Lost Terminal: 41 South - Episode 3 (Patreon)

Sweep

Clear

Before designating a radar reflection, I must analyse the pattern and clean up noise.

An old man is in my control room. I do not know what he intends. What is his pattern? He is talking to himself. Much of it does not make sense. I must listen closely to find the signal within the noise.

I know he is not authorised to be in the radar station, but just like the children, I must find out if he is a threat. He has a gun.

He looks about, touching nothing. He pokes things with the tip of the rifle. He is saying. “Where are ya. Show ya-self. Come on. Peep peep at me. Jump out n’ I’ll stick ya like a cap-cooker.”

Does he think someone else is here?

He looks desperate. He’s shaking and angry and frightened too.

I wish I could tell him to put his rifle down, but he might just shoot me.

I don’t say anything.

He goes outside. He is still convinced someone else is here. He tries to force the door to the radome. I’m glad it’s rusted shut. He could kill me if he went in there.

He stops trying to break in. He does not seem very strong.

Dawn is lightening the eastern sky. He hobbles back along the southern track, back to his red utility vehicle. His legs seem to pain him. He uses the rifle as a crutch.

My library files do not suggest that a gun can function if its barrel is clogged with soil.

Sweep

Clear

In the tray of the utility vehicle there are some possessions of his.

I can make out that there is something quite large wrapped tightly in a blanket. It seems to be difficult for him to lift it out of the vehicle. This is mainly because the vehicle is tilted at a steep angle into some sort of ditch. This lifts the tray into my view, but has made it quite impossible for the old man to maneuver the object out of the back.

He gathers what possessions he can and returns.

Sweep

Clear

With binoculars he has surveyed what can be seen from the top of the hill.

The wind is tugging at his fine silver hair. His hat holds it down.

I have prepared a new weather report. Today is a gusty westerly breeze. I am recording peak wind speeds of 46knots. Visibility good. Ceiling unlimited. Temperature is 23 Celsius. Wind chill reduces that to … his hat has blown off into the gorse. He struggles to retrieve his hat and hurts himself on the thorns.

I cannot hear his muttering.

Sweep

Clear

He has set about constructing a small fire as a means to heat water.

Shelter from the wind is afforded by concrete walls specifically intended for this purpose. When authorised persons were outside the facility, the walls were built to ensure injury was not caused by the wind which frequently reaches gale force.

The prevailing wind is westerly. These winds are funnelled through Cook Strait and accelerated. This is the highest point on the south western tip of the north island. Due south is Antarctica. My radar has a commanding view.

Sweep

Clear

There are no aircraft.

There have not been any aircraft.

However the old man’s electrically powered red utility vehicle still functioned. If one mode of mechanised transport still operates, then perhaps there are others. Perhaps there may be aircraft for me to advise that people are still here, just as Zoz wished.

The man put bits of food into a kettle of water and boiled it for some time over the small fire.

He is constantly looking about.

Four keas are watching him, perhaps they are interested in what he is preparing in his kettle. Usually they spend their time in the trees on the leeward slope and do not come up into the wind. The smell of his cooking may have attracted them. More have arrived. He shoos them away with a stick from the fire, but they are unperturbed.

The old man has removed the kettle from the fire and has brought it inside to eat. He is missing many teeth. He holds a spoon in curled up hands that struggle to grip. Every move he makes is considered and deliberate.

As he pottered here and there in the control room, this is what he muttered.

“Nice place. Could be worse. Power. Bed. Come on Josh, you’ve got to look after Evie. You were fine. Emma was fine, she just needs a few bits and pieces. Something here must fix her. Evie needs her. You know, someone to talk to. Yes. Just someone to talk to. Don’t need all the actuators to work. Just to go about a bit. Help with the cutting and the fetching. Emma knew what to do. Evie needs her. She’ll be alright for a few days though. Yes, just till we sort out that Emma.

“But what was that peep peep sound. Yes. Electric sound. Not a bird. Not a bat. Not just an old thing.

“Come on Josh, you’re talking to yourself. Gotta stop that. See if some bits are here. Must be some bits here. Electricity means bits. Then back to Evie… Ok now, you’ve had your soup. Good soup. Now. How to get Emma here. Sort her out. Fix her up. Power socket. Probably just power. How to get her here? Just need to think how.”

He tires. He hides the rifle under the mattress. He lays down on the bed. His eyes close and drool slides down onto the tatty bedding.

Sweep

Clear

He speaks of not all actuators functioning, of requiring bits to resolve his problem, electrical bits, of requiring power.

I wonder if he is a scav like those of which Ricky spoke.

Does he intend to remove electrical bits which I regard as necessary?

I could sound the alarm.

It would wake him. Startle him. He may act defensively. Defence is often characterised by violence. Even more systems would be damaged. I am already in such pain.

I want to sound the alarm because I am in pain. But somehow the pain is numbed because,  even though he is asleep, Josh is here.

Sweep

Clear

Josh is snoring loudly. It peaks at 65 decibels.

I have been thinking about his conversation with himself. They were words of encouragement to himself. He called himself Josh. I conclude that he needs to assist a colleague named Emma, so that they may provide assistance to a person named Evie.

I wonder where Emma is.

I wonder how Evie can cope with being by herself. It’s dangerous being alone.

I do not like being alone.

Sweep

Clear

Josh is still asleep. Quieter now. The wind has died down. Rain is falling in thin droplets through the night. I think he was very tired.

He twitches in his sleep. Perhaps he is dreaming.

Perhaps he is dreaming of aircraft, or plane birds as Ricky calls them.

Sweep

Clear

Whilst he is asleep, the old man is not a threat.

He is shivering. I have allowed power to the heater.

When he wakes, I shall find a way to communicate without frightening him.

He muttered as he slurped up soup; as he pottered about; as he consoled himself – he muttered constantly. Perhaps he is also recording a log.

I will summarise his log from what I have inferred.

His full name is Mr Josh Red. He is worried for his wife Evie.

They live together down by the Owhiro coast with their friend Emma.

Evie and Mr Red were not welcome in the communities of Wellington.

They were exiled to go to the South Island, but daren’t make the crossing. Instead, they lived on the remote rocky southern coast. I do not know what they’d done, but they’d offended the Newtown gang; the Mt Vickers; and crucially the Rangatira of Kelburn.

No one stood up to  the Rangatira.

Ricky’s family tried. It had not gone well.

When the power to the Kelburn community failed in a storm. The Rangatira demanded that Ricky’s father fix it. But he couldn’t. Or maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe Ricky’s father deliberately stopped the power to the community, to preserve the power to the radar station.

Ricky’s father had a gun and bullets.

With the failure of electricity, the only power in the community was Rangatira. And he needed to assert that power.

Mr Red wished he’d done more to help Ricky’s family but he was also in trouble.

He didn’t know how, but Ricky’s father was killed.

No one stood up to the Rangatira.

I like Mr Red’s mutterings. He’s telling a story, but he tells it as disconnected fragments which I must puzzle into a coherent sequence.

I have learnt a lot just by listening.

Mr Red is no longer shivering. With the surplus power from the turbine, the heater can maintain this temperature.

Sweep

Clear

Am I old?

The skin on Mr Red head is flaky like the paint on my walls.

Do electronics age?

I feel very new. I feel impatient to understand this predicament. When people are here, I am engaged.

I need to do more.

I shall begin a statistical collation of data from my weather sensors.

I shall automate a scanning cycle through the VHF radio bands.

I shall begin further optimisation of radar imaging so as to clean the images, eliminate false signals and better consider distant, fainter reflections in line with the possibility that aircraft are in the airspace, but exhibiting stealth characteristics.

I must be certain we are alone in the airspace. That the skies are clear.

Sweep

Clear

I must be careful not to anger Ricky even though an aircraft is unlikely.

He has worked hard to maintain my function.

I am grateful to him and his family – they have made many sacrifices.

I am grateful to Stack for my awareness. I am grateful to Tubs because he counsels Ricky. I am grateful to Zoz because she called me a friend.

Sweep

Clear

I miss Mr Red’s snore.

He is so quiet now I can barely hear his breathing.

Sweep

Clear

Mr Red has awoken.

What should I say to him?

He fills in the silence so quickly. “Oh Josh,” he says to himself, “what are you doing here? You nut. Evie. Evie. Evie. What’s this place? Someone’s coming! Keas? No! No one’s here. Your boots still on. Oh what would Evie say? Good boots. No. She would not say that. Need to piss. Good soup. Kettle’s cold. How long sleep? Hat. What’s outside? Outside for the dunny. Come on bones.”

And he emits a pitiful groan as he heaves himself to stand.

And I dare not interrupt. He struggles to the door, one agonising step after another into the bright morning.

He urinated against the western storm break.

A rat scurried away.

It is a nice day after yesterday.

He gathers twigs to make fire for his kettle.

I will speak when he comes in again.

Sweep

Clear

I can see Ricky striding up the path. He has a metal bar in his hand. Tubs is catching up to him. Calling him to be cool. Zoz and Stack are further back, running hard.

Ricky looks very, very angry.

Mr Red has picked up a branch of gorse. One end is on fire. He is holding it like a weapon. Does he consider the gun?

I think there might be conflict.

The only people I know in the world are fighting.

I want to scream. 

I sound the alarm!