told them in his own severely fractured English. “As such, I am your god …”
The men laughed. “Sure you are,” one replied.
They returned to their work, completely ignoring Soho. This infuriated him.
“That is my airplane!” he screamed, “And you are trying to cut it to pieces!”
The men continued their work inside the Sukki cockpit, looking all the world like surgeons, calmly operating on a patient.
“You will not take a torch to my airplane!” Soho screamed at the top of his lungs.
Suddenly one of the men was right in front of him. Soho stared into his eyes. They seemed to be pure white. The man’s hair was long and blond, like that of an angel—or maybe a Viking. And his face—it seemed to be glowing. And the halo looked quite real, too.
The man smiled. He looked at Soho’s torch and suddenly the flame went out. He looked at his water pipe and suddenly the hash stopped glowing. Soho was now trembling—and it was not just from the opium.
“I am … I am your commander …” Soho somehow managed to blurt out. “You … you must obey me …”
The man was smiling so benignly, it frightened Soho even more.
“You are nothing but a lowly pilot,” the strange being told him, his face but two inches from Soho’s. “Now just follow orders …”
At that moment, Soho opened his eyes.
He was alone on the cliff. It was close to dawn. And all of the candles around the Sukki jet had gone out.
The next morning
The small runway on the western tip of Fiji was lined with hundreds of natives, all of them bedecked in flowers, grass hats, and leis.
Gentle string music wafted through the early morning air, broken only by the occasional blast from a conch shell. Off in the distance, a choir of children could be heard softly chanting.
The Sukki jet was at the far end of the runway, a new coat of sickly pink paint still drying on its wings. Soho was there, a cup of opium-laced alcohol in one hand, the everpresent hash pipe in the other, sitting on a throne carried by six of the strongest natives on the island.
The young girl who had been living in Soho’s hut was also there; her parents were at her side, weeping openly. They were convinced that she was about to be killed by Soho’s men as a kind of sacrifice to the higher Cult gods—whoever the hell they were.
A team of Cult flight mechanics was standing around the Sukki—they hadn’t done a stitch of work in months, and now they were wondering how an airplane designed more than a half century before could be returned to flying condition without benefit of any specs, design plans, or schematics.
But as it would turn out, getting the old Me-262 down from its shrine on the cliff would be their biggest task. Because though they didn’t know why exactly, once the airplane was on the runway, it was quite capable of taking off, all by itself.
Soho clapped his hands twice and two aides brought forward a wooden bucket full of ice water. On his command, they threw it directly into his face, brutally reviving him. He stepped from the portable throne and with wobbly knees, approached the Sukki.
He was dressed in a ragged flight suit, with a leather cap and goggles—the same uniform he was wearing when he arrived on Fiji in the Sukki, several months before.
The music drifted away, and a light breeze came up on the airstrip. Soho looked at the assembled natives and the small troop of Cult soldiers lined up at attention behind them. Once again, a question which had been bouncing around in his debilitated brain since he first made Fiji came back to him: Who the hell are all these people?
He staggered over to the Sukki, barely taking notice of the young girl and her distraught parents. He nodded to one of the flight mechanics who took a deep breath. Reading from a small piece of parchment containing the barely decipherable scrawl of Soho, this man reached inside the jet’s cockpit and pushed a single red button. Suddenly the Sukki’s pair of wing-mounted
The men laughed. “Sure you are,” one replied.
They returned to their work, completely ignoring Soho. This infuriated him.
“That is my airplane!” he screamed, “And you are trying to cut it to pieces!”
The men continued their work inside the Sukki cockpit, looking all the world like surgeons, calmly operating on a patient.
“You will not take a torch to my airplane!” Soho screamed at the top of his lungs.
Suddenly one of the men was right in front of him. Soho stared into his eyes. They seemed to be pure white. The man’s hair was long and blond, like that of an angel—or maybe a Viking. And his face—it seemed to be glowing. And the halo looked quite real, too.
The man smiled. He looked at Soho’s torch and suddenly the flame went out. He looked at his water pipe and suddenly the hash stopped glowing. Soho was now trembling—and it was not just from the opium.
“I am … I am your commander …” Soho somehow managed to blurt out. “You … you must obey me …”
The man was smiling so benignly, it frightened Soho even more.
“You are nothing but a lowly pilot,” the strange being told him, his face but two inches from Soho’s. “Now just follow orders …”
At that moment, Soho opened his eyes.
He was alone on the cliff. It was close to dawn. And all of the candles around the Sukki jet had gone out.
The next morning
The small runway on the western tip of Fiji was lined with hundreds of natives, all of them bedecked in flowers, grass hats, and leis.
Gentle string music wafted through the early morning air, broken only by the occasional blast from a conch shell. Off in the distance, a choir of children could be heard softly chanting.
The Sukki jet was at the far end of the runway, a new coat of sickly pink paint still drying on its wings. Soho was there, a cup of opium-laced alcohol in one hand, the everpresent hash pipe in the other, sitting on a throne carried by six of the strongest natives on the island.
The young girl who had been living in Soho’s hut was also there; her parents were at her side, weeping openly. They were convinced that she was about to be killed by Soho’s men as a kind of sacrifice to the higher Cult gods—whoever the hell they were.
A team of Cult flight mechanics was standing around the Sukki—they hadn’t done a stitch of work in months, and now they were wondering how an airplane designed more than a half century before could be returned to flying condition without benefit of any specs, design plans, or schematics.
But as it would turn out, getting the old Me-262 down from its shrine on the cliff would be their biggest task. Because though they didn’t know why exactly, once the airplane was on the runway, it was quite capable of taking off, all by itself.
Soho clapped his hands twice and two aides brought forward a wooden bucket full of ice water. On his command, they threw it directly into his face, brutally reviving him. He stepped from the portable throne and with wobbly knees, approached the Sukki.
He was dressed in a ragged flight suit, with a leather cap and goggles—the same uniform he was wearing when he arrived on Fiji in the Sukki, several months before.
The music drifted away, and a light breeze came up on the airstrip. Soho looked at the assembled natives and the small troop of Cult soldiers lined up at attention behind them. Once again, a question which had been bouncing around in his debilitated brain since he first made Fiji came back to him: Who the hell are all these people?
He staggered over to the Sukki, barely taking notice of the young girl and her distraught parents. He nodded to one of the flight mechanics who took a deep breath. Reading from a small piece of parchment containing the barely decipherable scrawl of Soho, this man reached inside the jet’s cockpit and pushed a single red button. Suddenly the Sukki’s pair of wing-mounted
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