The Chase To Fortune Island - Amadeus Global Website | …€¦ · THE CHASE TO FORTuNE ISLAND ......

The Chase To

FortuneIsland A short story by Ian Douglas Illustrated by Lars Otterclou

Commissioned by

The Chase To ForTune Island

ylan scanned through his emails.

“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.

“You sound disheartened,” she said.

Dylan leaned back in his chair.

“Six months since my last job, I’m a bit more than disheartened.”

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?”

“We’ve done that twice today already,” Dylan replied, sweeping back his black curls.

“Then I’ll broaden my parameters,” Lorie said and vanished.

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.

With a bleep Lorie’s pretty features re-appeared.

“Hey Dylan, I’ve got something.”

“A job?”

Lorie shook her head.

“There’s an industry conference at the weekend. The big six are meeting.”

Dylan’s mouth dropped.

1

d


“The software giants? But how’s that a job opportunity?”

“I was thinking about the VPA?”

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’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.

“OK, direct flights to Samui’s international airport kick off at 3000 e-dollars.”

“Lorie, you know how much I’ve got in the bank. Coming up with impossible answers isn’t helping.”

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.”

2


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?”

“If nothing goes wrong.”

Dylan rolled his eyes, slung his pack over his shoulder and trudged into the blinding tropical sunlight.

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.

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.

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.

“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.

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.

“Thailand!” Lorie exclaimed. “Soon we’ll get off at Chumpon, the gateway to Ko Chokdee.”

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.

“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.”

3

t


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.

4

d


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.

5

K


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 half-baked. Maybe he should just slope off back to the mainland. At least that way he’d be spared the humiliation of abject failure.

The mobile on the bedside cabinet began trilling its morning alarm. Once again Lorie had predicted his needs. He checked the text inbox.

‘Good morning Dylan, and don’t despair. After all, you invented me!’

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 jet-black hair.

“I want to get to the Sandalwood Spa Resort,” he asked.

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.

“No plane, other thing. Me not know how to say in English.”

“Oh, you mean helicopter?”

She nodded with equal ferocity.

“There must be roads.”

“No roads, mister, jungle too thick.”

“Then how do I get there?”

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.

a

6


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.

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.

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.

Dylan whistled.

“So how do I get in?”

“Try the entrance.” Lorie suggested.

Dylan approached the steel doors.

“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.

“Identity not recognised,” said the voice.

Dylan pressed his hand against the scanner. The green light lit up his palm.

“Identity not recognised.”

“Can I speak to someone in authority, please,” Dylan said aloud and waving at the surveillance cams overhead.

“Identity not recognised,” came the pre-recorded answer.

Briefly Dylan considered smashing the console with a stone.

“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.

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!

“You can’t give up now, Dylan.”

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.

“No security?” he asked, pressing the mobile to his ear.

“Well, someone just got summoned to answer the phone.”

Lorie giggled.

Dylan sneaked into the grounds, and directed by Lorie, made his way to the conference suite. He stepped into a hissing, air-conditioned corridor.

“Keep going,” Lorie said.

He came to a door.

“That’s the one, in you go!”

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.

He took a deep breath and entered.

7


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.”

The executives broke out with laughter.

“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.

“Listen to him. I’m the living proof.”

“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.

Dylan clenched his fists.

“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…”

8


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.”

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

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?

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?”

“How on Earth are we getting back to England?”

9©Amadeus IT Group SA. Story by Ian Douglas: iandouglas-writer.co.uk Illustrations by Lars Otterclou: otterclou.se/

THE CHASE TO FORTuNE ISLAND

the end

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