They had flown this sector before.  A number of times.  Never the same vector,  but he had flown scout along the borders of this whole region.  Over and over.  How many times had he been on this same track? It all looked the same, how could you tell without the instruments?  It was all the same.  How it felt, how it looked, how it smelled.  Through the glare reduction of the visor, beyond the windscreen.  Empty.  Except for the edge of the sky.

How many times had he been out here?  He had so much airtime it didn’t matter any more.  This mission could have been one out of hundreds. Thousands.  He heard a song.  It pounded, in time with the rotors.  Was that YELLO?  Some dance song that had a bass line like a heartbeat. 

It was easy to drift when you were flying.  Your mind.  Your mind would drift; it rested, or it entertained itself.   Even on the stick it was an exercise of focusing your mind when surrounded by emptiness.  Mile after mile of it.  The passage of time was gauged by fuel and station time, not hours or minutes.  And they always went back to refuel.  Rest for a while.  Laugh and be friends on the ground.  Then back here.

They had flown this route before.  Was this the same mission?  They had flown this route before.  It all looked the same.  Did it always feel the same?

For hours.  Scouts were always out front; they were on their own.  Scouts had the thousands behind them, but they were the tip of the spear.  Radio traffic, but that becomes a drone as soon you left base or not in contact.  He was able to focus by being part of the sky.  He could sometimes see God in the light where the clouds met the horizon at sunset.  He was never alone.

 Götterdämmerung.

Why did he think of that?  What did that mean?

He had been resting.  They were far enough into the sortie that he needed a good break.  Not on the stick.  Not like riding in a car.  Can’t pull your pillow out and  wedge your head against the window, while your friend drives.  He was off the stick.  They were racetracking.  He felt the machine and his head hurt.

Why were they racetracking?  Just burning station time.  Why were they out here?  They had done this mission.  Had done it already.  Once.  No.  It was more than that.  He thought to look at the instruments and match it to the log. 

He would be back on again in a few.  He brought his mind back to the bird.  His body hurt.  Where had his mind been?  What had he been thinking about.  The console glowed green.  He noticed the sound of the blades; thrumming.  A big machine.  He was inside the machine.  It was still light out.  The crack to heaven would open shortly when the sun met the sand at the edge of the horizon.

Götterdämmerung. Twilight of the Gods.  His friend had told him that once.  Götterdämmerung.  The sky.  The edge of the sky; you could only see it when you were flying.  The waning moments of light when Heaven can be seen through the veil of reality.

Laughter.  He heard laughter.  He blinked.  He heard the rotors.  Laughter.  His copilot.  He was laughing.  He heard him on the coms in his helmet.  It sounded like it was in his head.  His copilot was telling a story.  Some ground-pounders in the desert had been on overwatch at the border.  They had seen enemies moving in the distance through their scopes.  Thermal scopes.  They alerted the whole screen line.  Contact.  Movement.  We got contact.  They were calling higher for permission to engage.  Field rats.  It was field rats in the thermals.  Laughter.

That was funny.  That sounded familiar.  Had he heard that story before?

9-LINE.  He heard 9-LINE.  Extraction/MEDEVAC .  Radio traffic.  He heard radio traffic in his head.  He heard radio traffic in his helmet.  He felt the vibration.  The madly rotating shaft feet behind them, held in place to keep it from spinning apart.  He heard his copilot.  What was his copilot’s name again?  They had flown this mission so many times.  He heard radio traffic.

” Extraction Grid.”  Squelch.  The cosmos interrupting the discourse of man.

“Mars-6, say again last grid.”

He heard numbers.  The voice on the radio.  He heard the voice.  He knew that voice.

He sat next to that voice for months.  Another seat.  It was the same.  Everything had looked the same then, too.  How long ago was that?  A long, long mission in an empty landscape.  Months and months.  How long ago had that been?

“Roger that, ONE-SIX- CHARLIE.  ”  He knew that voice.  He came up on the channel and broadcast-

“Mars-6, this is Delta-ONE-SIX-ACTUAL.  I think we’ve walked the same stretch of road before.  Before we were men.”

He heard laughter.  Why did he hear laughter?  Was it in his helmet or in his head?  He heard music again.  Depeche Mode.  Never Let Me Down Again.  He heard the beat.  The machine.  What was the machine?  He was inside the machine.

“Delta-16, Mars-6: You got bona fides for open net?”

He knew that voice.  It was the herald’s voice.

“Roger that, Mars-6: Clearman.”  No one knew that handle.  He laughed when he said it.

He heard laughter.

“[laughter].  Acknowledged.  Response:  Cuban Prince. [laughter]”

He heard laughter.  He heard the machine.

“Normally I’d just walk outta here, but it’s late and I’m kind of tired.  I would take a ride if you had one, but you know- it may look cool, but I hate skid-hanging.” [laughter]

“I can’t come and get you brother.  I would put you on the skid.  No airtime.  You gotta it alone for a bit.”  It felt painful to say that.

Had he said that before?  Or had someone said it to him?  He heard laughter.

“Negative, Delta-16.” [laughter] “Too close to the ground.  That’s kryptonite for you bus drivers.” [laughter]

He heard laughter. 

“And  your CP wouldn’t want me on the skid.  I’d make you guys give me a headset out the door.  I’d spend the whole way back telling him about your driving.  No one would ever fly with you again.” [laughter]

He was tired.  It felt like he had been at it forever.  His hands were tired.  The helmet felt like it was made of lead.  His back hurt.  He felt pain now that never went away.  His body hurt.

But the mind and will are strong.  Strong as ever.  Cicero.  What did Cicero say?  “In excellence there are many degrees.”  Why did he know that?

He looked at the sky on the western horizon.  The wind was flat, so there wasn’t much dust or haze in the air.  It was beautiful.  He remembered why he had always wanted to fly.  He wanted to stay.  He needed R&R.  From the machine.  From the drift.  He would come back again.  The machine would be tuned.  Prepared, and he would return here.

“-16, Mars-6.”

“Go, -6.”

“Go. RTB, brother.  I’ll be here.  You’ve made this flight before.  You just don’t remember it.  I’ll be here.”

He heard music.  Laughter.  The machine.  He heard the machine.  Why don’t I remember it?

“Brother, we haven’t run this mission before.”  He didn’t know.  When he said that, he wasn’t sure.

Had they?  He knew this empty space.  He knew the way here.  He knew the way back.  He heard the machine.  He felt his heartbeat.  The music.

“Götterdämmerung, brother.  Go rest. When you fly, look for the crack in the sky.  Under the clouds, where they meet the horizon.”  The herald’s voice in the helmet.

“I’ll see you soon, brother.   I gotta go it alone for a while.  You, too.  But you’ll be back.  When you’re ready.  Twilight always waits.  I’ll be here.  We can tell stories and watch the crack in the sky.”  The herald’s voice.  Mars-6.

Götterdämmerung.  Where heaven showed in the crack in the sky.  It was beautiful.  But he wasn’t ready to fly there yet.  No.  RTB.  R&R.  Rest.  When his body was ready.  His mind was ready. Flying was easy.  He could fly.

“I’ll see you soon, brother.  Trust the machine. I’ll be here.  Twilight will wait…”

He heard music.  And the machine.  It was winding down.

“Sir? Sir?”

He heard someone talking.  And music.  The machine was almost gone.

Götterdämmerung.  When I wish to see the twilight of the gods.  I can fly there.

“Sir? …Chief!”

Chief? 

The machine was off.  The music still played, but softly.  It was Beethoven.  Moonlight.  Movement #3.  He felt the light behind his eyes.  Bright. His body felt numb.  He still ached.  He was tired.  But he felt… alive.

“That one wasn’t too bad, was it, chief?  Looked like you fell asleep there.”  The light was bright.  He felt the gown.  Felt it.  Felt the cool.  The room was… close.  Not empty.  And it was warmer beyond the door.  With all the  love that waited for him.

“I know they’re hard, but you keep coming back.  You seem stronger.”

Rest.  Live.   You are never alone.  Twilight will wait.  There is living to be done.

He felt better.  He stepped to the floor.  It was cold.  It made him smile.  He could take these flights.  Over and over.  He could fly.   Living to be done.

©2013 A.I. Mars.