Three Times Chosen

by Alan J. Garner

"Keeping them anaesthetised for a prolonged period of time will endanger their health,” argued the caretaker computer. “Forty-four hours have already elapsed."

  Peeved at the interfering mainframe, despite Dog showing at long last the value of brevity in his timekeeping, Norton barked, “I said in my own good time and not before! There are more urgent matters that I must attend to first. Have you got that?"

  "Affirmative. I shall comply."

  Unexpectedly reconsidering, the abrasiveness left Norton's tone as he changed his orders. “You're right. It has been so long since I've had patients to care for that I'm forgetting my bedside manner. Administer the counteragent to the sedative, but bring them around slowly. Too fast and they'll be retching in their holding tanks. Believe me, we want to avoid that. Floating vomit is disgusting and that much harder to clean up."

  Sensing a sudden and strained silence between them, Norton enquired down the opened com-channel, “Is there something else you wish to discuss with me, Dog?"

  "I am uncertain."

  "You've never not been sure of anything in your whole programmable life,” said Norton, puzzled by the admission. “Stored in your database is a fully comprehensive library of sciences, readily retrievable and at your disposal anytime. It contains a wealth of researched information germane to the operations, past and present, conducted at this station and beyond. Don't tell me you're unsure of anything."

  "I am certain of my doubt."

  "Cute, Dog,” rejoined Norton, transferring control of the UAV to the autopilot. Whatever was upsetting Dog deserved his undivided attention. “Explain yourself. Tell Doctor Abe your troubles."

  Not one to beat around the electronic bush, Dog came straight out with it. “Sublevel 4, Area 15, Section 91. Precisely what is housed in that compartment?"

  Caught off guard by the unanticipated query, Norton's comeback was peculiarly lame. “Prying was never a part of your programming. Just how did you learn to become nosy?"

  "Daily power transference to that unspecified subsection has been recorded at a constant rate since my commissioning. Twenty-three hours ago a general troubleshooting subroutine detected a significant increase in energy allocation being diverted to that subsection. When I attempted to conduct a standard systems error analysis, to determine the cause for the unauthorised rerouting of power, I was categorically denied access to the relevant master file. Any systems anomalies call for investigation and, if applicable, quarantine and repair. Subsequent attempts to gain access to the faulty file were blocked by an encrypted firewall. Programming dictated that I continue my scrutiny."

  "Aha! Your curiosity got the better of you."

  "Working logically, I reverse engineered the power transferral and traced it back to a subroutine command override logged by you.” Dog's accusal was a statement of fact, not a condemnation. Oddly enough, functioning as the station's system manager precluded the CPU from making snap judgements regarding unofficial program amendments. Abe Norton remained boss, even if it was only the figurehead human in charge.

  Not finished detailing his master's fraudulence, Dog exposed more shady software irregularities without first letting the manbot explain his duplicity. “Allied folders connected to the master file are equally anomalous. All active folders incorporated into the workings of the mainframe are designated with a file name. The unsigned master file and satellite folders are sealed with a ciphered text, rendering them inaccessible without the correct input code. Deducing you were the encoder was a matter of course, Norton."

  Rather than sounding angry, Dog heard the clearly impressed manbot clap his metal hands together. “You're a Sherlock Holmes,” conceded Abe, congratulating the snooping mainframe. “I should've foreseen this day coming, except there has been no need to even contemplate activating the contents of that section these many centuries gone. Huh, I considered the time for threats had long passed. Clearly it does not pay to be blasé about security, as danger comes in an unimaginable variety of guises anytime it chooses."

  "Section 91 is connected to the reappearance of the Aquapeople,” extrapolated Dog, making the informed guess, “If logic is followed, the compartment must house the means to enact an armed response on their behalf. The only information left unclear is the configuration of the weapon."

  "That will be revealed in due course,” said Norton, even now unprepared to make a full disclosure while admitting to his subterfuge by inference rather than confession. “Aren't you the least bit interested in why you were kept out of the loop on this?"

  Damnably honest, Dog simply stated, “I was not built as a strategic military computer, therefore my inclusion was unwarranted."

  "Dog, you are truly priceless. No human in his or her right mind would accept being deceived these many years with such inimitable grace. When they made you, they surely broke the mould."

  "I am a prototype model, not a factory produced system made buyable for mass consumers. I was not cast from a single pattern mould. I have six million, nine hundred and twelve thousand, and thirty three individually assembled components constituting my—"

  Dog's unintentionally comedic response was cut short by a proximity alert buzzing intrudingly from Norton's console. Emanating from the UAV's on-screen instrumentation bank, the far-flung reconnaissance plane was passing east of an inconsequential dot of land off its starboard wingtip. Lookdown radar had flagged the islet in accordance with prescribed search parameters.

  Disengaging the autopilot, Norton took back control and banked the drone hard right, skidding it across an absurdly calm sky roofed by the pluming thunderclouds as he circled back for a better look at the speck of brown splotching the sea of cloud-shadowed blue below.

  "Do you see that one?” he challenged Dog, wishing he had a free hand to point with at the monitor, now displaying in split-screen mode the seconds old film footage snapped by the fuselage camera array showing the blurred overhead image of a faraway islet. A moment like this was when the manbot cursed the roboticists for not suggesting that a useful second pair of arms be incorporated into his original design.

  "Optical imaging aligned and recording,” Dog stated with unexcitable competency. This was the fifth island the monitored UAV had flown over in as many hours. Understandably, there was a reasonable certainty that it would turn out to be another lump of volcanic rock home to nothing more eye-catching than unspectacular jungle bird life.

  Pitching the aircraft steeper than before Norton jetted seawards for a time, all the while rapidly losing altitude. Constrained by the plane's wide turn radius when flying at fast subsonic speeds, he descended steadily over the next few miles until he reached a thousand feet, then shallowed his dive into a reverse turn.

  Opening up the throttle, Norton raced for the atoll rearing up on the horizon and lined up perfectly in the sight bars of his video HUD. He had a sneaking suspicion that this was the island of his children's persecutors. Going on nothing but his gut reaction, a hunch Dog would dismiss as leftover human irrationality, the manbot happily gave his shrinking emotions free reign.

  "A high speed pass at low altitude is inadvisable,” Dog cautioned him. “Picture clarity will be compromised."

  Totally in the grip of his clenching anger, Abe Norton heard nothing but the rush of rage in his artificial ears, transported back in time and feelings to when he trashed his room. But circumstances were different. Back then he was wildly out of control, a loosed cannon firing indiscriminately. Here, the robotic side of the manbot manipulated the mechanics of his actions, his anger providing momentum but not guidance.

  That was not strictly true. Norton hankered to buzz the atoll, to see the demonic islanders take fright and scatter, their primitive minds reel from the monstrous metallic bird thundering overhead, their domain ear-shatteringly violated.

  His computerised conscience persisted. “Decreasing altitude further is unwise,” Dog repeated when Norton reduced height by 500 feet more, skimming over the sea like a giant flying fish. The isle lay unsuspecting a quar
ter of a mile off, about to be on the receiving end of a jet blast from the past.

  "Bumpy road,” mumbled Norton, noting an abrupt engine surge an instant after the remotely controlled plane rocked. Putting it down to low level buffeting, he stabilised the swaying and pressed home his unarmed attack.

  A second later disaster descended in one foul swoop, enfolding plane and pilot alike. Engine thrust mysteriously terminated, vanishing like a suddenly dying breeze. Left no time to ponder the cause for the abrupt power loss, Norton had his hands full fighting to retain control of his dead-stick craft. The crippled UAV lurched again; a violent shaking which rolled the left wing alarmingly seaward.

  Norton corrected, labouring to keep the stricken drone airborne even with Dog's unseen assistance via the flight computers. “I should've procured a seaplane!” he muttered, the enticing blue sea filling the fuzzy viewscreen as the UAV pitched nose down.

  An alarm siren blared laughably late to warn of the uncontained turbine failure. Already 300 feet of valuable altitude had been swallowed up by the emergency and Norton was fast running out of sky. Managing to level out at a dangerously low 100 feet above the lapping waves calling siren-like to lure the plane to its watery doom, a detached part of the manbot accepted that his best efforts were only momentarily stalling the inevitable. His human self refused to quit.

  "I can't keep the nose up!” he yelled futilely to Dog, the magnetic sea coalescing into the surf-lashed beach of the target island looming into view.

  "Disengage,” Dog urged him, damnably calm.

  "I'll try to save her!” he shouted at the console.

  "Norton, disconnect."

  The last thing Abe Norton, pilot, saw was glassy black rock rushing up to meet him. When the computer monitor went terminally blank, the manbot hurtled backwards from an invisible fist hammering his chest. Slammed against the unyielding steel plates panelling the wall behind him, he collapsed to the floor and sprawled on the threadbare carpet unmoving, the only signs of life sparks of residual electricity flitting over his insensate body like dancing fireflies.

  Abe Norton was down and out for the count.

  * * * *

  Careening down the slopes of Mont Plaas in eager leaps and bounds, Eskaa could scarcely take in the spectacle he had been so advantageously placed to witness atop Lunder Atoll's highest point.

  Finished another invigorating dip in Crater Lake, he was ambling up to the rim of the caldera when a faint roar sounded overhead. Eyeballing the oddly noisy sky, Eskaa was mystified to see a rapidly transiting arrowhead silhouette crossing the cloud-studded heavens. Fearing the unknown did not dull his inquisitiveness and the Subos, edging down off the crater lip, gazed curiously at the object. Mesmerised, he watched it bank and lose height, briefly gaining definition as it unaccountably swung back past the tropical isle before blasting away out to sea and dwindling from sight.

  Baffled to say the least, Eskaa had glimpsed enough of the aerial passerby to reach the obvious conclusions that, whatever its origins and intentions were, it was big, fast and winged. The hairless skin on the back on his neck crawled, his body's involuntary reaction letting his puzzled brain know that something was terribly amiss. That the unidentified flier might be a danger to the island was a matter of circumspection. That its flyby was a show of unbridled speed on the back of flagrant strength was plain enough.

  Trying to reason through the bewildering sighting, Eskaa kept drawing blanks. To his knowledge no flying bird comparable in size and airspeed existed to account for the apparition. Certainly no Wandering Albatross, its impressively wide ten-foot wingspan making it the largest living bird to take to the skies, could explain away the mystery aerialist. No sensible explanation sufficed. The spectre simply flew too fast and loudly for that.

  Bah! No seabird roars like a bull sea lion and outpaces the clouds, Eskaa decided in the suspect rationality of his troubled thoughts. Determining what it was not was easily enough done. Coming up with a plausible theory to justify it was a difficulty not even the crafty leader of the amphibs could surmount. The phantom defied explanation.

  It also defied commonsense, for Eskaa heard the deepening roar marking its return as it neared Lunder Atoll a second time. Regaining the cratered summit of the mountain, he enjoyed a limitless view unobstructed by jungle. Corakk's ancient stock of tropical trees was almost completely depleted, save for a stand of bakau the Subos commanded be left unspoiled. It was a token gesture on Eskaa's part, schemed to blunt any surviving detractors” argument that utterly despoiling the atoll spelt doom for its residents.

  It's amazing how a piece of greenery calms the restless natives, Eskaa had thought, drawing upon his psychological lore. But the copse did nothing to soothe his frazzled nerves as the flying intruder came head-on at the defenceless isle.

  Perched on the rim like a watchful vulture, he made a study of the approaching enigma, seeking to dispel its cloaking strangeness by way of examination. There was precious little time for that as the unusual flying object was rumbling over the wave tops quicker than rolling thunder. Eskaa persevered, gleaning what he could and making comparisons against the familiarities of his island world.

  The phantom was sleek and huge, skinned in shades of shifting grey similar to a shark's lacklustre hide—unremarkable to look out, yet superb camouflaging in its natural surrounds. Seen from below against the cloudy backdrop, the phenomenon would have passed undetected were it not for the racket of its speedy passage.

  Difficult as it was to size the thing from afar, Eskaa fancied it approached megashark proportions. The biggest creature afloat in the oceans, the terror fish was the yardstick for all outsized measuring projects, regardless of accuracy. Anything whopping was automatically weighed against that monster and usually found wanting.

  Not so in this case. The flying creature, for Eskaa had no cause to think it of as anything other than a living entity, displayed a wingspread as wide as it was long. Weirder still, those wings did not flap, remaining rigid and static. Its strangely elliptical mouth, locked in a perpetual gape, formed an unfriendly smile, lending the conically nosed beast a demented look. If it possessed eyes, they were too miniscule for Eskaa to make them out.

  Dread brought clarity to the puzzling Subos. The beast was flying dead straight towards Lunder Atoll, unwavering in course and undeterminable purpose. Thinking of it in terms as a monstrous bird of prey, Eskaa grew conscious of how exposed he was out on the volcano's depression, of how tempting a target he must be making himself. But fascination compelled him to remain where he rested, defying the risk to his person. The pursuit of knowledge often required the seeker to dare the downright dangerous.

  A slow moving shape rising to the left of the oncoming juggernaut rooted Eskaa's attention on that sinisterly conic head, as what could only be a seabird was sucked into that yawning mouth, reinforcing his presumption that the winged giant might be hunting.

  It's feeding and I'm probably next on the menu, fretted Eskaa, deciding that prudence now outscored nosiness. A horrifically loud bang stopped him from jumping for the lake, after which he glimpsed a plume of orange briefly trail behind the creature.

  "Its bum is on fire!” he exclaimed out loud, revolted rather than astonished. Fiery farts were scarcely an expression of good manners.

  An unbearably high-pitched whine, audible even at this distance, keyed the tropical air. Before the Subos could cover his ears and shut out the shriek that was a thousand times more grating than fingers scratching a blackboard, the bird's keening fell away like an old cloak. Silence cascaded eerily over the nearing beast, its strangely muted approach scarier than the defunct rumbling and howling combined. The broad, stiff wings fluttered, slightly at first, picking up momentum until the wobble affected the whole body. Dipping its head, Eskaa half expected the pained bird to nose dive into the sea. But it pulled up and continued to glide haphazardly for the shore, apparently wanting to land. The fact it possessed no visible legs or feet made that prospect lunacy.

>   The remainder of its flight proved catastrophically short, ending with the monstrosity coming down hard on the atoll's stony northern shoreline, ploughing headfirst into the outcrops, then tipping onto its back with a sickening crunch. Low coastal hummocks masked the impact from Eskaa's sight, but the resultant smoke palling over the crash site pinpointed the bird's demise.

  The Subos sighed with relief and muttered, “Whatever the firebird ate sure disagreed with it,” as if by labelling the apparition he demystified its frightening weirdness.

  Eager to investigate, now that it was presumably safer, he hopped down from the atoll's heights. Greeted at the mountain's base by his cadre of nervous Shurpeha, alerted to the emergency by the commotion of the crashing flier, Eskaa bounded through them, assured they would follow. Transcending his priestliness, the dictatorial frogman had already decreed not just Crater Lake, but the whole of Mont Plaas, was out of bounds to all amphibs bar him, the palace guards, and sanctioned workers. Big on obedience, the supporters of their cultist leader followed him blindly like wild sheep.

  Island hopping took half the time it used to now that the obstructing jungle was cleared, so Eskaa and his entourage arrived at the accident scene sooner rather than later. Even so, a sizable throng of gawking Piawro clustered around the crashed bird, a few intrepid junior members of the swelling Shurpeha ranks poking at the smouldering, splayed out carcass with bamboo sticks. The oddly featherless hide, exuding black, oily smoke from numerous slashes in the greyish skin, easily deflected their investigative jabs.

  Unlucky for the industrious stonecutters, the careering flier had settled smack dab on the obsidian deposit, crushing a handful of unobservant chippers to death and seriously injuring a score more. Blood leaked out of the bird's cracked and broken wings in viscous rivulets afire with lucent blue flames, which flickered over the stress fractures crazing the impacted stone.

  The strangely burning body fluid went a long way to underpin Eskaa's sense that this winged monstrosity was an elemental beast, a creature with flames running through its veins and a fire in its belly. On a more mundane level, combustible skinning was hugely impractical and he stooped to gingerly pick up an unlit chunk of the torn flesh sticking up in the sand at his feet. Hefting the solid and weighty fragment in his hand, luckily cool to the touch, he tested its imperviousness with a tentative nibble and nearly broke a tooth for his trouble.