Beatrice

Mechanical agitation fixes most problems.

The Scimitar was an old bird and screeched its protestations as it came to a halt at. We, that is, Beatrice had set her skimmer down a couple leagues away from a nearby village, in a dry patch free from snow and ice. The ongoing thaw made everything smell fresh and new, but it was still the northern wastes, and everything still had a sepia tone to it, even the snow. I had made a joke to Beatrice in-flight about a giant writing his name but either the hum of the engines prevented her from hearing it or she just didn’t care. 

I was leaning towards the latter, I was becoming keen to the fact that Beatrice didn’t like me very much, if at all. I watched her jump from the pilot seat to the yellow rocky ground and as the humming of the engine stilled, she began inspecting her vehicle. Planes, I heard they were called back in the day. Back when they operated on combustion engines rather than GDMs. 

I too hopped from the passenger seat snagging my equipment bag as I did. On the ground I opened the bag and began my own inspection. It was a pointless task. Dirt wouldn’t affect any of them and they were stowed compactly enough that the jarring of the flight affected them nought. The point was to not seem useless or lazy to Beatrice, that I had my own level of importance. 

Beatrice banged on various components of her plane with a massive wrench that looked almost comical in her hands. I suppose she knew her profession best. Her inspection done and no anomalies apparent, she found as nice of a patch as any to sit herself down and slump. I didn’t like it honestly; it made her look older than she actually was. At least by my assumption. 

My faux inspection complete I grabbed one of the image recorders from my bag and walked over to her. As I stood beside her looking into the distance I could see the cresting plumes of smoke from the nearby village, cooking fires no doubt. I brought up the recorder to my eye to get the majestic scene. 

“You shouldn’t do that,” Beatrice said. 

This surprised me. It was the longest set of words she had muttered to me the whole trip, which had been several hours. I had actually forgotten I was on a manned flight at some point due to the silence that passed between us. 

“Is there a particular reason, I shouldn’t,” my words came out poutier than I intended. 

“It’s not part of your job,” she said. 

I turned to her, “My job is to record those affected by the war and that village is undoubtably full of refugees. The people need to know what is happening out here.” 

She rewarded my prideful declaration with a side-glance. 

“This is why I can’t stand your kind. You’re old and an idealist.” 

I know my jaw dropped. I was flustered. I didn’t know what offended me more, that she spat at my self-perception or that she saw me as old. I wasn’t that much older than her... relatively. Certainly not enough to be called old by the likes of her. 

“Well, Miss pilot,” I said mockingly, “Since you are better educated and more in the know than I, please tell me, what is my job.” 

My connotations weren’t lost on her. 

“Your job is to scout out future avenues of conflict. You’re a private scout for your military.” 

More shock. I was flummoxed. 

“That isn’t true...,” I trailed off. 

“You’re either a liar or a fool. I care for neither. Take your pictures and let’s go,” she retorted. 

I had no shortage of pride in myself and my work. As my mother would say, there’s are few things dumber than a man with a wounded pride. Not content with remaining silent, while she assumed I was fool I decided to open my mouth and prove it. 

“What makes you so certain of that, what you just said?” I managed to ask. 

“For starters, this area has no strategic value other than as a passage for refugees to escape. Alternatively, it is a passage that serves to flank the current battlelines. That means along with the refugees you have no small number of mercenaries and spies hanging out in the area looking for work or in the middle of work.” 

I quietly pondered what she was saying and with what little knowledge of history I had it made sense. That still didn’t explain her reasoning for everything. She wasn’t slow on the uptake. 

“Secondly, you aren’t the only one with an interest in this passage,” she said pointing towards her plane but at the ground. 

Where her plane had landed the GDM had left a circular imprint on the ground, but it crossed over onto another similar circle. Someone else had been here. 

“An enemy?” I inquired hesitantly. 

She nodded, “Probably one of ‘their’ photojournalists hired another privateer like me. Not too long ago, maybe a day or two.” 

“Are we in danger?” 

“Not really, it's still a no conflict zone. Whatever that means.” 

“Do you object to this place being conflict free?” 

She stood up dusting off her pants. When she spoke, I could hear the irritation accumulating in her voice. 

“I object to any government or governments declaring what a territory they have no presence or authority in as anything.” 

“Are you an anarchist?” 

“I’m a woman who appreciates her freedom.” 

“And how is either government going to threaten that?” 

“Oh, you really are a naive one, aren’t you?” she laughed sardonically. 

I fixed her with a serious stare. 

“When your government or theirs makes its move and starts occupying territory around here, do you think they will leave me and my kind alone?” 

I opened my mouth to object, but she cut me off. 

“They will not Photo Man. Oh, they won’t actively press gang me into service. It’ll be much more subtle and underhanded.” 

“Such as?” 

“First, they’ll buy out or ‘occupy’ the private airfields. ‘Nothing will change’ they’ll say. It will start slowly as they hike up prices stating it's a supply issue. Then those costs will disappear, if I fly missions for them.” 

“You sound like it’s already happened,” I said. 

“It IS happening you moron,” her naked anger came out. 

“Two of the southeastern strips have already been bought out and hear tell is your enemies have occupied one to the far west.” 

“I... didn’t know,” I stammered. 

“Of course you didn’t. You’re an ignorant fool with grandiose images of his own self-importance and no clue of his true purpose in the wider world. You are incapable of thinking of anyone but yourself. Even coming here, you aren’t doing it to inform your people nor are you doing it for those down in the village. You’re doing it to fluff your own ego and tell everyone what a magnanimous person you are.” 

Every shot she fired at me cut through any mental and emotional defenses I had. My therapist told me about things like this. The truth would hurt me, and I wouldn’t be able to do anything about it. As a wounded animal, I did the only thing I could, I lashed out. The swing of my arm to slap her was wide and so apparent that bacterial life on the moon saw it coming. She blocked my hand with her wrench, and it stung, but her forehead crashing into my face stung more and it knocked me to the ground. 

“Your government, your people, their government, their people. You’re all the same. Unable to figure out what to do with yourselves you meander around involving yourselves in other people’s problems making a mess of the world while proudly proclaiming to be its saviors.” 

I spat the blood from my mouth, “What would you have me do?” 

She propped the wrench against her shoulder and bent down, her face scant inches from my own, “Get bent, and do nothing.” 

“I don’t know what your peoples’ problem is. Always feeling like they must do something. Just fuck off home and stay there.” 

She stood up and looked around. She seemed to sense something. 

“We’ve wasted enough time here, get your gear in tow and let’s go,” she said. 

I recovered myself. I had been beaten in every sense of the word. I don’t know what I was thinking, maybe I wanted to recover some pride. Knowing what I do now, this was yet another mistake in a long of mistakes I had made and would continue to make. I pulled the record chip from my recorder and made a dramatic display of throwing it, but this too was predicted. Beatrice caught my arm as I was peeling back. The look of confusion on my face must have prompted her. 

“Once again, you’re thinking of yourself. I had no delusions of what this job was when I took it or what you were here for. I don’t know what you think this will accomplish and I don’t care. That chip is a job complete for me and that means money. Money I can use to leave and feed myself and my bird. Getting that back to my employers is the world to me, you are optional cargo.” 

I had gravely overestimated my own value and my own capabilities in any situation. Her earlier words had cut me, but these new ones beat me into submission. I felt my arm slacken and she released me. I grabbed my bag and slunk back to the plane with my head downcast. Silence ruled the roost as we strapped ourselves in and I folded my hands in my lap as Beatrice flipped the switch starting the GDM, I felt the sudden lurch as the various mechanisms defied gravity pushing us upwards. 

Barely a minute into the flight a muted alarm sounded, and a switch flashed ominously. Beatrice flipped the switch, the alarm was silenced but the red flash remained. She began scanning the area through the windows of the cockpit. 

“What’s going on?” I asked, mildly concerned. 

“We’ve got company and we’ve been tagged,” she replied. 

“I thought we were in a no conflict zone.” 

“Well then, you can explain that to the people hitting us with an active scan. I’m sure they’d love to hear about it.” 

She tapped the window slightly behind her headrest on the left with her gloved hand and I followed it to see a similar plane, if a little cleaner drifting into formation several hundred meters behind us. 

Beatrice tapped the side of her headset, “Skizzo, what’s your skinny, red or black.” 

Static and blips came from a nearby audio port. A moment later a man’s voice came through slightly garbled. 

“Black...” 

Beatrice cursed, and without warning pushed the steering wheel forward driving the nose of the plane downwards and we dove through the clouds. 

“What’s going on?” I asked. 

“Fellow pilot, Skizzo, that’s his plane and he has a passenger that is now very unwelcome.” 

“Translation, please.” 

“Whoever’s on that plane has a gun pointed at Skizzo’s head and is probably in the process of testing our integrity against gravity.” 

“What can they do, it’s not like these things are armed.” 

“We’re not armored either, whatever gin they have will do plenty of damage if they shoot the GDM.” 

“What do we do.” 

“You sit back and pray, while I make sure they don’t get a clean shot.” 

Praying would be the least of my capabilities as Beatrice tested the mettle of her plane and my guts with a series of aerial acrobatics and stunts that left my last meal confused as to where it was located. At the time I was convinced it was somewhere around my kidneys. This was of course a matter of theory as at any one time I could only be aware of how fast my last meal was moving but not its location or, if I managed to locate it, I would not be aware of how fast it was moving. 

It was during this quandary of physics running through my head that I heard the sharp ping of metal against metal and saw a tear had breached the undercarriage of the left wing. Beatrice also noticed this and cursed. 

“What does it mean, Red or Black?” I managed to ask having located my meal in my throat and gulping. 

Though focused on her maneuvering Beatrice managed to reply, “It’s etiquette, letting me know if Skizzo was a willing participant. Black means he’s being held hostage.” 

“One last question, can these things fly without their wings?” 

This caught her attention, “Yes, they help with maneuvering as well as supporting lift. But most of the flight is controlled by the GDM.” 

“So, if we take out the wings, they won’t be able to follow us?” 

“Yeah, what are you planning?” 

“This,” I said. 

I forced open my own left window feeling the sudden depressurization and squeezed one of my cameras through the opening. I watched it fling through the air behind us and bounce off the chasing plane’s nose denting it before careening to the right. The strap caught on the support framework of the wing bending it out of shape. 

“Hey,” Beatrice yelled. 

“I still have the chips and the equipment is insured, keep flying,” I said. 

The pursuing plane began drifting side to side and my jettisoned camera came loose falling to the earth below. I released a second piece, a tripod, despite being collapsible it was still hard to maneuver in the cramped space and push through the open window. It was also evident what was happening and when I released it Skizzo managed to dodge it. 

Sudden movements were slowing them, but it would never be enough to escape. I didn’t have enough equipment. I needed to hit them. I pushed another camera through and watched, I think I had the timing. 

“Give me your wrench,” I pushed my hand over the seat. 

She slapped the wrench into my hand before returning her grip to the wheel. 

“If you’re throwing that you better do some damage.” 

“Oh, I will, is there a code for telling your friend to duck immediately.” 

“Yeah, what are you...” 

“Wait for my signal,” I had no time to explain. 

I pushed my last camera through the opening and wedged it in the opening. I wanted him to see it. I waited, then pushed it loose. Sure enough, Skizzo dodged it easily swerving to the left and the camera whizzed past in an arc before joining its fellows. I watched as Skizzo began swerving back into position, a trajectory that would move him slightly past the right-side and... 

“Now,” I shouted and released the wrench out the right window. 

“SKIZZO DUCK,” Beatrice shouted. 

My aim hit true as Skizzo’s plane overcompensated in returning to formation it veered into the trajectory of the wrench. The large tool cut through the front pane like cheese, leaving behind a black hole and a web of cracks. As for any damage it did internally, there was no indication. 

I don’t know what I was expecting to happen. Would the plane suddenly nosedive or would it slowly creep downward. There didn’t seem to be any more gunshots coming from our pursuer. I tapped Beatrice on the shoulder, motioning towards Skizzo. 

“Come in Skizzo, what’s your situation.” 

“Sweet Jesus save me, and damn your mud turtle,” came Skizzo’s reply loud and clear through the audio box. 

I could feel Beatrice’s relief in her flying. 

“I take it you’re alright then,” she half asked. 

“I’m bleeding and I got a new hairline, but yeah, I’m alright.” 

“What about your mud turtle?” 

“Dunno if he’s alive with a wrench in his skull but...” 

There was loud garbling over the comms. I assumed at the time, correctly I might add, that Skizzo was jettisoning his optional cargo. 

“Straight to hell dirt eater,” came the voice through the static. 

The static ceased and Skizzo’s voice came clearly through again, “Thanks Betty, I owe you one.” 

“You owe my cargo one, but you both owe me a new wrench so work it out between the two of you.” 

“Ha ha, fine, I’ll see you mudside with a new wrench.” 

Skizzo pulled alongside us and through the spiderweb of cracks in his window I could make out his shadowy form as he gave a two fingered salute before veering off. 

“Betty, can I ask a favor of you,” I asked not bothering to hide my mirth. The adrenaline was leaving my body, and I was bereft of my senses. 

“Call me that again and I’ll beat you to death.” 

“I’d like to see you try without a wrench,” I chuckled. 

“What do you want?” she asked. 

“Can you teach me to fly?”