The Chase To ForTune Island

The Chase to
Fortune
Island
A short story by Ian Douglas
Illustrated by Lars Otterclou
Commissioned by
The Chase to Fortune Island
D
ylan scanned through his emails.
“Then I’ll broaden my parameters,” Lorie said and vanished.
“Rejection, rejection, declined, rejection,” he muttered.
The face of a young woman appeared in the top left corner of the screen.
She had strawberry blond hair and eyes as blue as a summer sky. It was Lorie.
Chewing on an old pen, Dylan looked around at the clutter of his apartment.
That was the funny thing about unemployment; he was too busy looking for work
to clear up the pizza boxes and unwashed socks. Well, and too busy battling 3D
zombies on his games console. But he needed something to cheer him up.
“You sound disheartened,” she said.
With a bleep Lorie’s pretty features re-appeared.
Dylan leaned back in his chair.
“Hey Dylan, I’ve got something.”
“Six months since my last job, I’m a bit more than disheartened.”
“A job?”
Lorie threw him a sympathetic look. “Come on boy genius, sooner or later
someone will recognise your talent? Would you like me to scan the Cloud for
new opportunities?”
Lorie shook her head.
“We’ve done that twice today already,” Dylan replied, sweeping back his
black curls.
Dylan’s mouth dropped.
“There’s an industry conference at the weekend. The big six are meeting.”
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The Chase to Fortune Island
“The software giants? But how’s that a job opportunity?”
“OK, direct flights to Samui’s international airport kick off at 3000 e-dollars.”
“I was thinking about the VPA?”
“Lorie, you know how much I’ve got in the bank. Coming up with impossible
answers isn’t helping.”
The acronym stood for ‘virtual personal assistant,’ an artificial intelligence created
from algorithms and sub-routines, and shaped to the user’s unique personality. More
than a humble programme, the VPA could problem-solve, innovate and create. In
short, it could think. For years the concept had been nothing more than speculation. A
fantastic idea but not in our lifetimes, or so said the professors and super-geeks.
Dylan had proved them all wrong. He’d written a code for a working VPA.
The trouble was nobody believed him. As if some twenty-something non-entity
could succeed where the industry eggheads had failed. He’d been laughed out
of so many offices he’d lost count.
Lorie, of course, was the first edition of his VPA programme. And so far, after a
year of testing, she remained glitch free. If only someone influential would listen!
“I don’t get it, Lorie,” Dylan said.
Lorie beamed a radiant smile, and Dylan remembered the long hard week
he’d spent working on those lip movements.
“The heads from the six most influential computer companies will be in one
room. Why not make them a pitch?”
Lorie laughed. The sound always reminded Dylan of birdsong.
“I’ve cross-referenced your budget with all travel options. There is an affordable
route, if we fly to a cheaper destination and then some overland travel.”
Dylan frowned.
“Are you sure? What about visas? Insurance?”
“Trust me Dylan. I can take care of all that in nanoseconds. Let me do the
boring stuff and you focus on the pitch of a lifetime. What do you say?”
Dylan scratched his chin. No work, no girlfriend, and no social life, what did
he have to lose? He banged the desk with his fist.
“Lorie, you’re a genius.”
“No, Dylan, that’s you. I’ve downloaded a list of travel essentials to your
tablet. You get packing while I book the coach to the airport.”
Lorie’s sub-code for original thought was certainly working well. But hijack a
business meeting? Dylan’s stomach quivered.
“Maybe, so where are the great and good getting together?”
“Ko Chokdee,” Lorie said.
“Go where now?”
“No, Ko Chokdee, an island near to Ko Samui in the Gulf of Thailand. It’s an
exclusive getaway, off the beaten track. The name means ‘good fortune’ in Thai.”
Dylan took a deep gulp.
“How on Earth would I get there?”
Lorie closed her eyes, deep in thought. Her multi-gigabyte intelligence was
trawling through the Internet.
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The Chase to Fortune Island
T
he doors of the arrivals terminal swished open and Dylan walked out
into a wall of hot sticky air.
“Try that taxi and ask for Jalan Sultan Hishamuddin,” Lorie piped up
from the tablet in Dylan’s pack.
“Malaysia!” Dylan squeaked. “Malaysia,” he said again in a less shrill voice.
“Not even Thailand, we’re in the wrong country completely.”
“Trust me Dylan. I’ve traded costs against hours. This is the only route that
gets you there in time without breaking the bank. If…”
“If?”
“What shall I order for dinner?” he asked.
“Hmm,” Lorie said. “Let’s get some advice.”
She closed her eyes and surfed the Cloud, asking questions in all the
relevant chat rooms and social media.
“Ok,” she said, opening her eyes. “Josh and Mandy from Sydney, backpacking
their way to Singapore, say ‘try the nasi lemak, the sweet and spice is to-die-for.’”
As it turned out, the meal was indeed exquisite and the local beer better.
Dylan brought up the latest action movie on the touch screen and dozed off.
“If nothing goes wrong.”
He awoke at sunrise to a view of palm trees and glistening rice fields. A food
seller was working through the compartment selling stubby bananas.
Dylan rolled his eyes, slung his pack over his shoulder and trudged into the
blinding tropical sunlight.
“Thailand!” Lorie exclaimed. “Soon we’ll get off at Chumpon, the gateway to
Ko Chokdee.”
Sat in the cab into Kuala Lumpur, Dylan chewed frantically on his nails. Outside,
he could see an endless world of oriental housing and bougainvillaea. Every
signpost was in a strange language. The people, the stores, the buses, everything
was different. It was as if he’d landed on another planet. He felt very alone.
A violent jolt shook the train. The wheels groaned like tortured beasts, as
slowly the vehicle ground to a halt. Two agonising hours passed while the
passengers in the sealed bubble of the aircon waited for news. None came,
but eventually the train flickered into life. The onboard computers and electrics
switched themselves back on and the engine began to whir again.
When they reached the train station, a castle of gleaming white minarets, a
young woman wrapped in a hijab waited for them. The sash around her waist
indicated she worked for the booking office.
“Mr Howard? Your tickets.”
“I thought it quicker than queuing,” Lorie explained.
Lorie guided Dylan through the crowds of travellers and noodle soup sellers
to the right platform. Soon the train was speeding through rubber plantations,
with hundreds of trees lined up in orderly rows.
“A malfunction in the circuits. It just needed rebooting,” Lorie said.
Dylan flashed her a reproachful stare.
“You look worried,” she remarked.
“That would be because I am,” he replied.
She smiled her pearl-white smile.
“You sleep off that jetlag. I have an idea.”
The seats were all fitted with screens in their backs. Dylan leaned forward
and touched the one in front of him, bringing up the menu.
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The Chase to Fortune Island
D
ylan found himself standing on the platform at Chumpon
in the late afternoon. The hum of flies and the chirrup of
geckoes resonated across the tracks.
“There’s no way I can make that ferry now,” Dylan grumbled, mopping
sweat from his brow. The air was as humid as a sauna.
“Trust me, take a taxi to Jetty 31. And don’t pay more than twenty
e-dollars!”
A grizzled old taxi-driver drove Dylan through the maze of townhouses,
Buddhist temples and mosques. Dylan’s heart pounded against his
ribcage. Every red light and traffic jam had him gnawing on his fist. Were
they ever going to get there? And then the buildings parted to reveal a
sapphire blue sea. Fishing boats bobbed alongside a wooden pier.
“What’s going on?” Dylan gasped.
A small crowd of fresh-faced backpackers had gathered at Jetty 31.
The ferryboat churned the water with its engines, while its crew looked
on bemused. As Dylan clambered out of the taxi, the crowd cheered.
“Go Dylan!” they shouted.
Too stunned to speak, Dylan boarded and waved goodbye as the
boat chugged out of the harbour. For a moment he did nothing, leaning
over the deck and staring at the crystal clear waves. Then he pulled out
his tablet.
“A flash mob,” Lorie grinned. “I sent word out that if you missed the trip
you’d lose the chance of a lifetime. It was amazing how many wanted to
help. They just pleaded with the captain to stall long enough for you to
get there.”
Dylan puffed out his chest with a surge of confidence.
“Lorie, nothing’s going to stop us now.”
An unusually large wave smacked into the bow. The boat tilted
sharply and threw Dylan against the railings. The tablet slipped from
his grasp. It dropped into the water and vanished into the briny depths.
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The Chase to Fortune Island
K
o Chokdee rose from the sea
like a jewel, a land carved
from emerald and jade.
Mango, banana, and papaya dotted the
hills in a mosaic of greens. White sands
ringed the shoreline.
The sea was a beautiful turquoise.
Yet this beauty was lost on Dylan as
he trudged dejectedly from the ferry
to the row of wooden shops. Thanks to
his meagre budget he only owned one
mobile computing device, the same
tablet now lying on the bottom of the
Gulf. All his plans and demonstrations
for the VPA were in that. And worse, so
was Lorie. Here he was on a remote
island, miles from an Internet café. He
didn’t even know where the software
conference was taking place. The
sunshine was invisible to Dylan, he was
lost in a fog of despair.
A hand touched his arm. It was a woman in her late sixties, in the ubiquitous
tourist uniform of tee shirt and shorts. She took off a straw sunhat and a bundle of
silver hair flapped in the sea breeze.
“Excuse me young man,” she said blushing. “Are you Dylan Howard?”
He nodded.
“Only I’ve had this text from someone called Lorie.”
Dylan’s eyes widened. This was incredible.
“She says to tell you there’s a phone shop down the street, selling cheap mobiles.
Actually that’s where I got this one.”
The sunset found Dylan sitting outside a noodle shop, enjoying a glass of
frothy local beer and idly watching rickshaws conveying tourists. The shiny new
mobile lay on the tabletop. The phone shop only stocked the old-fashioned
kind of mobiles, no interactive touch screen models, but at least Lorie could
communicate by texts.
He picked up the mobile and reviewed Lorie’s messages.
‘No more we can do tonight. Somsak’s Guesthouse has a vacancy, across from
this restaurant.’
Dylan had never felt so exhausted. The change of time zones, the heat, the
stress of travel all added up to one heck of a punch. He wondered whether he
could have made it this far without Lorie, always on tap to translate a word or
point in the right direction. The answer was no.
Dylan swiped his e-card against the reader in the waiter’s hand and headed
wearily for the guesthouse.
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The Chase to Fortune Island
A
cockerel in fine voice awoke Dylan at dawn. He lay under the folds
of the mosquito net, watching the pale glow of daylight seep
through the shuttered window. It felt safe here, tucked up in the
womb-like gloom. But this was his big day. He had to get to the hotel, find a
way in, and somehow persuade a group of powerful company executives to
listen. Back in England the plan had seemed feasible. Now it seemed halfbaked. Maybe he should just slope off back to the mainland. At least that way
he’d be spared the humiliation of abject failure.
She laughed as though he’d said something deeply stupid. He repeated the
question. She jabbed at the sky with her forefinger.
“Only way Mister. Only way.”
Dylan took a step back, confused.
“You mean a plane?”
She shook her head vigorously.
The mobile on the bedside cabinet began trilling its morning alarm. Once
again Lorie had predicted his needs. He checked the text inbox.
“No plane, other thing. Me not know how to say in English.”
‘Good morning Dylan, and don’t despair. After all, you invented me!’
“Oh, you mean helicopter?”
With a bashful smirk Dylan scrambled out of the netting. After an
invigorating cold shower, he approached the landlady in the small, bare-floored
reception. She was a plump middle-aged woman with saffron skin and jetblack hair.
She nodded with equal ferocity.
“I want to get to the Sandalwood Spa Resort,” he asked.
“Then how do I get there?”
“There must be roads.”
“No roads, mister, jungle too thick.”
The landlady shrugged and walked away. Dylan grabbed the mobile from his
pocket and anxiously keyed in a question.
‘Just told no road to hotel – help!’
He pressed send. A few seconds later the mobile pinged.
‘No tarmac roads but paths. Hire a bicycle from Tom’s Bike Shanty on the next
block. Pedal west. I’ll send you directions. And Dylan, don’t forget to buy drinking
water. Heat stroke is a possibility.’
Dylan kissed the phone, a gesture that brought peals of laughter from the
landlady. He ignored her and bolted for the doorway.
Tom’s stock of rusty boneshakers left something to be desired. Dylan ended up
with a racer two sizes too small. But he was in too much of a hurry to quibble. It
was the last day of the conference, before the big six flew out.
He pedalled furiously along a wide, dusty road, lined with ancient banyan
trees. The odd peasant sat on the verge selling boiled peanuts or rice in bamboo.
Dylan had forgotten to eat breakfast and the aromas were as distracting as a
siren’s song. But there was no time to lose.
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The Chase to Fortune Island
Lorie texted him to take the next left. Then again a few seconds later to say
he’d missed it and to go back. Dylan blessed the phone’s GPS and did a u-turn.
The road became a lane, then a trail, then a footpath. On he went, deeper into
the rainforest, and only pausing to swig down the drinking water. Although the
foliage offered some shade, the sun was overwhelming. Never had anything
tasted as good as those sips of plastic-bottled water.
Briefly Dylan considered smashing the console
with a stone.
Then came a hard uphill slog. The slope was too steep to cycle and he
dismounted. Exotic birds cawed in the treetops. Their wings glinted with deep
metallic greens and blues.
And that was that, it was over. He’d failed. Head down and
shoulders slouching, he retreated into the vegetation. Frustration
screamed in his head. So near and yet – his mobile was ringing!
While Dylan’s head was in the trees, the footpath unexpectedly opened up
onto a concrete lattice wall. He peered through the lattice. There it was! The
Sandalwood Spa Resort, like a vision of Nirvana. Pastel-tinted buildings fanned
out from the swimming pool, which boasted a fountain and a poolside bar.
The hotel architecture was all pillars, archways, and cupolas, an odd mix of the
arabesque and a Mediterranean villa. Hotel guests in swimwear were lounging
around the pool, and being pampered with cold drinks and delicacies. The hotel
staff wore outfits that looked like the wardrobe from a performance of Aladdin,
complete with red turbans, long-tailed coats and pink cummerbunds.
“You can’t give up now, Dylan.”
Dylan whistled.
“No security?” he asked, pressing the mobile to his ear.
“So how do I get in?”
“Well, someone just got summoned to answer the phone.”
“Try the entrance.” Lorie suggested.
Lorie giggled.
Dylan approached the steel doors.
Dylan sneaked into the grounds, and directed by Lorie, made his way to the
conference suite. He stepped into a hissing, air-conditioned corridor.
“Please look into the camera,” said an automated voice.
Dylan lowered his head to the lens on the security console beside the doors.
A green laser scanned his retinas.
“Please can I come in,” he begged.
“Please contact our customer representatives for a
brochure on our resort. Have a nice day,” said the recording.
It was Lorie’s honeyed voice. This was a new trick, using audio software in
the Cloud to speak rather than text.
“It’s over Lorie. Nice try but no cigar.”
“Maybe not. I’ve spotted a back entrance. Come on!”
Five minutes later Dylan found the exit. It was deserted.
“Keep going,” Lorie said.
He came to a door.
“Identity not recognised,” said the voice.
“That’s the one, in you go!”
Dylan pressed his hand against the scanner. The green light lit up his palm.
Dylan lingered for a second. A second that lasted an eternity. His mind raced
through the last six months of rejections and the failures. Images from the last
forty-eight hours jostled in his head. He’d been on a quest, a foolhardy, lunatic
quest. And now it all came down to this moment.
“Identity not recognised.”
“Can I speak to someone in authority, please,” Dylan said aloud and waving
at the surveillance cams overhead.
He took a deep breath and entered.
“Identity not recognised,” came the pre-recorded answer.
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The Chase to Fortune Island
Five men and one woman were grouped around a conference table. The
far end of the room was dominated by an enormous 3D screen. Graphics
flashed across its surface, bar charts, pie charts and graphs. The men wore
expensive suits and the woman was dripping with gold jewellery. They froze
like mannequins, wide-eyed and mouths gaping. Two hours in the jungle had
left Dylan a dishevelled and sweaty sight.
Nobody spoke. Dylan coughed nervously.
“Is this the cabaret?” a stout American asked. Everyone roared.
“My name’s Dylan Howard and I’ve perfected the VPA. My programme fits
the user’s needs like a glove and it’s capable of intelligent thought.”
“Somebody call security,” the American said.
“Don’t,” pleaded Dylan. “I’ve had to travel halfway round the world.”
“You look like you walked every step of the way,” the British woman said and
raised a haughty eyebrow.
“Without Lorie, I would’ve done. I’m broke.”
“Without who?”
“My VPA.”
“That would be me,” Lorie said, materialising on the huge plasma screen.
The executives broke out with laughter.
Dylan clenched his fists.
“Dearie, that’s decades away,” said the woman in a cut glass British accent.
Her phone rang, as did every other phone in the room. And each phone lit up to
show Lorie, perfect as a goddess, on the screen.
“Every time disaster struck she was there to save the day.”
The British woman placed her tablet on the table and said, “tell us more…”
“Listen to him. I’m the living proof.”
8
The Chase to Fortune Island
D
aylight was waning as Dylan enjoyed a cocktail by the pool. On his
lap were a bundle of contracts. A new tablet, courtesy of the big six,
lay beside him. Lorie was looking out, beaming like the sunshine.
“You did it,” she said.
It was true. The tale of how his VPA overcame every obstacle and enabled him
to make the conference had gripped the executives. Dylan had won them over.
“Look at these digital rights, worth a few million e-dollars,” he said, and
guzzled down the fruity drink.
“Congratulations.”
Story by Ian Douglas: iandouglas-writer.co.uk
Dylan sat up abruptly, gripping the empty glass.
“Just one little thing, Lorie.”
“Which is?”
“Well, it’ll be a few weeks before these cheques can be cashed.”
“And?”
Dylan reclined into the cushions on the deck chair. So much had happened in
the last forty-eight hours that his mind was in a blur. He’d flown around the world,
caught a train, sailed in a ferry and even rented a bike. He’d been helped out
©Amadeus IT Group SA.
by a flash mob, online surfers and even the old lady with the outmoded mobile.
Instructions were translated, bills were paid, and reservations were made. And
it was thanks to Lorie. Thanks to her things were on the up and up and there
was nothing to worry about. Or was there?
“How on Earth are we getting back to England?”
Illustrations by Lars Otterclou: otterclou.se/
The End
9