Flight of the Jackal: Prologue
With the threat of a third global war looming, the once isolationist anthros of the Egyptian Empire must ally themselves with the Oceanic Federation if they are to survive the coming conflict. For while their relatively peaceful people have fallen victim to technological stagnation, humanity through near constant warfare with itself has developed weapons and other technologies that are millenniums ahead of anything the anthros possess. Now those weapons are starting to be trained on them, and all the horrors that come with it. For while man has paid the price of knowledge in the blood of generations and abandoned their gods to the realms of mere myth, the anthros have not.
Set in an alternate-history 1930s, a human government pilot is charged with ferrying an important foreign dignitary to his nation during this world's Great Depression. When the plan to do so inevitably goes wrong, our protagonist gets more than he signed up for when he is forced to live among the anthros, and must adapt to his new living conditions. Wary of his anthro hosts, he must learn to trust and respect them as if they too were human, for better or worse. Though, it doesn't help that he's a secular man living among a people where religion is a major corner stone of their society. Surely, its all stories and myths, right?
The Nile, the lifeblood of perhaps the most ancient civilization in the known world; the Egyptian Empire. Along the river, scattered farms, villages, towns, or entire cities break up the flanking greenery. Beyond that is a bleak desert made purely out of blistering hot sand and scorched rock, nearly uncrossable without serious supplies and navigational skills
Fortunately for me, I have the luxury of not dealing with such a logistical nightmare, to an extent anyway. I turn my attention away from the world outside and into my enclosed one, where a control wheel sits between me and an instrument panel. Said instruments display all the necessary information needed to pilot this man-made wonder of engineering; the Alastair “Haddock” flying boat.
A habitual scan reveals the airspeed indicator is at a steady two-hundred and nine miles per hour, while the altitude indicator rests at seven-thousand feet to the dot, and the ADF reports we are on the proper course. While indeed low for such a large aircraft to be cruising at, it is the altitude the flight plan calls for and thus I glue myself to it. Even a few feet of divergence from what is demanded of me could lead to a midair collision, something I almost learned the hard way a while back. Regardless, we should be the only aircraft within a hundred mile radius or more.
Should.
Typically we’d fly at much higher altitudes, and would much prefer to, but from what I understand the low corridor has something to do with beastmen bureaucracy. The general consensus is that aren’t very fond of technology, or humans at all for that matter.
Anyway, sitting to my left is Tom Green, my forty-six year old Captain, currently fanning himself with a newspaper. He isn’t my first captain, nor will he be my last. He doesn’t talk much, hell at times he doesn’t talk at all, yet this does not mean I can’t understand him. Over the five months I’ve flown alongside him I’ve learned to pick up on his body language. In the few times I’ve been able to hold a conversation with him I have learned that he’s quite the boat enthusiast. He was an airline pilot like me a couple of years, but after the global economy went to hell…
Well, let’s just say the demand for pilots in the private sector vaporized and many were laid off, us among them. We got lucky by scoring a government job transporting diplomats and other politicians wherever they need to go. Personally not my first pick of a job, especially when beastmen are involved, but whatever keeps me flying keeps me flying. In the end that’s all that matters, at least to me. If I were in this for the money I would have gone to law school and became a lawyer.
I’m losing my focus letting my thoughts drift like this, how unprofessional of me. I even fail to notice the stewardess appearing in the portal separating the cockpit from the rest of the ship, almost getting a jump out of me when she finally gets my attention. Mary, if I recall her name correctly.
She simply asks the estimated time to arrival as the passengers are getting a bit angesty, not that I can blame them. Flying over beastmen territory can put anyone on edge, and the low altitude isn’t helping with the heat. My white dress shirt is drenched in sweat, Green and no doubt the rest of the crew faring no better in their respective uniforms. The stewardess is only spared from noticeable sweat patches due to the fact she is wearing black. Piled upon that, we’ve been flying near constantly for the past twenty-eight hours, and my ass and legs are screaming at me for it.
If you can tell by my constantly unfocused thought process, fatigue has well and truly kicked in. I’m in no proper mind or mood to try and calculate the ETA, thus I call to the navigator/radio operator over the intercom, located in the crew compartment just behind the cockpit. Why didn’t the stewardess just go to Fourth Officer Richard Martin directly and ask him?
I know why, or at least I assume so.
With an annoyed tone Martin gives me an estimate of twenty minutes at least, to which I tell the stewardess. Mary nods at this, however she remains in the cockpit for a bit longer than what would be deemed normal. It confirms my assumption, and I’m not surprised by it. I’m a bachelor, clearly indicated by my youth and lack of a ring gracing my hand. Green even picks up on this and gives me that ‘go for it’ look, to which I ignore. While the stewardess is far from unappealing, I hold certain… reservations on the whole relationship side of life. I’m no queer, far from it in fact, but let’s just say my parents didn’t leave me with a good impression on marriage.
I blurt out a request on the current status of the engines to the man sitting just behind me, trying to change the subject.
“Beyond ze number two engine constantly vanting to overheat, ve’re fine. But, zis low altitude isn’t helping. Zese radials veren’t designed to fly zis low und for zis long.” Replies Third Officer Kasimir Rudi, his accident heavily Germanic. He has a way with machines like no other, which makes him the ideal Flight Engineer and our personal to-go mechanic, and I thank god that we have him for these long flights. A quick scan of my engine gauges confirms that indeed the inner left engine is noticeably hotter than its siblings, followed by engine four. Fortunately, they are nowhere close to the redline.
I ask Martin to call in the ship’s presence over the radio, as there should be at least someone manning “Nut”'s own, but they’ve proven to be unreliable before. The installation is supposed to be named after a beastmen goddess, something they no doubt revere. To me it just sounds silly, and something that's been the butt of a few jokes within pilot lounges.
Coincidences of the English language aside, after around fifteen more minutes of suffering, flares of yellow appear over the horizon. As the distances closes I can make out eight white pyramids tipped with gold surrounding or within the beastmen capital; Memphis. The city itself is rather impressive, spanning miles in all directions. The main temple and acting capital building of government sits in the center of it all. Hard to miss too, considering it is as equally white as the pyramids, standing out in contrast with all the sand and dirt colored buildings surrounding it. Makes it easy to find at least.
Green grabs ahold of his control wheel, signaling he will be taking the landing. I acknowledge this by saying “your controls”, then confirm with a glance that he did take said controls. Hands free I take the time to clean my sunglasses.
We work on a sharing basis, one flight I’ll do takeoff and Green landings, then vise versa for the next. After redonning my sunglasses I carry out the proper landing checklists, but remain in arms reach of the controls. It’s not that I doubt Green’s skills and proficiency as a pilot, it’s merely out of safety. For whatever the reason I’ll be able to take the controls off of Green’s hands instantly. Tiredness isn’t an excuse when one has to return their bird safely to the world below.
Using 3 of the 8 pyramids as navigational aids Green lines up with the flattened desert outside the city that acts as the airfield. The wide turn helps bleed airspeed and altitude, along with keeping a wide berth between us and the palace. On five-mile final I lower the landing gear for Green, the ship being amphibious in design. While slightly slower than its pure water bred counterpart, it is much more versatile. We would have landed on the Nile, but the beastmen were quite demanding that we don’t. Not that I’m complaining, water landings are more dangerous than even landing on a dirt runway.
Nut airfield itself is nothing really noteworthy. It is just a fenced off stretch of flat dirt with only three buildings to speak of; the terminal, a hangar, and a radio transmitter only used for navigation. It was originally supposed to be twenty miles from the city rather than the three it is now, but for once the beastmen relented on something.
On a particular note we still haven’t heard anything on frequency. At the very least they could have told us what the winds are, though judging by the flaccid windsock near the approach end they should be calm. Surely if anything was someone would be running down the runway with signal flags or shooting a flare gun. Green is notably high on the glide slope, but nonetheless guides the Haddock back to the earth it came from.
Seems too high for the flare…
The landing is a bit dumpy, if you call “oh god I think the gear just collapsed” dumpy. It is enough to get an over exaggerated grunt out of me. Tricycle landing gear aren’t really the best for soft field landings to begin with, but the rough landing is a bit off considering Green has been flying this particular ship for much longer than I have. Then again, no two landings are alike. Fatigue isn’t helping with personal performance, and this is also the only part of the flight we actually use the landing gear.
As we taxi up to the terminal a few men await us, no doubt the ground crew. They are dressed in khaki military uniforms, clearly guard personnel from the Embassy. The muffled drone of the engines putter to a stop as Green grounds the magnetos and pulls the mixture, starving the engines of fuel. He then fully opens the throttles and we listen for any signs that the engines could be leaking from their cylinders. Upon hearing nothing out of the ordinary Green goes on to complete the shutdown checklist while I start on the logbook. When finished I hand it to Green who gives it a look over before endorsing it via his signature.
Now all we have to do is wait until we’re topped off, that way we can head back to Casablanca for a well deserved layover.
Well, that was the plan until Green suddenly got out of his seat and started pulling his personal bags from the crew storage. Rudi and I share a confused glance before Martin asks Green what he is doing. He seems to freeze up, equally confused as we are. However, just as he was about to say something an older looking gentleman enters the compartment.
“Grab your bags, you are not returning to Casablanca. There’s a sandstorm further west of here and is expected to make its way to us within a few hours. Rooms at the embassy have already been assigned to you, and a car is waiting to take you there.” With that the older man departs without another word, leaving the rest of the crew and I to contemplate the new information in silence.
“Fucking… damn it!” Martin lightly slams his headphones down on his station. I can understand his frustration, none of us wanted to be stuck in Egypt. Not only is it hot as hell, but the close proximity to beastmen isn’t going to help my already terrible sleep schedule. While Martin continues to vent his frustration in the background, I take a moment to write in my personal flight journal and lament on how fucked we are.
Our starting point was North Province, where we jumped to Cuba for fuel, then followed the “Tropic of Cancer” to Casablanca for another refueling and an overnight stay. The flight over Northern Africa was an uneventful one, keeping the coastline visible off our left wing until we reached the delta of the Nile. Didn’t want to fly over the coastline itself, for the Franks would probably shoot us down for violating their airspace or something like they did with Senet-93. Damn Europeans.
Starting a Third Great War aside, I have other duties to attend to other than fill out a journal. Leaving the cockpit I don my navy uniform jacket despite the heat outside. Unsurprisingly, government policy requires me to wear it regardless of the conditions. It’s not just the beastmen who make bullshit rules that make lives miserable.
Opening an armored lock box within crew storage I retrieve a mail pistol; a .32 caliber about the size of my palm. Unlike the jacket I’m not required to carry it around, in fact it’s somewhat encouraged that I don’t. I make the excuse of personal protection of course, but in truth I’m not sure what good it’ll do against a beastman intent on ripping my throat out. Finally, I grab my suitcase, flight bag, and some documents I need to bring with me then make my way out of the ship.
The blistering hot sun is eager to greet me, and I do my best to expedite to the terminal. There I check in with the man responsible for scheduling flights in and out of Nut; Eric Johnson, the same man who informed the crew and I that we’ll be stuck here for the time being. He looks to be in his late 50s with skin noticeably tan in some areas, no doubt from frequent exposure to the Egyptian sun. After turning in all the necessary documents required he dismisses me, but I first inquire what room I have at the embassy.
“You think I bloody know? Go ask that bitch of a woman at the front desk once you get to the embassy, she’ll give you a room that’s for damn sure.” Taken aback by his rude behavior I give him a raised brow. He doesn’t seem to care for this and continues to work at… whatever he’s doing. Dismissing it I ask him about the radio situation, to which he says it’s busted. A beastmen noble came in to observe the inner workings of the airport and accidentally broke the thing.
That does explain the silence, and Johnson’s current attitude. Then again, I do not know him as an individual, he could always be like this for all I know. Don’t usually have time to chat with these unfortunate few that are forced to live in Memphis and among the beastmen, much preferring to refuel, embark any passengers, and return to civilization post-haste. With regret I leave the comfort of the air conditioned terminal, expecting the promised car to be waiting outside, but judging by the dust cloud in the distance I missed it.
God fucking damn it.
Knowing how cheap government can be I assume they won’t send a second anytime soon, so it seems that I’ll be stuck at the terminal until dusk or so when it cools down enough to not die of heatstroke. Looking down at the line between the terminals foundation and the dirt road marking beastmen territory I take a hesitant step, then another, and with mild ease I take my first steps into an alien world.
Through the fence that separates the airfield from said world I watch as the ground crew guide my silver ship into the hangar. There originally wasn’t supposed to be a hangar, for reasons you can probably already guess, but after some back and forth it was allowed to be constructed for safety reasons; such as sandstorms. I assume the beastmen see machines as an affront to their gods or something. Though, this may not be a solid assumption as my attention is drawn to a decent sized group of beastmen not a few yards away from me. How the hell did I not notice them before now?
I truth this is the first time I’ve actually seen a beastman that wasn’t in a photo or from the air. Scientifically, they are known as callidus-animalis or just “anthro”. Derogatorily, and more commonly, they are referred to as “beastmen”.
More beast than man really, the only uniting factor between humanity and them is the fact that we share a similar torso, waist and arm structure. On average they stand over 7 feet tall on digitigrade legs ending with paws similar to their feral relatives. Their hands are often said to be a mix between human and feral, possessing equal amounts dexterity with a plus of strength and claws. Perhaps the most bestial part of their bodies is the head. Indeed, it just looks like whatever evolutionary soup they crawled out of just took the head of some animal and plopped it on a human-ish body. Clearly the universe is running out of ideas.
Anyway, the group is made up of a wide variety of species, ranging primarily from feline to canine. The group itself is mostly made up of children, or ‘cubs’ as the beastmen call them. At least that’s what the translation comes out to be. They push themselves up against the metal fence, their attention squarely on the flying boat, with the canines in particular wagging their tails in rapid fashion. It’s almost a blur.
Standing behind them a small collection of adult beastmen manage their energetic behavior. I watch the group for a bit with a raised brow until one of the adults, a striped hyena woman, takes notice of me. I quickly avert my attention back to my ship. The ground crew is now shutting the hangar doors, entombing the Haddock for the foreseeable future. With that I take a gamble and look to the beastmen again, who now have their attention squarely upon me.
Every single last one of them.
Grabbing the brim of my peaked cap I pull it down to hide my face and go back into the terminal. There I search around until I find a canvas folding chair, then bring it to an AC vent. With that I settle down with a book fished from my bag and wait until it’s time to make my way towards the embassy. However, much to my shock the embassy car returns. Huh, maybe the government isn’t as resource hoarding as I first thought.
Gathering my stuff I exit the terminal and do a quick scan of the area. The beastmen gaggle has vanished to who knows where, much to my relief. Giving some words of gratitude to the driver I assist him in loading my bags into the trunk. Despite my hate for the heat it would be rude of me just to dump my stuff and get into the car.
On the trip to the embassy I’m quick to learn that the path takes us directly through part of the beastmen city. I’m quick to again lower the brim of my hat, but I can still feel the stares. Fortunately, we arrived unmolested to the embassy. It’s design is distinctly human, made near completely out of concrete, but has hints of beastmen architecture here and there.
Giving one final thanks to the driver I walk inside to be instantly greeted by the heavenly arms of air conditioning. I hold back a shiver of satisfaction and waste no time checking in with the “bitch of a woman”, who in fact is quite polite in contrast with Johnson’s attitude. At long last I make a beeline for my room for some much needed sleep, or whatever I can get that is.