Caliphate

Flight Seven Nine Three, 24 Muharram,

1538 AH (4 November, 2113)

"Shit," exclaimed Lee/Ling. The eyes opened wide with shock and fear. "They've made us. Shanghai tells me there are two fighters lifting from ar-Ramstei even as we speak."

"Fuck," agreed Matheson, "what can we do?"

"Can't outrun them," Lee answered. "Can't fight them at all. Can't surrender."

"Set her down?" suggested Retief, a member of the team since Matheson had been able to get agreement—"from the highest authorities"—that his family would be traded for from the Boer Republic. "How good's their radar?"

Lee shook Ling's head. "Second rate. What they make for themselves is poor. What we and the tsar sell them isn't great either. Good enough to see us in the air, yes. But good enough to catch us on the ground? Maybe not. The problem is that if I set down, some one of the locals will see us. And, given that, they might report it to the authorities. And there's no place around here that doesn't have some little town or other within view."

"Report us to the authorities?" Matheson mused. "Let me see the map."

Looking it over, Matheson saw one town a bit more isolated than the others in the area. "Set us down right next to that," he said. "I have an idea." He turned to one of the ex-cargo slaves and ordered, "Get me a couple of sheets . . . no . . . ah . . . three of them . . . and three checked tablecloths from the galley . . . and . . . ummm . . . a piece of rope or heavy string . . . say . . . ten feet worth. And bring me a sharp knife."

"Does this thing have a public address set?"

Matheson watched the ex-slave scurry off. And that's what I'm counting on; that slaves don't usually ask—lack the self confidence to ask, really—too many questions of those who seem to be in authority.