markings. The air was filled with the shriek of its jet engines, and a strong
breeze brought me the acrid fumes of fuel spilled on the concrete apron. I glanced at Papa, who gave me only the
slightest shrug. There was nothing we could do but go where the man with the rifle wanted us to go.
We had to cross about thirty yards of empty airfield to the chopper, and we weren't making any kind of resis-tance. Still, al-Bishah came up behind me and clubbed me in the back of the head with the butt of his rifle. I fell to my knees, and bright points of color swam before my eyes. My head throbbed with pain. I felt for a moment as if I were about to vomit.
I heard a drawn-out groan nearby, and when I turned my head I saw that Friedlander Bey sprawled helplessly on the ground beside me. That the fat cop had beaten Papa angered me more than that he'd slugged me. I got unsteadily to my feet and helped Papa up. His face had gone gray, and his eyes weren't focused. I hoped he hadn't suffered a concussion. Slowly I led the old man to the open hatch of the chopper.
Al-Bishah watched us climb into the transport. I didn't turn around and look at him, but over the roar of the aircraft's motors I heard him call to us. "Ever come to Najran again, you're dead."
I pointed down at him. "Enjoy it while it lasts, motherfucker," I shouted, "because it won't last long." He just grinned up at me. Then the chopper's co-pilot slammed the hatch, and I tried to make myself comfort-able beside Friedlander Bey on the hard plastic bench.
I put my hand under the keffiya and gingerly touched the back of my head. My fingers came away bloody. I turned to Papa and was glad to see that the color had come back into his face. "Are you all right, O Shaykh?" I asked. "I thank Allah," he said, wincing a little. We couldn't say anything more because our words were drowned out
as the chopper prepared for takeoff. I sat back and waited for whatever would happen next. I entertained myself
by entering Sergeant al-Bishah on my list, right after Lieu-tenant Hajjar.
The chopper circled around the airfield and then shot off toward its mysterious destination. We flew for a long
time without changing course in the slightest. I sat with my head in my hands, keeping time by the excruciating, rhythmic stabs in the back of my skull. Then I remem-bered that I had my rack of neural software. I joyfully pulled it out, removed my keffiya, and chipped in the daddy that blocked pain. Instantly, I felt a hundred per-cent better, and without the adverse effects of chemical painkillers. I couldn't leave it in for very long, though. If I did, sooner or later there'd be a heavy debt to repay to my central nervous system.
There was nothing I could do to make Papa feel bet-ter. I could only let him suffer in silence, while I pressed my face to the plastic port in the hatch. For a long time I hadn't seen any lights down there, not a city, not a village, not even a single lonely house stuck far away from civiliza-tion. I assumed we were flying over water. I found out how wrong I was when the sun began to 1 come up, ahead of us and a little to starboard. We'd been flying northeast the entire time. According to my inaccu-rate mental map, that meant that we'd been heading out over the heart of Arabia. I hadn't realized how unpopu-lated that part of the world was.
I decided to remove the pain daddy about half an hour after I chipped it in. I popped it, expecting to feel a wave of renewed agony wash over me, but I was pleasantly surprised. The throbbing had settled down to a normal, manageable headache. I replaced my keffiya. Then I got up from the plastic bench and made my way forward to the cockpit.
"Morning," I said to the pilot and co-pilot.
The co-pilot turned around and looked at me. He took a long look at my princely outfit, but he stifled his curios-ity. "You got to go back and sit down," he said. "Can't be bothering us while we're trying to fly this thing." I shrugged. "Seems like we could've been on
breeze brought me the acrid fumes of fuel spilled on the concrete apron. I glanced at Papa, who gave me only the
slightest shrug. There was nothing we could do but go where the man with the rifle wanted us to go.
We had to cross about thirty yards of empty airfield to the chopper, and we weren't making any kind of resis-tance. Still, al-Bishah came up behind me and clubbed me in the back of the head with the butt of his rifle. I fell to my knees, and bright points of color swam before my eyes. My head throbbed with pain. I felt for a moment as if I were about to vomit.
I heard a drawn-out groan nearby, and when I turned my head I saw that Friedlander Bey sprawled helplessly on the ground beside me. That the fat cop had beaten Papa angered me more than that he'd slugged me. I got unsteadily to my feet and helped Papa up. His face had gone gray, and his eyes weren't focused. I hoped he hadn't suffered a concussion. Slowly I led the old man to the open hatch of the chopper.
Al-Bishah watched us climb into the transport. I didn't turn around and look at him, but over the roar of the aircraft's motors I heard him call to us. "Ever come to Najran again, you're dead."
I pointed down at him. "Enjoy it while it lasts, motherfucker," I shouted, "because it won't last long." He just grinned up at me. Then the chopper's co-pilot slammed the hatch, and I tried to make myself comfort-able beside Friedlander Bey on the hard plastic bench.
I put my hand under the keffiya and gingerly touched the back of my head. My fingers came away bloody. I turned to Papa and was glad to see that the color had come back into his face. "Are you all right, O Shaykh?" I asked. "I thank Allah," he said, wincing a little. We couldn't say anything more because our words were drowned out
as the chopper prepared for takeoff. I sat back and waited for whatever would happen next. I entertained myself
by entering Sergeant al-Bishah on my list, right after Lieu-tenant Hajjar.
The chopper circled around the airfield and then shot off toward its mysterious destination. We flew for a long
time without changing course in the slightest. I sat with my head in my hands, keeping time by the excruciating, rhythmic stabs in the back of my skull. Then I remem-bered that I had my rack of neural software. I joyfully pulled it out, removed my keffiya, and chipped in the daddy that blocked pain. Instantly, I felt a hundred per-cent better, and without the adverse effects of chemical painkillers. I couldn't leave it in for very long, though. If I did, sooner or later there'd be a heavy debt to repay to my central nervous system.
There was nothing I could do to make Papa feel bet-ter. I could only let him suffer in silence, while I pressed my face to the plastic port in the hatch. For a long time I hadn't seen any lights down there, not a city, not a village, not even a single lonely house stuck far away from civiliza-tion. I assumed we were flying over water. I found out how wrong I was when the sun began to 1 come up, ahead of us and a little to starboard. We'd been flying northeast the entire time. According to my inaccu-rate mental map, that meant that we'd been heading out over the heart of Arabia. I hadn't realized how unpopu-lated that part of the world was.
I decided to remove the pain daddy about half an hour after I chipped it in. I popped it, expecting to feel a wave of renewed agony wash over me, but I was pleasantly surprised. The throbbing had settled down to a normal, manageable headache. I replaced my keffiya. Then I got up from the plastic bench and made my way forward to the cockpit.
"Morning," I said to the pilot and co-pilot.
The co-pilot turned around and looked at me. He took a long look at my princely outfit, but he stifled his curios-ity. "You got to go back and sit down," he said. "Can't be bothering us while we're trying to fly this thing." I shrugged. "Seems like we could've been on
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