Three Times Chosen

by Alan J. Garner

  The hurrying manbot was met by the nearest of the firefighting droids, commandeered by Dog to act as his onsite mouthpiece. “The door is locked, Norton. Opening it might expedite fire extinguishing efforts,” it relayed. Despite being emotionally retarded, a suggestion of peevishness lilted Dog's logic-derived statement.

  Looking nothing so much like an overlarge and upended vacuum cleaner, Norton found it hard to take the mainframe seriously in his comical guise and two-wheeled stance. Stepping up to the barrier of riveted steel, now burningly hot to the touch, he submitted to an identity check. A grapefruit-sized white sphere, perched on the end of a fragile metal arm extending from a black box bolted above the doorway's lintel, bobbed above the manbot's head, buzzing tonelessly while it scanned.

  Dog queried the mechanics of the electronic scrutiniser. “A retinal scan was pointless as I no longer have human eyes, so I had the software geeks in the computer department devise a brainwave comparison analysis for the security system to perform,” Norton divulged. “My manmade brain curiously displays the neural patterns of its biological original. That telltale signature is uniquely individual. The first copy aside, it can't be exactly duplicated a second time or adequately forged, making for a foolproof door lock."

  "Except in the event of you becoming inoperative. Your circuitry shutting down and the irreparable cessation of your higher brain functions associated with that scenario would keep that door permanently unopened."

  Gloomed by the straight-thinking mainframe's allusion, Norton refused to contemplate his mortality. Becoming robotic unnaturally extended his lifespan. By no means immortal, his prolonged existence might come tantalisingly close. Barring accidents, death remained an infinitesimal speck on the horizon—dimly seen, but unthought of.

  The motor to raise the weighty hatch whined into operation after the scan particularised Norton. Dog rolled in front of the manbot and nudged him backwards as the other firefighting droids trundled to the fore. “You are neither fireproofed or waterproofed,” the computer reminded him.

  A loud graunch brought the lifting door to a shuddering standstill only a quarter of the way up. “Damn and blast it!” Norton cussed. “The heat from the fire must've warped the steel plating."

  At a thought from the managing computer, the one-armed fire fighters seized the bottom lip of the hatch in their grippers and, working together, shoved the stuck door all the way up, the unholy screech of forced metal blanketing the corridor. Clouds of steam, borne by waves of blistering heat, immediately engulfed the two robots entering the unlocked compartment.

  Tapping into their basic visual sensors, Dog gained an accurate picture of the burned out chamber once enough of the steam escaped to permit a clearer view. The sprinklers had performed on cue and extinguished the inferno, but not before the raging flames blackened the walls. Dog had his specially equipped robots spray fire retardant foam from their trunk-like hoses across the room's charred innards, damping the smoky hotspots to prevent inopportune flare-ups.

  "It's safe to go in,” Dog proclaimed, moving aside to let the manbot pass.

  "Which means the fire is out and you can switch off that annoying siren, so I can hear myself think.” Norton proceeded inside after the only sound his audio receptors picked up was not the blare of horns but steam softly hissing. The wheeled extension of the mainframe went squeakily with him. “You need oiling,” he told Dog.

  "This robot unit has not been active for some time."

  "Your memory circuits are better than mine. When was the last occasion we had the fire siren go off that wasn't a drill?"

  "The instance which prompted the last callout was in the period of human occupancy. It was a false alarm involving burning toast on Habitat Level Two. Preventable, had you authorised automating the household appliances."

  "And squander manpower on frivolities?"

  "Women used to be housed here too."

  "A waste of resources and time for whatever sex would've worked on computerising a toaster."

  Norton crossed the narrow width of the fire-ravaged room, surveying the burst shell of a horizontal cylinder leaning haphazardly against the south wall, the cradle it rested on reduced by the intense heat to a muddle of softened, twisted metal. He toed the creamy foam plastering the only concrete floor in the entire station, mumbling, “No use crying over spilt milk, I guess."

  Dog overheard. “This wreckage was the receptacle storing the missile propellant,” he gathered, “and evidently the seat of the fire.” Trundling over to inspect the outward facing jags lining the gash splitting the length of the cylinder, Dog conjectured, “The rupture site is indicative of an internal explosion. A trigger caused the monopropellant to ignite."

  "How did you work out the rocket fuel was single stage?” wondered Norton.

  Standard chemical rockets carried two separately tanked propellants onboard—commonly hydrogen or kerosene serving as the fuel, liquid oxygen the oxidant—that mixed when pumped into the engine's combustion chamber and burnt to produce the superheated exhaust gases expelled via the nozzle as thrust.

  "The ruins are clearly that of a solitary tank."

  Abe Norton was transported back in time to feel like the awkward first year medical student he started out as, castigated all over again by the chief resident for missing the obvious fact that the unattended man on the gurney in the hospital hall lay unmoving because the guy's heart had stopped beating four hours earlier. He could hardly be at fault for not knowing the man had been pronounced dead, his stiffening body waiting to be wheeled down to the morgue. Nervousness could have made any junior doctor mistake a corpse for a patient. On the upside, Norton's attempt at resuscitation was textbook.

  "Monopropellants are exotic fuels tricky to store,” he said, masking his embarrassment. “They are mightily corrosive and flash on contact with air. I'm guessing that over the years the fuel slowly ate away the lining of the tank until it sprung a leak and BOOM!"

  "This accident would have been avertable had an upkeep robot maintained this section.” Dog's opinion had the ring of assigning blame.

  "One secretly was. It's that gutted scrap heap in the corner over there."

  Dog wheeled to regard the pile of smouldering junk. “I do not understand. The repairer ought to have detected the fault and employed relevant preventive responses."

  "It probably would've, if it had been up and running,” Norton interposed. “The darned thing broke down a couple of years back. I never got it fixed. If I had sent it to the machine shop for repairs, you would have been alerted to the goings-on in this room. This project then would have no longer been covert."

  "That was remiss of you. It is imprudent to neglect general housekeeping and parading yourself as a deity you ought to be setting a better example. Cleanliness is next to godliness."

  Flustered at being lectured by what was in essence a moralising brain, Norton walked off his self-recrimination by inspecting a solider door at the back of the chamber, rapping the barrier with his metallic knuckles. Encased behind ten feet of singed steel, the missile silo remained untouched by the fire. Reassured, the manbot redirected his concern to a knob of fused metal and melted plastic heaped in the middle of the room like a lump of coal.

  "Dog. Any chance of you salvaging the mess that is the computer control console?"

  The mainframe trundled his borrowed body over to the steaming mound. “I was unaware of an independent module installed in this compartment."

  "If I told you, it wouldn't have stayed a secret. Give it to me straight. Can you restore the console to working order?"

  Making use of his hose as a trunk, Dog poked around the amorphous mass of liquefied polymers and alloys beginning to cool and solidify. “Impossible,” he pronounced at the end of his examination. “The hardware is dissolved beyond repair and unusable."

  "What about the CPU? Could the data files be retrieved?” pressed Norton.

  "That is dependent on the extent of the internalised fire damage."


  "Can it be done?” Norton demanded, his tone insistent.

  "Theoretically it is feasible,” acceded the cybernate, “but is an illogic request when I can easily replicate control programs from my master files."

  "You can't reproduce the software specific to this computer. It was tailored to this system and never backed up."

  Dog managed to whistle reproachfully at Norton. “Redundancy elements ensure substitute channels of functionality are present in case of failure."

  "I couldn't risk duplicates existing anywhere. I'm talking about arming and launch codes, Dog. Sole possession was the best way of guaranteeing no foul ups."

  "Fire evidently never entered into your equations."

  "Can't think of everything.” Norton missed the physical sensation of sighing to express his unhappier emotions and made do with an electronic growl. “Without this computer operational, retribution against my children's foes is going to be a tad hard to organise. It might prove to be beyond my means to deliver anyway, considering all the rocket fuel just went up in flames. I'll only be able to make a proper assessment if the data can be recovered."

  "Entailing me to execute a systems-wide retrieval program on the remnants of this module,” asserted Dog.

  "More than that,” Norton revised. “It'll require you to resurrect the dead."

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  Ochar's funeral service was succinct and sincere. King Lasbow's brevity when delivering her eulogy did not reflect an unfeeling attitude on his part, but rather paid homage to the aged widow's tendency for not wasting words. The elderly consider time a precious, declining commodity not to be squandered on frivolous small talk. He thought it a fitting send off for the old mergirl.

  "In later life she was misperceived and often ridiculed,” he wrapped up in a voice thick with emotion. “Her detractors are rightly not represented today. Ochar would not have tolerated their hypocrisy on this, her final day with us. Those of us who are present cherished and appreciated this one-of-a-kind merwoman. Her passing makes our seaworld an emptier place."

  His tribute concluded, the saddened Merking bowed his crowned head respectfully in a moment of silence. The handful of merfolk comprising the pitiful congregation of mourners, Ahlegra and her queenly mother included, copied his reverence. Attendance at the burial-at-sea in the deeper waters several miles offshore was deplorably poor. Old prejudices did not die along with the Sea Witch.

  Coming erect, Lasbow nodded solemnly for the burial party to proceed. Ochar's corpse, covered in a shroud of kelp, floated strung between the two Fishers acting as pallbearers. Each held taut a rope looped about a rock weight tied to the cadaver's neck and tail respectively. Under normal circumstances, the deceased would be swathed in a winding sheet made from plaited seagrass. The present situation was far from being usual. Distanced from normality, the refugees made use of what materials were at hand to preserve custom, and waxy brown oarweed fronds substituted nicely for fibre weaving.

  As one they let go their individual lines, freeing Ochar's cocooned body to sink measuredly into the depths. “We commit the soul of our dear sister to the Deep and the Sea Lord's eternal care. May Nupterus resurrect her bones,” Lasbow sadly intoned, bidding her farewell, watching the everlasting blueness swallow her up. Her committal had the disturbing look of an unwanted brown paper parcel bound in twine simply being tossed away.

  At his back Dulby snapped to attention, squaring the haft of his trident rigidly against his brawny shoulder. The honour guard of Fishers he proudly led followed suit, making for a regimented show of respect ending with the Seaguards dipping their pronged weaponry in formal salute.

  Ochar's death had hit the Merking hard, an emotional blow that caused him a restless night spent tossing and turning on the seabed. Ahlegra telling him that the old widow passed away gently and untroubled in her sleep, that the stresses of the gruelling flight from Bounty Reef had finally taken their toll on the frail old merwoman, did nothing to dispel his sense of blame. Even though his mind understood there was no conceivable correlation between the two unrelated events, he conscience whispered damningly that Ochar had paid the dearest price for his cowardice back in Atlantis. Prevented from claiming the balking Merking, the White Whale, Death's obvious agent, culled the Sea Witch in his stead. Guilt weighed him down like an anchor, and as Ochar's sinking body took with her his integrity Lasbow grieved for both.

  The service over and done with, the attendees commenced drifting shoreward, aiming to lift their dejected spirits by holding in the safeness of the bay the lunchtime wake that customarily rounded off every Cetari funeral. Intending to join them, Lasbow dismissed the Seaguard contingent but was prevented from following by Dulby's blocky frame barring his way.

  "Pardon me, Sire. Might I have a word?"

  "Now's not an appropriate moment, Dulby."

  "I'd normally agree, King Lasbow. Except this won't wait."

  The Merking sized the blocky Seaguardian up, determining his earnestness. There was a definite solemnity to his request that persuaded Lasbow to hear him out. “What is it you wish to say?"

  Clearly discomfited, Dulby hunched his powerful shoulders, that action lowering his head. “Sire, I'm not one for fancy talk,” he began, “or for beating about the coral growth.” He paused, gill covers flapping agitatedly, before blurting, “I'd like to be, if it's okay with you, appointed your personal Seaguardian.” He glanced up to gauge the Merking's reaction. Finding Lasbow's interested expression receptive, he pressed on. “I always respected you when you were Captain Lasbow. You dished out strictness and fair play in equal dollops. When you picked me to bodyguard you on the jaunt to Atlantis, I felt honoured. I want to continue to serve you exclusively in that role as private protector. For me, there's no greater privilege."

  Lasbow regarded the hulking merman quietly awaiting his response. Dulby was essentially a pet dogfish, unstintingly loyal to his master and obeying every command given him. He felt shamed by the Seaguard frankly declaring such devotion to him, and undeserving of the other's admiration. It should have occurred to him sooner that the lummox had feelings.

  Dulby's inclusion in the scouting party had not been determined by his reliability or aptitude. There were other, equally capable Fisher warriors up to the task of safeguarding the Merking. Dulby was selected purely due to his bigness. Lasbow desired to beef up security without the worry of adding extra numbers to the foray and the brawniest of his bodyguards fit the bill perfectly: imposingly huge and muscled, sculpted into a single package. The same could be said for putting Dulby in charge of the honour guard. By chance, he had been up and about as early as the wakeful Merking, prompting Lasbow to take advantage of his proximity. It seemed Dulby's greatest attribute was his convenience.

  Matters were not about to change. Looking around for his future other half, Lasbow spied Ahlegra on her way back to the bay immersed in conversation with her mother. They appeared oblivious to all around them. No doubt discussing wedding plans again, guessed Lasbow, thankful that life went routinely on regardless of personal hardships.

  Despite counting the Merprincess's attendance at the funeral as a fulfilment of her civic duty, he conceded it had also been a personal sacrifice on Ahlegra's part. Ochar's death had not whipped away her carefully veiled contempt for the universally disdained oldster. Like the majority of merfolk, she did not bother to look past the aged merwoman's eccentricities and recognise the value of her underlying sagacity. From time to time Lasbow could see frightening glimpses of her colder sister in the gentler princess.

  Wanting company, the Merking motioned for Dulby to fall in beside him as he set course for the cove behind the dawdling merwomen. “How's your love life?” Lasbow unexpectedly asked him.

  "I don't rightly have one, Sire."

  "No mergirlfriend on the horizon?"

  "If there is, she hasn't heaved into view yet."

  Satisfied the stalwart Seaguardian had no social life to speak of that would be impinged by his reassignmen
t, rewarding Dulby for just being handy came next. “From hereon you'll stick to me like a suckerfish on a shark,” declared Lasbow.

  Grinning stupidly, Dulby could not contain his excitement. “You mean it, King Lasbow? I'm your personal Seaguardian now?"

  "I'll square it with Captain Brost when next I hook up with him,” the Merking confirmed. “This is not for my benefit, you understand. I don't need the added protection myself.” Every day Lasbow was sounding more like Cerdic. “When Princess Ahlegra becomes Merqueen, I want you to focus your bodyguarding duties on to shepherding her. Just because the Landhopper threat is behind us, doesn't mean we're out of the kelp forest yet. Strange waters mean odd dangers."

  "The kraken,” Dulby murmured fearfully, making a warding sign with his trident to invoke Nupterus's protection.

  Enacting King Lasbow's directive, Brost had earlier gathered a joint exploration team composed of Fisher warriors, divers, and scouts that exited Delaware Bay around midmorning to conduct a full-scale sweep of Atlantis. Erops accompanied them, but only after the Merking convinced him that he should. Lasbow recalled their terse debate.

  "I'm assembling a task force which'll carry out a more thorough search of the handmade sea stack, but to accomplish that feat I'm in need of the best divers you can muster,” he told the invalided boss Retriever.

  Erops instantly poured cold water on the Merking's game plan. “I don't recommend sending any of my boys into a warren of unexplored caves without an armed escort."