FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Having just finished breakfast I start my way to the airfield, wanting to check up on the Haddock and get in some exercise this morning before the heat truly kicked in. Martin and Rudi are already at the airfield, having left half-an-hour earlier than I, wishing to see what they can do on the whole radio situation. The sun yet to rise, the streets are nearly empty of activity other than myself and an escort; a sergeant armed with only a pistol. Silence is the subject of today, but whether out of social unfamiliarity or an attempt to avoid catching the attention of the few beastmen up at this hour I don't know.

It has been two days since arriving in Memphis and there's no sign of us returning to Federation territory. The prophesied sandstorm never materialized, and for about a day I thought the storm had lost power somewhere along the way. However, after scrutinizing what weather reports and maps I could get my hands on, I discovered there was never a sandstorm at all. The fact is is that the conditions necessary for such a storm to form weren't present anywhere that day or even a month before.

Doesn't help that Green claims to know nothing either, and the embassy staff have been noticeably on edge and silent. Part of me wonders if they're hiding something. Perhaps I'm just paranoid, but then again I've never been the type to take everything at face value. Comes with the nature of a pilot, especially weather predictions. You never know when mother nature will decide to ruin your day even though it was forecasted to be clear skies. While on the subject of local weather; the nights here are surprisingly cool, most likely a result of the usually cloudless skies. All the hot air rises without the clouds to trap it while the cool air high up just sinks.

At least I packed some casual clothes for the trip, though despite this I stick out like a sore thumb. Was going to use them at the layover in Casablanca, having been ready to enjoy the local tourist traps for at least two days. Flannel pants and polo shirts would have worked perfectly, but most humans here wear khaki shorts and light shirts. Even most of the embassy's civilian staff. God, I wished I had a pair of those shorts, I'd almost trade my mail pistol for it... almost.

Luckily I'm not alone in this situation for the rest of the crew have the same problem. Saves me some embarrassment. Could be worse, I could be wearing the clothes of beastmen, if you can even call them clothes. Most rarely wear anything beyond something to cover their groins, typically taking form in a skirt. A majority of their women seemed not to care to cover their bosoms, not that you can actually see anything… usually anyway. To be fair, I'd imagine having fur means the idea of clothing is rather null, if not detrimental. Still quite improper, I mean at least the-

I'm suddenly overcome by the need to look behind me. Out of impulse I do so, though nothing of note makes itself known. Yet, the feeling that I'm being watched remains. My escort seems to pick on this too, but rather than questioning it, he's quick to get us moving again without a word and taking position behind me, a hand on his sidearm. I do the same with the mail pistol in my pocket, though refrain from drawing it.

We keep our heads on swivel, glancing over our shoulders often. Hell, there are times I'd just turn around entirely and walk backwards, though this seems to earn a disapproving look from the sergeant. Yet, I did catch a glimpse of a figure peeking out from behind one of the many stone buildings, but upon second glance they were gone.

Not suspicious at all.

Soon we exit the city proper, with only a minor dirt road flanked by open fields of sand to guide us to the airfield. I loosen up a bit, for if there is something following us it would have to give itself away by crossing the flat land. I still occasionally check over my shoulder, just in case, while the sergeant returns to my side.

Upon reaching the terminal I rather unceremoniously speed walk inside while the soldier power walks. The door is fortunately unlocked, though unsurprisingly we find the main lobby empty. After some searching we find Rudi, Martin and two other soldiers, the former two working on the broken radio. The noble busted it up pretty good, and there is a significant lack of parts as everything has to be airlifted. Yet, the Germanic man is making do by cannibalizing a lamp of all things.

“Alright, I'll be in the hangar. Keep an eye out for anything, I swore something was following us." I say, the sergeant merely offering a nod of acknowledgement.

“Eh, you are jumpy. I sure am, zose beastmen give me ze freaks." Rudi replies before turning his attention back to the radio, “Besides, ve'll hopefully be out of here by ze next veek. It's probably something to do vith ze swinehunds up north. You know how zey feel about aircraft passing over zeir shipping routes."

I guess that makes sense, damn Franks.

Exiting the terminal I make my way into the hangar on the other side of the runway, this time without an escort. Should be fine without one, the only entrance to the field is the guarded terminal and the fence is topped with barbed wire, enough to keep any overly curious and/or aggressive beastmen away. Inside I find it empty beyond its singular mechanical occupant, with one of her engines having been stripped down and lowered to the floor by crane, no doubt going through a check up. Taking a step back I take a moment to admire the Haddock from the front. A massive prow makes up its nose, well over thirty feet in height from its sharp belly designed to part water to the tip of its bow, not including landing gear. From there it extends about twenty feet back at roughly five degrees to the cockpit, which adds another few feet to her height. The cockpit itself is made up of square windows of varying sizes giving an overall forward horizontal visibility of one-hundred and eighty degrees and a vertical of seventy.

The wingspan is almost too much for the modest hangar to contain, all one-hundred and seventy two feet of it with a thickness of four at the wing-root, and gets progressively thinner further out. Four massive radial engines, two for each wing, act as the power plants of this marvel of engineering. Each are capped with wide cone shaped spinner domes, which four large propellers extend from. In between the engines are high intensity landing lights, designed to help assist the pilots in gauging the distance to the ground at night. The leading edges of the wings are painted black, with the overall colour of the ship being a standard grey-white. If it weren't for the government markings on her livery, it would have looked like any other civilian aircraft. There are military versions of this ship, though they've fallen out of favor thanks to cost-cutting. Hell, it would be safe to assume the only Haddocks still operating is the one before me and two others. There was a third, but I already told you of its fate.

With a deep inhale I take in the comforting mix of oil and aviation gas, which help sooth my nerves. I make my way over to the tool cart beside the partly disassembled engine and look over it, noticing a few tools missing. I recall Rudi having some beside him, thus I dismiss the missing tools and decide to check inside the aircraft.

Or at least that's what I would have done, had a towering figure not materialized before me.

I let out a manly shout in surprise and scramble to get away, only for my ass to collide with the tool cart, resulting in me flipping over it. Grabbing said cart out of reaction probably wasn't the best move, as I end up bring it with me, with another shout escaping me as I fall. For a brief moment I swear the dark figure rushes to grab me, but it is too late. The air is knocked from my lungs as pain explodes through my back, followed by the sound of a metal cart and lots of tools smashing into the concrete floor, which loudly reverberate through the hangar. As I lay there, dazed and eyes closed, a woman's voice speaking in a language I can't begin to understand echoes through my head. In response I give a long groan.

After a few moments I open my eyes to see the intruding figure standing above me, and my eyes go wide at the sight: a beastwoman covered in deep black fur wearing a pure white wrap-around skirt that reaches down to her knees. A jackal if I recall Beastmen Species and Behavior correctly, notably adorned with various pieces of jewelry, prominently gold. Hell, there's even gold painted around her eyes, which are a strange green color that seems to glow in the dim hangar. It takes me a moment to realize I'm making direct eye contact, and according to the previously mentioned book making eye contact with a beastmen is asking for a world of hurt. Thus, I quickly look away, finding the tools surrounding me much more interesting than before.

Wait a minute; black fur, lots of jewelry, green eyes, pure white clothing, and a jackal. The only beastmen I've heard of that has such a distinct colour composition are… the royal family.

Fuck.

“Are you hurt?" The beastwoman asks with a look of what I assume is concern covering her canine face/snout/thing.

“I'm fine!" I blurt while scrambling to my feet, only making the pain in my back flare with a renewed fire. With a hiss I do my best to ignore it, using the fallen cart as a support to get back on my feet. There is a damn member of the Egyptian royal family not a few feet away from me and the first thing I do is scre- I mean shout it her face! Oh, this is gonna get me reported for sure. I attempt to stammer out an apology, but the jackal cuts me off with a raised paw/hand.

“It fine pilot Green, I apologize for… 'hunting' you. I should have announced presence before enter the metal bird's nest…. what it called?" The beastwoman asks while gesturing around the building. Gathering myself I say, “Hangar, it's called a hangar ma'am, er… majesty?"

She mouths the word all while scanning the inside of the building. English must not her strongest language.

“I'm also not Green, ma'am, I'm the First Officer; Kennard Thatch." I say offering a hand out of habit, to which she stares at for a moment. In horror I realize my mistake, she's bloody royalty! I think I'm supposed to bow, not offer them a god da-

To my growing horror she grabs the hand, but rather than shaking it she twists it until my palm is facing her. At first I thought she was going to keep twisting, but instead she starts feel me up with her other hand. I can only freeze in a mix of confusion and mild terror as her claws and padded digits glide across my palm, then up my forearm and back down again.

“Smooth." Is all she says, increasing my discomfort to whole new levels. Her leathery and warm pads against my skin is an utterly alien feeling, and a bit of adrenaline kicks in every time those claws scrape against it. They are the only thing keeping me from ripping my arm away. The beastwoman continues this for a good minute before freezing up, as if she finally realizes what she's doing. She looks back up to face me, and only now do I realize the size difference between us. Not just in height, but in sheer bulk as well. An absolute amazon of a woman, even under all that black fur. Then there are her teeth, not but a foot away from my face. White and sharp, no doubt designed to make short work of anything made out of meat. To say the least, I'm quickly reminded of my mortality in a very rude awakening. Just as I'm weighing the chances of drawing my pistol she lets go.

“Apologies, never had chance to… interact with humans by touch, and rarely speak." Embarrassment and shame cover her features, most notably her almost comically tall ears are laid back like a feral dog's, which only seems to intensify as I look over my now free arm. Red lines rake its underside, no doubt where her claws had skimmed over. No blood or broken skin thankfully, but it does little to ease my nerves. Just how sharp are those damn things?

“T-there t-two pilots?" The jackal asks with a shaky voice, breaking the tense silence that I swear lasted for a straight minute. Looking up I find the woman on the verge of a panic, her odd green eyes wide and I swear she's trembling. What the hell, I'm supposed to be the one on the verge of a breakdown, not this beastmen royalty!

“Uh, yes… well, uh, technically there are supposed to be three. Our cruise pilot never arrived and we had to depart without him." I say, finally finding my balls all in the name of not starting an international incident. However, I kick myself for letting that last piece of information slip out, but nevertheless it is true. To say the least; our Second Officer never arrived at the port, and while they would usually try and find another one, in this case they sent us off anyway. Now that I think about it it's rather odd. I've flown with the man before, and it's highly out of character for him to be late, or even not show up at all.

Dismissing the thought before my paranoia can take hold and lead me down a rabbit hole, I excuse myself without waiting for a response and give the stripped engine a scan for any damage, just in case any tools hit it. To my relief I find nothing amiss with the engine, but turning back I find my head level with two black furry orbs not a few inches from my face, and after a brief moment my brain concludes they are indeed womanly goods. I somehow manage to suppress a flinch, and look up to find the jackal woman looking at me with those unsettling eyes.

“You take me to 'Northern Province', yes?" I double take at the question. What does she mean by… wait a second. The non-existent sandstorm, the delay, the hush-hush nature of the embassy staff; now it makes damn sense. You bloody bastards. My paranoid mind now in full overdrive my fear is all but forgotten as I start pacing around the engine, wondering what else they've been hiding from me. I catch myself before I get lost in the rabbit hole, reminding myself that I'm not the only one in the hangar and they asked me a question. I turn back to address the beastwoman, “I was never informed that we'd be embarking Egyptian royalty."

A simple answer, though I had to refrain from saying 'beastmen' rather than Egyptian. While most do call them beastmen, it's still an insult. Using such language before an individual high on the social food chain of said race, let alone directly referring to them as such, would be… unwise to say the least. I have no intention of losing my job to a few wrong words, or possibly my life for that matter.

“You not know?" The jackal is equally confused and a bit concerned as I am, though it does occur to me that I'm reading her body language a bit too easily. “I am to present before your 'parliament' and 'president' to sign… 'mutual defense treaty'."

My brows rise at this for now it all makes sense. The secrecy is unsurprising given the weight behind it. Such a treaty would make Egypt a protectorate of the Federation, maybe allowing us to set up a few military bases within their territory as well, something the Franks and Soviets do not want. There's been rumors that both empires are considering sending troops into Africa and other beastmen territories to try and create 'areas of human settlement'. Anyone with a brain can tell that they just want to expand their own borders, even if it means running over a few human countries in the Middle East in the process. An example of which can be seen in the Tain Empire, who've absorbed quite a few minor nations to wage war against the beastmen of Nipon, and a war economy is one hell of a way to recover from the current depression.

While a single man against a beastmen is no fair fight, a rifle can give said man quite the advantage. With the fact the Egyptians still rely heavily upon the old ways of warfare; melee weapons, basic projectiles like arrows, horse driven carriages, and their physical prowess, I doubt there is much they'd be able to do against Frankish bombers armed with poison gas and waves of Soviet tanks. Unlike its rivals the Oceanic Federation is looking for more… diplomatic means of recovery, and to deny the Franks and Reds the same means, keeping the Federation as the dominant world power. Another angle to threaten Frankish colonies in South America would be quite a bargaining chip as well. All in all, it shouldn't come as a surprise that if the two were to learn of this, the political backlash would be immense and may even trigger a Third Great War, a war no one is prepared for. Well, maybe the Reds are, as they've shown to give little damn for their population, let alone any regard for subtlety. They've been blatantly sending military aid to the Tain for some months now, though from what I've heard the volunteer pilots we sent over to Nipon have given the beastmen there quite the edge in the air.

Damn it, so much for keeping my paranoid brain from going on a tangent. Here I am pacing around the hangar lost in thought with a beastwoman watching me with equal parts curiosity and concern at my sudden behavior. Lightly clapping my hands together I give an embarrassed chuckle, only increasing the jackal's concern.

“Why couldn't they just send military pilo…?" Johnson walks into the hangar, carrying with him a clipboard. He freezes when he lays eyes on the black jackal, a look of shock exploding unto his face. Suddenly he falls on his hands and knees, something someone of his age shouldn't be doing. “P-princess Aneksi! Had I known you were coming to visit-!"

“Is fine scribe, rise. I wished to meet the captain pilot who will be taking me to your lands." 'Princess Aneksi' turns her attention to the older man, now currently trying to lift himself up from the concrete floor with a few pops. Her back to me my eyes gravitate to it where cyan blue symbols flank down her spine, a total of six with three on each side. Their meaning lost to my eyes migrate further south to the thin tail coming out of a hole in her skirt, then to my shame the shapely hips it is attached too.

“He is the First Officer your majesty; the copilot. I can fetch Green if you wish." He says, gesturing to me as I break contact with the woman's backside. Internally chastising myself for ogling a beastwoman of all things I nod my head, yes please do get Green. While Aneksi thus far has been somewhat friendly, despite having no regard for personal space, every fiber of my being is screaming for me to get away from the jackal.

“This fine, Thatch quite agreeable." Well bugger me.

“Yes, good, good. Well, if that is the case I will leave you two. If you have any questions your majesty, I would imagine the First Officer would happily answer them for you. Good day." With that the bastard purposely leaves me, alone, now mere centimeters away from an apex predator that could probably kill me without much effort, or worse. My fear is momentarily forgotten in a flare of anger as Johnson not-so-subtly speed walks out of the hanger.

I don't know how, I don't know when, but I'll get even. For now, l have a princess to deal with. “Well, that answers that then, my guess is that there's a high chance I will be flying you to Province. Is there anything you wish to know?"

“Yes, I have one question before I must return to the palace. No doubt the guard hunting me now." She replies, and I thank whatever higher being there is that they have spared me.

With a nod, I say, "And what question would that be?"

"How does your machine fly?" To say the least it catches me a little of guard, having not really expected it. What I had braced myself for was a question on human mannerisms, culture, or a few other things along the same vane, not this. But it did awaken something an enthusiastic aviator like myself loves to do; spreading the word of the Cult of Flight, where race, gender, and politics are irrelevant, for there is only Flight. Like a switch, all restraints come off and hesitations damned to the void as I immediately start lecturing about how a wing generates lift; its shape and its relation to Bernoulli's Principle, the relation of the chord line to relative wind, and the fundamentals of weight-lift and thrust-drag. I even conjured up a piece of paper and pen to draw on to further explain these concepts. All the while the jackal princess seems to not only pay attention to my rant, but seemed captivated by it as well. At its end I gift the paper to her, my mood exceptionally improved. I even offer to escort her off the airfield, and with thanks she accepts and I do what is proper and open the doors for the lady. Along the way a surprised sergeant gives a hastily salute as we pass.

Outside the terminal I find two beastmen armed with spears waiting, both wearing black jackal masks despite clearly not being jackals themselves. I stop short of the terminal's balcony while Aneksi continues past me to meet these distinct individuals. They offer her what I assume is a salute of sorts; placing an unarmed hand on their chest and doing a shallow bow. I offer a short two-fingered salute out of impulse, only to flush in embarrassment for it, dampening my chipper mood. I hastily wish the princess a safe trip back to the palace.

"Thank you, First Officer Thatch. Until we meet again." With a bow she and her escort depart, their backs to the sun. My eyes again gravitate to those alien symbols on her back, which now seem to unnaturally glow in the sunlight. With a shake of my head I start my way back to the hangar, where Rudi has returned to working on the engine.

"Who vas das?" He asks, having too watched me escort the the princess. After firing off a quick apology for the tool cart, I do my best to explain to him what's actually going on, and who Aneksi is.

"... scheisse."

????

It's been a week since being grounded in Memphis, but all that changes today. The early morning sun reveals a clear and cloudless sky with minimal winds aloft, and forecasts predict the same all the way to Casablanca. Perfect flying weather, and Johnson is keen to capitalize upon it. In the Haddock's cockpit, Rudi and I review the start up checklist with the fanaticism of cultists. In the outside world, Green and Martin are dealing with the formalities, cameras rolling and all. Along most of the airfield's fence beastmen of all species, age, and size are being held back by what can be considered a local guard force, with the masked palace guard within the field itself protecting the royal envoy.

I glance up from the checklist time-to-time to make sure none of them are throwing shit at the aircraft, literal or not, let alone breaking into the airfield. Last thing we need is a random beastmen to run on to the runway during takeoff. While the ship would survive the impact, it would leave quite the dent and a gore pancake behind. Not exactly great international relations. As we run through the checklist for a second time, I sense a presence behind me. Thinking it's either Green, Martin, or maybe even Mary coming in to check on us I ignore the feeling and continue the flow. Rudi does the same, and both of us soon complete the practice. "I zink zat's enough of zat, don't vant to put too much strain on ze equipment, ja?"

“Indeed." I say, then turn to address whoever is standing behind me. However, rather than my fellow man I'm greeted by another black jackal, and she is not Aneksi. I can tell by the amount of scrutiny she stares down at me with, and her overall attire has much more gold to it. My eyes gravitate to the head-dress she wears, one mere words can't accurately describe. Regardless, her appearance is enough to get a light jump from me, one which only intensifies the scowl on her canine face.

"So, you and your captain are responsible for keeping this thing in the heavens?" The jackal demands, her words punctuated.

“Er… yes ma'am." I put on a brave face and straightening myself up. “Third Officer Rudi also assists."

The Germanic man sends a glare my way before the jackal turns her attention to him, but then returns to me not a few seconds later. Then without any warning, provocation, and frighteningly quick, she grabs me be the collar and presses her snout into my throat. I can feel her fangs press against my skin and out of reflex I grab her arm, but she ignores this. Now forcefully eye-to-eye she states, “I am only going to say this once, skinny. If anything happens to my ** Aneksi, **you will bear the brunt of my wrath."

With that she lets go of me and leaves the cockpit without another word, and I'm left to wonder who the fuck that was. Her threat bounces in my mind for a bit until I conclude that must of been Aneksi's mother, and I can only assume Queen of Egypt. Great, bloody brilliant, now I have the eye of a very powerful monarch who will probably blame me for anything that goes wrong.

Tentatively, I feel around my neck and much to my relief I find no blood, only saliva. I let out the breath I've been unconsciously holding, and the fear I have gives way to disgust. I wipe my wet hand against the seat. Damn beastmen. I look to Rudi, his attention on the portal that leads down into the passenger area. He then snaps to me, eyes wide, "I zink a drei practice is desirable."

I have never wholeheartedly agreed more.

When the time comes for the actual start up Rudi and I perform it without error, and everything uneventfully starts as it should. The drone of the radials bring with them a degree of comfort, soothing my worn nerves. Time to leave this alien, backwater, and hostile land and return to civilization. God I hope this is the last time I'll spend more than a few hours in Egypt, but all that is in the future. Right now I need to focus on the present.

Green was supposed to take this takeoff, but before the preflight he offered it to me, and of course I accepted. The ship, already having been lined up with the runway thanks to the ground crew, only requires that I put in the throttle to get her going, and thus I do. The engines, once a mere drone grows into a mighty roar as the ship lunges forward. Holding the breaks, however, I hold the ship in place until every ounce of power she has is mine to command. I've no doubt spooked a bunch of beastmen with the display of power, and a quick scan reveals a sea of just that. A lot of them have scrambled away from the fence. Even a few of the guards now have their attention squarely upon us. I couldn't help but chuckle at the odd feeling of satisfaction I feel from it.

Releasing the pedal breaks the massive machine charges down the dirt runway, no doubt creating quite the dust cloud in its wake. thirty one, fifty four, eighty three, ninety eight, one hundred and thirteen miles per hour! I announce “Rotate" and holding the required back pressure on the control wheel the nose lifts from the ground. Not to long after the rest of the machine follows, off into the wild blue yonder. Upon establishing a positive rate of climb I ask Green to raise the gear, but he doesn't seem to hear me, thus I repeat it. This time he does and climb performance improves significantly. Raising the flaps notch by notch they too are completely retracted, and performance again improves with the reduction of drag. Keeping my hands on the throttle I start a climbing turn, giving the royal envoy aboard a good view of the city below. Five-hundred, one-thousand, two-thousand, four thousand, now turning north-west bound I reach seven thousand feet and level out. Keeping the power on for a few more moments I set the ship into its cruise configuration for this altitude, trimming her up as the engines return to their comforting drone, though significantly louder than their idle state. Setting the proper heading, the capital city of Memphis disappears from under the ship. Now only the few scattered beastmen villages and towns across Northern Africa will assist us to the coast, then from there Casablanca.

For 30 minutes we enjoyed an uneventful flight. For 30 minutes I was finally at peace. At 31 minutes, everything goes to hell. As I scan over the instruments before me, engine two's oil pressure suddenly drops from green to nothing. Just as I'm about to inquire Rudi about it a loud thump from the left rocks the ship. Confusion is the first thing I feel before looking to the left wing.

"Shit, fire on two!" I find engine two engulfed in flames, its prop still spinning. Training kicks in and without waiting for Green I'm instantly on the afflicted engine's mixture and throttle, slamming them back and starving the fire of more fuel. I then reach down to the fire extinguisher system in the floorboard and switch it to the afflicted engine, the fire fortunately dying quickly, and with that done I slam the red 'feather prop' button above. The propeller for the now disabled engine stops spinning, coming to rest and decreasing the drag caused by a windmilling propeller. All in all, it took less than ten seconds to perform it all, a record time no doubt but I do not care. A mental image of Aneksi mildly wounded from shrapnel flashes through my mind, which is followed by another with an older blood thirsty jackal charging me on all fours. Despite the image being highly unlikely, part of me wants to encourage that Green continue the flight even without one engine. It's not that it's impossible, far from it in fact. We'll just have to do a few recalculations for the decrease in power. It will keep us from returning to Memphis, and the wrathful jackal that will no doubt be waiting. Of course, the final word rests with the captain, for he is the senior pilot after all.

I turn to Green, expecting him to take both charge and the controls off my hands so I can focus on the checklists and recalculations. Instead, I'm greeted by the business end of a mail pistol. Eyes wide they gravitate toward the man holding the gun. The stonic Green I've known is no more, replaced by a man with eyes full of regret, panic, and desperation. The simple terror I feel is washed over by a myriad of emotions, chief among them; anger. What the hell is Green doing? Why the hell is he doing it? WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?!

"I'm sorry." He simply says, and I can only watch as his finger tightens on the trigger. A sudden blur, the report of a gun, a flash of pain, and a guttural yell of rage. Rudi is upon Green, wrestling with the older man who fires off round after round into the windshield and the left instrument panel. When the pistol finally runs dry Rudi delivers two hard punches to Green's head, who goes limp instantly. All the while I hold my right cheek, a bullet having grazed it. With Green incapacitated I do my best to ignore the pain and turn my attention back to the instruments, having drifted off course and level flight during the sudden stare down with death. Returning to the proper heading, I take another glance engine gauges. With alarm I slam the mixture and throttle back on engine four, along with feathering it, it too having lost its oil pressure, but hasn't failed in a similar or spectacular fashion as its sibling. As I watch the prop come to a standstill the gravity of the situation hits me.

What if the two remaining engines go?

A pit forms in my stomach as the pressure starts to mount, but I fight through the feeling. With Green gone I'm now the senior officer, and the final word now rests with me. With the knowledge that we may lose the rest of the engines I put the ship into a light bank to the right, intent on heading back towards Memphis, bloody death by jackal be damned.

“Martin, check on passengers and crew and tell them that we're returning to Nut. Rudi, tie Green up and get back to your station then give me an estimate before the rest of the engines go!" I vaguely hear “yes sir"s in the background, my full attention on the operation of this ship. “Mayday, Mayday, this is Senet Niner-Fife. We've suffered dual engine failure and there is a high chance the rest may go. Holding seven-thousand and are a hundred miles north-west of Memphis, returning to Nut."

“Roger Senet, runway will be clear for your arrival. What's the condition of the passengers?" Comes the slightly panicked voice of Johnson over the radio a few moments later, to which I respond with a, “Standby."

Fortunately, Martin returns soon after and gives me a rundown; the passengers and crew are fine, if a bit spooked. I quickly report this information to Johnson, who sounds relieved even over the static. Rudi returns to his station, and I hand over the management of the engines to him while I focus on keeping us on course. Minutes seem to drag on for hours at a time, and I've been able to manage the loss of power by increasing back pressure on the control wheel. However, this has the effect of cutting into our speed, making our engines run harder and hotter. Combined with a headwind it is a miracle in itself that we make it into visual range of Memphis.

“Ve've lost engine eins!" Rudi's words utterly skewer any hope of maintain altitude as the number one engine comes to a stop, and to my ever growing horror the prop doesn't feather like the others, instead preferring to windmill. With the increased drag any hope of maintaining altitude is indeed gone. I decrease back pressure to prevent a stall, and at this altitude there would be no recovery from it. A sliver of hope remains, for I now see the dirt strip that is Nut. A beautiful sight, until it wasn't. For that is when the last engine, number three, gives up the ghost. Feathered and cold, I'm now the captain of a multi-ton glider. A quick glance at the altimeter, airspeed indicator and vertical airspeed indicator is all I have to do to figure out that we will not make Nut. We are too low, we have no hydraulic power to lower the gear, we are descending too fast, below us are mountains that would be utter suicide to attempt a crash landing in, then the city, and Nut is on the other side of said city. I mentally curse whoever thought that was a good idea.

My eyes catch a reflection of sunlight, and they snap to it.

The Nile.

Beastmen bureaucracy and religious nonsense be damned, I'm getting her down intact. Gently changing course to intercept the river I radio the loss of all four engines, and that I'm going to make a water landing. At first Johnson tries to encourage me to attempt a glide to Nut, but mid-sentence he suddenly drops off the radio. When he returns he sounds much more approving of my choice of runway, and a little shaken up. Not like I would have listened to him anyway. I am the pilot-in-command , I have ** final authority**.

I order Rudi to take the former captain's place and start the water landing checklist, which he does while I nurse the powerless beast towards the river. Rudi alerts that the wing floats are still in their flight configuration and without hydraulic power he will have to lower them manually by hand-crank. I tell him to do it, accepting the parasite drag it will cause. Now less than three-thousand feet above the river and lined up with it I start a scan for a decent opening in the river's traffic. There are many boats out on the water, ranging from small fishing to what looks to be large transports. A quick glance to the wing tips reveal that the floats are half-way down, and upon looking back I realize I just lost one-thousand feet. But then I see it, a gap in the river traffic. It may just be enough to avoid colliding with anyone or anything. The river's surface is also smooth, so fortune seemed to be on my side to an extent. Let's just hope there's nothing below the water's surface that can screw this up.

I attempt to deploy the flaps, but again without hydraulics they don't budge an inch. Looks like we're landing with a clean wing. Coming in too fast for a safe landing, even on smooth water, I run a quick mental calculation. It's risky, but possible. I press down on the left rudder pedal and apply near full right on the wheel. The Haddock's nose swings to the left, but remains on the original course towards my target in a side-slip; a patch of water just past what looks to be a small fishing boat. A quick glance to both wings reveal that the floats are down and in their locked positions, thus when the desired airspeed reveals itself I apply back pressure steadily. The river and the fishing boat disappear behind the nose, and until it dips back down I'm blind to the surrounding world. Seconds feel like minutes as the controls become progressively musher, a stall approaching.

Then impact.

Well, not much of an impact in fact. There is light bump followed by the feeling of rapid deceleration lightly pushing me forward. When the nose finally dips down I thankfully find nothing rushing to get in the way of the Haddock's path, which eventually loses its momentum and slowly drifts backwards, now under the influence of the river's current. I force myself to let go of the control wheel, my hands sweaty and cramped from the death grip I was giving it. My mind turns to the fishing boat, and with a burst of speed I throw my headset off, unhook myself from my seat and stand on it. After opening the hatch that's above each pilot's seat I scan behind the Haddock, looking for the fishing boat. To my relief I find it just between the main and right vertical stabilizers a fair distance away, and completely intact. With that I collapse back into my seat, not bothering to close the hatch.

I order Martin to drop the anchor, not paying any attention for a response. Not too long after another hatch on the ship's nose opens and out pops Martin, anchor in hand. He guides it over the side, and with that done I perform the shutdown checklist slowly, the adrenaline shock starting to kick in. Don't want a fire to start from the electrical equipment, especially when I just got this thing down intact. When it's done I gain the nerve to check on the passengers personally. My arms and legs cry out as I lift myself out of the chair. Trim did little to help combat the forces I had to fight against on both the control wheel and pedals, and the fading adrenaline is making me fidget like mad. I lightly limp by the unconscious form of Green, currently bound to a support beam.

Why did he do it?

Is he just insane or is there something more behind this?

Answers will come in time I suppose, for now I need to make sure the beastmen aren't tearing apart my crew. Wobbling down the stairs leading to the passenger compartment I'm relieved to find everyone intact; be it man or beast. There are seven beastmen in total; two masked palace guards, what looks to be two servants, an adviser of some sort, some sort of priestess, and Aneksi herself. Unlike the princess the rest of the beastmen don't have black fur, having much more natural tones. However, it should be noted that the priestess is some kind of snake woman, compete with a long tail where legs should be, yet still has a pair of breasts. I ain't even going to try to rationalize that in my current state. Now, while coming down the stairs I had braced myself for many things; shouting, accusations being thrown around, and more. What I didn't expect are gasps, Mary covering her mouth as she did so. Confused at first, a sharp pain starts to make itself known in my right cheek. Reaching up I feel around, only to regret that instantly with a hiss. Right, Green shot me in the face, how the hell did I forget that? Looking down to my shirt I find it stained with a few drops of dry blood, and thanks to my probing I'm again bleeding.

Looking back up I'm greeted by two things; Mary in the back of the compartment with a wet napkin, and a much closer Aneksi coming at me with a determined look on her face. Without a word she grabs my head in both hands and assaults my wounded cheek with her tongue. Were I of normal mind I may have attempted to push her away. Instead I stand there dumbly, letting the beastwoman do whatever she's doing out of shock. With each lap of her tongue the pain seems to fade, replaced by this odd warm feeling I can't even begin to describe. When she finally releases me the pain is all but gone, and so too the bleeding. I attempt to again probe the wound, but Aneksi is quick to grab the hand and guide it back to my side.

“Um… Thatch, are you feeling well?" Comes the voice of Mary, looking rather horrified and disgusted, to which I simply respond with a grunt.

Everything after that becomes a blur. We spend the next hour or so being towed to the shoreline by some local fisherman, amoung them the poor bastards I nearly plowed through; an elderly man and two other fennec foxes, one of which looks rather wet. I can only assume that the indigiual had jumped off the side when he noticed we were coming at him, and judging by the occasional glare he sends at me from my elevated position atop the Haddock it confirms it. Astonishingly, mere rowboats managed to get this thing moving. Only problem was trying to find a place to dock the thing, but that's solved by a royal order from the good Queen herself. It's tied down at a cargo dock, seeing as it's the only thing large enough to hold the machine. Aneksi and the rest of the envoy disappear after that, I assume for security reasons. Johnson appears sometime during the blur, looking rather roughed up at that. Fortunately, the Queen didn't appear with him and he brought a doctor with him. I do my best to give him a full report as the doctor looked at my wound, who says I'm gonna need stitching. After informing him that Aneksi had licked the wound he runs over it a few times with a bottle of antiseptic, making pain return with a vengeance. Meanwhile, the now conscious Green is escorted back to the embassy under armed guard, the rest of us following suit with only theorizes of what is to come next.