Three Times Chosen

by Alan J. Garner

  "Hopefully that'll be sufficient juice to set my bird smack down in Landhopper central,” Abe muttered. Divine retribution might still lie within his grasp.

  Garbled synthesised words, sounding like a played audio tape stuck on fast forward, alerted him to Dog's faster-than-expected success at reclaiming the fried missile computer's blasted memory. “Sounds like you've revived Felix."

  "You personalised the missile computer with a name?"

  "Naturally. It improves interfacing no end."

  "Yet you apportion your biologic creations a mere classification number each."

  "I could go back to calling you by your serial number, but Ex-Pee-Cee-Aye-Oh-Oh-Three always was a bit of a mouthful."

  By the time Abe sauntered over to the cannibalised workstation hosting the missile comp-brain, Dog had slowed the fusion of electronic words, though the stream remained unintelligible. “Its speaker interface remains indecipherable."

  "What about audio? Can he understand me if I speak to him using the console mike?"

  "Affirmative, but replies will be limited to onscreen typeface."

  "I'll take what I can get.” Leaning into the strand of microphone sticking up out of the desktop like an errant weed, Dog asked, “Felix, can you hear me?"

  Yes appeared on the monitor.

  "Do you recognise my voice? Do you know who I am?"

  Dada.

  "What was that?"

  Felix lost, dada. Felix lost in dark.

  "Dog, he's spouting babyish. What's wrong with him?"

  "He is seemingly displaying the effects of a psychogenic meltdown."

  "A psychotic break? Machines don't suffer mental breakdowns."

  "The cybernate brain is synthetically modelled on the human cerebrum. Mimicking organic minds reproduces human neurosis too."

  "This is news to me. Your designers neglected to mention they were also recreating human idiosyncrasies. Did they install a continuously running, inbuilt psychoanalysis program to counter these side effects? Are you acting as your own shrink?"

  The irony escaped Dog. “Synthetic chemicals suppress the development of artificial psychoses."

  "And your sense of humour all these years. So the fire destroyed Felix's suppressants, turning him into this retard.” Dog thumped a metal fist against his head “It makes no sense! Nearly two-thirds of his memory is intact. There's been medical cases of a person losing half their brain and remaining a functional human being."

  "The files pertaining to core processes are certainly intact,” agreed Dog, “but those governing comprehension sustained severe damage."

  Felix sore.

  Staring dumbly at the screen, Norton was amazed. “Surely he can't be feeling pain?"

  "That is curious,” admitted Dog, unable to speculate.

  "How bad is his retardation?"

  "I compute he has the mental age comparable to that of a human child."

  "Infant or toddler?"

  "Unknown. My experience of miniature humans is limited."

  "Does he retain enough brains to fly my missile?"

  "I would not let a baby pilot a rocket."

  "Then you need to adopt Felix. Assume custody, incorporate his files into your own matrix and override the damaged parts."

  "Such a procedure is inadvisable. His surviving systems could irretrievably crash. All his files are steadily degrading. Based on the current rate of decay, data will be completely erased within twenty-four hours."

  "You resurrected Felix only to tell me that he's terminal? Dog, you make a lousy doctor."

  Felix want dada.

  "What do you propose I do with him?” muttered Norton, sick of having more questions asked than answered.

  "Babysitting Felix is a logical course of action."

  "You're the Station's minder,” Norton said, quick to pass the buck.

  "Negative. That task falls to you, dada."

  Grudgingly accepting his glaring parental responsibilities, Norton ordered Dog to transfer the infantile Felix to the workstation in his quarters. “Looks like I'm going to be a homebody for a while."

  "What of the Aquapeople?"

  "Set up monitoring facilities in my rooms. I'll conduct all my business from there. And get out of that ridiculous droid body. You look like a giant cockroach."

  "Norton, I am curious. Why the name Felix?"

  "It's a good cat's name."

  Dog struggled to comprehend.

  "They make better pets than dogs,” Norton said, laughing scornfully as he walked away.

  * * * *

  Eskaa was in heaven, a fitting place now he was god.

  In actuality, he reclined upon the flax mats carpeting the Dokran Teh's former residence, waited on hand and foot by adoring female worshippers. Transfiguring into a deity had upped his desirability. One of the handmaidens fanned him with a palm frond, wafting a cooling breeze over his godliness. The coconut butter candles lighting the gloomy roundhouse flickered accordingly.

  Sounds of primitive industry filtered through from outside; the rhythmic chink of stone hammers falling, the creaks of the overloaded bamboo scaffolding flexing dangerously, the guttural orders of bellowing overseers, the tired grunts from overworked labourers. The facelift of the crude palace proceeded apace. Haulers were lugging obsidian tiles upslope by the basketful to the compound, where workers feverishly glued the black squares into place on the exterior of the rock igloo.

  Out in the evaporating jungle carvers logged the precious few inland trees left, fashioning the cut boles into elongated likenesses of their new god. Eskaa effigies were also springing up in miniature form, crafted from the timber leftovers. Not a single scrap of wood was wasted. Recycling was in vogue too. Sculptors were cannibalising the idols of the deposed Elementals, reshaping the black-stained mangrove wood into suitable exaggerations of the deified Subos: Eskaa the Growler, Eskaa the Prowler, Eskaa the Fowler, not forgetting Eskaa the Scowler.

  Over all these working parties, the Shurpeha maintained a supervisory presence. More than Eskaa's hired muscle, they were his eyes and ears. Big Brothers watched constantly, always ready to punish the blasphemous.

  "Might I approach and enter, my Lord."

  Eskaa stirred. The enquiring voice belonged to his newly appointed First Discipline. His presence meant trouble on Eskaa's doorstep. Ulobb was left firm instructions to interrupt his godly master only in the direst emergency. “You might as well finish off disturbing my afternoon by coming inside,” Eskaa grumbled.

  Passing the dismissed female devotees on their way out, Ulobb prostrated himself before his lord and god. Leaning upon his elbows, Eskaa bade the burly Leaper rise and sit up on his haunches. The feathered collar reserved for the Subos was an ill fit around Ulobb's thick neck, as evidenced by him pulling at the overly tight cord with a nervous finger.

  "Whatever the problem, it is obviously something you can't handle, otherwise you wouldn't be bothering me,” Eskaa accused him. “So spit it out. What is it you need your god to fix?"

  "The weather, if it pleases you, my lord."

  Eskaa did not miss hearing the nuance in Ulobb's petition; a hint of misgiving that challenged Eskaa's narrow trust in him.

  Subos and Shurpeha commander rolled into a single, indivisible role, Ulobb the warrior-priest quickly grasped the value of religion as a tool of political power and wielded his newfound authority craftily for his own advancement. He viewed Eskaa through undiluted eyes, seeing the idolised Landhopper for what he really was—a cleverly manipulative individual who exploited belief by preying upon believers. But Eskaa amply rewarded those amongst the faithful that willingly muddied their hands carrying out his dirty work. And lately there was no Piawro dirtier than Ulobb. He captained the Shurpeha mercilessly and, through them, brutalised the unfaithful into submission.

  "Exactly what aspect of the weather do you want me to rectify, Ulobb?"

  "A little less wind would make life pleasanter, my lord."

  Laughing, Eskaa disdained his r
equest. “Not for me it won't. The wind doesn't bother me here in my temple."

  "But it hampers the work of the faithful,” argued Ulobb, sensibly avoiding eye contact with Eskaa. He had not come to challenge his god, merely lobby for Eskaa's counsel. “The wind is playing havoc with the remodelling. It keeps blowing tiles off the outside walls."

  "Try using stronger glue,” Eskaa blandly suggested.

  "And the fishing catch is down substantially because of it.” Eskaa glared wonderingly at Ulobb, who obligingly elucidated. “Big waves keep tipping over the canoes."

  "How is that a problem? Fish live under the waves. You don't need a boat to go diving in after them."

  "But they are handy for shipping the catch home to Lunder."

  Eskaa nibbled at a piece of coconut root to settle his complaining stomach. The rich food of late had afflicted him with intestinal pains and dysentery. A god could not even avoid sickness. “So you expect me to make the wind die down, hmmm?"

  "If that is your will, my lord."

  Ulobb pussyfooted around the reality that the only power at Eskaa's command was his gift of the gab. Even before the Subos’ rise to god status, he had deduced Eskaa possessed no magic. That power of observation was what marked Ulobb special, facilitating his rapid rise through the ranks. Plus, the fact two job openings were going begging. Eskaa the God could no more control the weather than turn water into coconut milk, but for the sake of stability Ulobb played along.

  "Hop with me, Ulobb."

  Eskaa led him out into a day roofed by a high overcast. Ulobb's strong breeze gusted fitfully through the compound, carrying on its invisible wings the sting of salt spray, adding to the misery of the toiling workers. At sight of their god hopping amongst them they began to lose cohesion, knocking over bowls, spilling glue and tiles in their grovelling and genuflecting. The Piawro were a doubly enslaved race. First, to Eskaa's fixation with conquering the Fish-with-Hands, then pandering to his obsessive need to be adulated.

  Paying them scant regard while Ulobb made a vocal show of exhorting his Shurpeha overseers to whip them smartly back into place, Eskaa carried on down the fenced path leading away from the roundhouse. He also did not care enough to notice the sharpened points topping the adjacent bamboo fencing were supplemented by razor obsidian tips as an added deterrent to keep zealous well-wishers from clambering into the temple grounds.

  It also served to dissuade would-be assassins from attempting to slay a god. There remained Climbers resentful of Eskaa's unstoppable rise to ultimate power. Ulobb had yet to root them all out, so careful were they at masking their hatred. But he vowed to expose and execute them all. Eventually.

  Hopping to keep up, Ulobb watched as his master leapt atop the flat roof of the square-house undergoing conversion from the Temple of the Elementals into the House of the One God. Puzzled, he remained on the ground, shifting unsurely from one foot to the other.

  "Just don't loiter there stupidly like a fat toad, Ulobb. Get up here with me."

  When his chief lackey had joined him, Eskaa gazed out over the ravaged island seawards, taking in the white-flecked western ocean. Only yesterday he had viewed the same vista, studying a mass of clouds steamrollering the horizon, obscuring the junction of sea and sky with its roiling whiteness. Today, the raging storm front had clearly drawn nearer, approaching with turbulent rapidness. Overhead, low clouds streaked by like streamers below the overcast, foretelling the ferocity to come.

  "Behold, Ulobb! I am bringing a storm of judgement that will test the faithful and doom the unworthy. Which are you?"

  "Counted highest amongst the blessed,” Ulobb arrogantly stated, hoping Eskaa would not contradict him.

  Thunderstorms were a natural phenomenon and if Eskaa wanted to stage a performance in the rain, it was his prerogative to do so. Ulobb would stay onside and follow his master's lead. What he failed to realise was the severity of the blow about to batter Lunder Atoll.

  "Have the acolytes provision my temple with as much food and water they can cram inside, and then place guards over the entrance. Next, gather up our most trusted and loyal Shurpeha. From their ranks, select the six worthiest to weather out the storm with us in the roundhouse. The rest will have to make do the best they can when the big winds hit. I'll pick myself the four handmaidens I want sheltered as well. The two Climbers needed I will leave you to choose. I strongly recommend that you consider choosing from amongst the sculptors reworking the Elemental statues. Their initiative is inspiring."

  This was going too fast for Ulobb. “All this preparation for a shower, my lord?"

  "Look out to sea, imbecile! Does that seem like a simple rainstorm blotting the horizon?” Eskaa excelled at weather divination and rightly forecasted trouble. “Winds capable of uprooting the meagre trees left on this rock are going to rage across Lunder. Anyone caught out in the open, and there are plenty of spaces without precious cover, will get blown away!"

  A nearby Shurpeha heard Eskaa's dire prediction and blinked nervously.

  Lowering his voice, Eskaa pointed out to Ulobb, “This building beneath our feet, plus the one next-door, are the only places of refuge on the atoll. If you want to survive, you'll not question your god."

  "Forgive me, Lord Eskaa."

  "That's more like it. You are valued, Ulobb. It would pain me having to replace you."

  "I am touched that you show such regard for my welfare"

  "Don't be. I'd hate to be inconvenienced. You're no doubt wondering about me sparing a couple of wretched Climbers. Call it vanity on my part. I want artists to keep sculpting my image in the aftermath."

  His skin paling in colour and drying out, Ulobb trembled before Eskaa's practicality.

  Amused by his minion's realisation that he truly held Ulobb's life, and the lives of all the islanders, in his ungodly hands, Eskaa's eyes glinted evilly. “You look shocked. Naturally, there'll be survivors. A great majority will be wiped out, but a worthy few should manage to ride out the storm's fury unprotected. Only the godless perish.

  "That's the tale you will spread, my dedicated warrior-priest. The coming tempest sorts the wheat from the chaff. Lunder is badly overpopulated. The big blow will cull the weak, the old and the young, leaving in its passage the strong, granting only the truest believers survival. Preach to the masses that is what I ordain."

  "You won't tell them yourself, my lord?"

  "You are my mouthpiece, faithful Ulobb. I'll not demean myself speaking to the flock directly.” Aloofness projects an air of mystique theorised Eskaa. “Carry out your tasks in haste, First Disciple. The storm will be upon us within a day."

  Bowing, Ulobb jumped from the roof, focused on his own survival first and foremost. A last minute addition from Eskaa halted him mid-hop down the earthen path.

  "Oh, and get some wooden doors knocked up for the palace entryways."

  "To act as storm shutters,” Ulobb surmised.

  "To lock out the rabble,” corrected Eskaa. “That bamboo fence behind you won't do the job once it's blown over."

  Chapter Twenty Nine

  "Can possibly anything else go against my plan!"

  Norton was unhappily referring to the fuzzy satellite imagery currently beaming from orbit directly into his quarters.

  Dada mad.

  "Yes, Felix, Dada's mad. I've gone off being a dog lover."

  The televised picture from space, courtesy of Seeing-Eye Dog and displayed in real-time on Norton's private viewscreen, depicted a tiny pinwheel in stop motion. It spiralled in majestic slowness, deceptively small and serene.

  "Dog, I know you are monitoring this. Calculate the dimensions of that hurricane."

  The cybernate had anticipated Norton's request for analysis. “Based on database comparisons with the present photographic evidence, I estimate the rainbands spread out one thousand miles. I cannot compute more precisely due to poor image quality."

  "Old age is making Seeing-Eye Dog go blind,” Norton bleakly kidded.

  His wisecra
ck was bang on the mark. The satellite was operating well beyond its design life, and failing. Norton had no need to ask Dog about the status of the platform's infrared sensors. If the simple optical cameras were not shooting at full capacity, he seriously doubted the more sophisticated surveillance systems, the only detectors capable of penetrating the spinning cloud cover, were working at all. So much for Dog's assertion that the orbital sensor suite was primed and ready to shoot. Buried beneath the swirling cyclonic forces squatted the target of Norton's fury. There would be no low orbit reconnaissance of the Landhopper island anytime soon.

  "I have further estimated that there is the highest probability of the storm developing into a Category-Five event."

  "Predicted wind speed?"

  "In excess of one hundred and forty miles per hour, accompanied by an exceedingly heavy storm surge."

  "Enough to flood an atoll?"

  "In all probability."

  "I don't want probabilities, Dog. I want certainties!"

  The hurricane will certainly wreak significant environmental damage on the islands lying directly in its path."

  "And kill how many Landhoppers?"

  "I cannot make that projection without knowing the island's population density."

  "We've been down this road before. Assume they breed like rabbits and make a guess."

  "The estimable death toll will likely be in the thousands, perhaps even the tens of thousands."

  "But not everybody will die."

  "The denser the population, the greater the chance of survivors. Even the severest storm is not a total eradicator of life."

  "But I know what is.” Fixating on the viewscreen, Norton asked, “Is the resolution of the satellite image good enough for you to plot distances?"

  Dog computed in suspenseful silence. “Even making compensations for distortion, I project only seventy-nine per cent accuracy,” he finally said.

  "Another case of me having to make do with defective machinery,” Norton groused. “Get to work and determine the diameter of the eye and roughly when it'll make landfall on Landhopper isle. There's a small window of opportunity and we'll only get the one shot at it."