical form resisted tiredness, allowing him to fly unassisted for twenty gruelling hours straight so far.
Standing for all that time without a break, connected to a humming computer interface station, he looked like a giant statuette unreal in his shiny, chromed finish. His darkened apartment, poorly lit by the flickering brightness radiating from the monitor screen in front of him, was an unliveable shambles left untouched by the mindless droid maids at Abe's behest. Steel chairs lay bent and upended, a sturdy oaken worktable overturned and heavily scratched with deep finger gouges, the single military styled cot in the far corner twisted into unrecognisable scrap metal, the bookcase of electronic tomes condensed into disc form occupying the middle of the room toppled and mangled, halogen lights ripped out of their ceiling mounts, the plasma display screens of decorative digital wall paintings smashed to smithereens, fist-sized holes punched in the alloy door and adjacent wall panels.
Perpetrated during his lengthy psychological transition period from geriatric human into newly commissioned robot, a time fraught with violent fits of rage as he experienced difficulty adjusting to the irrevocableness of his metalled body, Norton vented his reasonless anger on his living space. There was something innately gratifying that came from destroying personal property, as if by wrecking furniture and furnishings reflecting your personality you could wipe the slate clean and be reborn afterwards. The resulting damage from his temper tantrums was left unfixed, serving to remind him that once he had been a man and afflicted with the shortcomings of human emotion.
But now he existed as a manbot, enjoying the freedom of unrestrained flight without his metal shod feet ever leaving the ground. On a whim he powered up the cruising UAV's turbofan engine, putting the plane into a steep nosedive. His thoughts directly controlling the craft's flying surfaces, he looped the accelerating jet, revelling in the agility of his giant radio-controlled model. Make no mistake, big boys loved their toys.
A military grade flying machine in every sense, the UAV could execute snap aerial manoeuvres a manned fighter jet could never emulate, subjecting the rigid airframe to twice the g's sustainable by a human pilot. Putting the drone through its paces, Norton performed high g barrel rolls and vertical rolling scissors, vying for supremacy over a make believe opponent in an imaginary dogfight, finishing his stint of aerobatics in a spiral dive which flattened out at 15,000 feet above sea level. Every kid dreams of being able to fly like a bird and on these rare moments Abe Norton was a comic book superman staging an aerial ballet in the limitless skies.
An importunate red light bleeped on the instrumentation board of the computer console. Try as he might to ignore the noisy flashing, it slowly began to grate on Abe's synthetic nerves. Attempting to focus purely on his piloting, he routinely checked engine readouts before abandoning the effort. Finding he could bear the distraction no longer, the disdaining manbot finally responded to Dog's hail and voice activated the answer button. “You're disturbing me!” he snapped.
Dog could not comprehend Norton's occasional need for privacy. The mainframe's multifarious subsystems exchanged relatable data constantly, a ceaseless sharing of digitised self that dispensed with electronic boundaries. The manbot was an integral part of that network, so periodically distancing himself from the multipart whole made no sense logically.
The imperceptive macroprocessor did not realise Norton's human side required solitude from time to time and that his former living space functioned as his quiet room. In the throes of his past rages Abe had ripped out of its ceiling recess the observant sensor bowl serving as Dog's ears and eyes in virtually every chamber throughout the complex, ending his invasive presence in this nook of Ice Station buried in the bowels of the hollowed berg. Liking the feeling of not being watched is also what prompted Norton to keep the maintenance droids from mending the damage to the room, conceding that the computer workstation be the only item restored to usable condition—but on his terms. Dog was not authorised unrestricted access to this particular interface hardware, which meant any contact with his master, while in residence, was confined to what the manbot allowed. That restraint was guaranteed by Norton's steadfast refusal to allow a wireless datalink to be integrated into his circuitry. He would choose when and where to plug in, not have that decision imposed on him.
"You are deviating from prescribed flight parameters for the mission, and I am not monitoring mechanical or navigational failures to be the cause of that error."
"That's because there is nothing wrong with the plane,” attested Abe, ever more cross at the stalking mainframe. “I'm merely chucking Seeing-eye Dog abou
t the skies for a bit of fun."
There was that foreign concept again which the brainier CPU could not get its logic circuits around. “It is a needless expenditure of fuel, Norton."
Amusement escaped the manbot's speaker mouth in the form of a low chuckle. Even without in-flight refuelling, the UAV possessed sufficient range on internal tanks to fly once around the world non-stop. “Dog, you're always such a killjoy. Is there a specific reason for your interruption, or do you just like bothering me?"
"Medical diagnostics of the captives is complete."
"That was quick."
"Efficiency is my middle name."
"That would be snoopy. What are your findings?"
"Uploading data into your memory bank now."
Norton reviewed the test results in a heartbeat, or rather the mechanical equivalent of such, and said nothing. The information was perfunctory really. Having earlier passed judgment on the homecoming Aquapeople, it was only left for him to implement his impersonal decision.
There was however one incongruity which bothered the manbot. “The elder male ... you noted recent scarring on his belly."
"Severe dermal abrasions in the abdominal region indicate exposure to high temperature bursts."
"Scalding?"
"Negative. The areas of scar tissue are too localised to suggest that."
"Any ideas as to what caused this trauma?"
"Direct application of a heated instrument,” ascertained Dog. “The specimen was consciously burnt."
"Tortured, in other words,” seethed Norton, enraged that one of his children should be so viciously brutalised. “Three guesses as to the perpetrators,” he snarled, silently making the promise that the yet unseen Landhoppers, established now as fire users, would pay dearly for their racial prejudice.
"The three test subjects ought to be revived,” suggested Dog.
"All in good time."
Three Times Chosen Page 41