This choice: Demand Táng sever your ousiarch as agreed • Go Back...Chapter #14Welcome To The Jungle by: imaj   Five months later
You flip through the inflight magazine, searching for some part you haven’t read a dozen times already. Trying desperately to ignore the shaking airframe of the plane, you stare at the page in front of you. A drink would help calm your nerves but you don’t - your current imago doesn’t - when you are travelling.
So you force yourself to read. It’s a puff piece, with the title “President Jabari Nzinghe Welcomes You To Cabinda”. Despite the best efforts of the photographer, the man pictured besides the article gives the impression of a small startled animal. A rodent of some kind if you were forced to be specific. You half expect him to bolt at any second. What little information you gather from the page is either irrelevant or wildly inconsistent with your own extensive research into both the man and the country.
The plane lurches again. The magazine falls to the floor as you grab hold of the armrest of your seat. This is useless - can’t drink, can’t read, can’t set the imago aside. Being in character is the entire point of your trip here. You try looking out the window instead, running a hand over your dry lips as you do.
A thick carpet of jungle covers the ground as far as you can see, cut only by dusty looking roads that stretch in long straight lines. You’re close enough that you can start to pick out the odd truck on the roads.
The intercom flickers scratchily into life. “This is your captain speaking.” The voice is smooth, with a strong accent. “We are landing in Cabinda soon. Please fasten your seatbelts.” The captain repeats the message, first in French, then again in Portuguese.
The plane lurches again as it banks. Two riverside cities pass into view briefly as the plane turns towards the one on the southern bank. The engines whine as they power down for the final approach. Then the rain starts. Light specks on the window at first before thickening into a torrential downpour.
The plane starts shaking violently. You grasp the armrests for dear life and close your eyes. It only makes things worse, all you have to concentrate on is the howling of the engines and the vibrating of your seat. It seems to last forever. Then, just as you can’t take it anymore, a sharp judder knocks you up in your seat. Once, twice and then a third time.
You open your eyes again, convinced the plane is crashing, only to see the runway and airport terminal. Then the engines roar again in full reverse, jerking you forward in your seat as the plane brakes. You keep holding onto your seat though, and don’t let go till the plane comes to a halt.
A stewardess emerges from behind a curtain. “Thank you for flying with us,” she states, first in English, then in French and finally in Portuguese. Her face splits into a white, toothy grin and she offers you a hand out of your seat.
“Been a real trip,” you mutter sourly, rubbing your hand over chapped lips again.
As you stand up you notice that her smile is a dry, brittle thing that doesn’t reach her eyes. That’s not really a surprise, given the face you are wearing. Searching for Eldibria is harder now that you no longer have it as your permanent second ousiarch. When you find it, it’s like grasping at shadows. You clumsily push a little fear at the stewardess and her smile turns rictus.
Good, you think. You want them to remember you. As you get out of your seat, you give the stewardess an evil little grin just to reinforce the message.
Outside the plane, you and the handful of other passengers are escorted through the pouring rain and to a bus. Tan uniformed soldiers watch you all suspiciously, fingers playing at the submachine guns strapped over their shoulders. Some borrowed instinct makes you reach for your coat pocket as you pass. You give the soldiers a good long stare as you enter the bus, making sure they get a good look at you.
The terminal building is only a short drive away. More soldiers watch truculently as you disembark the bus and enter the passport control hall. Yet more wait inside, some in booths at the back, others by a row of metal detectors midway inbetween.
The metal detectors might be a problem, you think, as your hand traces the shape inside your coat pocket. There’s a way around that though. Eldibria slips from your grasp as you walk confidently towards the detectors. In its place you grab hold of Catilindria. Just as you pass the threshold of the metal detector, you push Catilindria as hard as you can. Without a true association to the ousiarch, the sheer strength of the push means that the aura of improbable luck isn’t wide. It barely reaches past your fingertips, but it's enough to temporarily short the device just as you pass through. No beeps or buzzes betray the contents of your pocket.
Next is the passport booths. The soldier here gives you a friendly grin as you hand over your passport. He makes a show of looking at it, the grin disappearing from his face as he does so, then handing it back to you. There shouldn’t be any problems - it’s a genuine passport. You’d asked Sage Táng to get you it as a last favour whilst in Macau. Acquiring a legitimate Portuguese passport there is still quite possible, but the name on it might attract undue attention. You don’t mind.
“Reason for your visit sir,” asks the soldier in the booth in French. Just French, no other repetitions.
“Business,” you scowl back
“Uh-huh,” mutters the soldier, scowling. He folds your passport closed and hands it back to you.
You ignore him and stalk past. Taking one last look round the hall, you spot a security camera. You stare hard at it for a brief moment, waiting for it to sweep round and get a clear view of you.
Then you stride out into the main concourse of the airport. It’s quiet, more soldiers than passengers. You’d been expecting to meet a contact here, but no one catches your eye or stands out. Just the stares of a couple of soldiers as they patrol up and down the concourse. You seriously doubt they are the people you planned to meet
You scowl again.
Maybe they’re late, or maybe there was a misunderstanding. Maybe the situation in Cabinda has changed since you arranged the journey here. You certainly didn’t expect this many soldiers. It doesn’t change your plans, perhaps it even makes it easier. No need to rush into things though.
More to kill some time than anything else, you make for the toilets, toying with a change of identity. You can always resurface once you’ve got a better grasp of what’s going on here. Then you spot a figure move out from behind a column and start following you. Aha, you think, quickening your pace. Your hand reaches for your coat pocket again, ready to grab the contents.
As you enter the toilets, you drop your temporary connection to Catilindria in favour of Malacandra. Your senses sharpen and your muscles tense as you clutch at the iron planet. You finally reach inside your coat pocket and pull out a wicked knife, a decent copy of the real one. Then you duck to the side, just as your tail opens the door and enters.
You move with lightning speed, pushing your shadow against the countertop and holding your knife to his throat. He gulps, and a little pearl of blood wells where the blade catches his near coal black skin. Then he slowly raises his hands, holding them open for you to see.
“Welcome to Cabinda Mr Bredon,” he says very carefully in Portuguese.
To stop reminiscing, attend to Fi's reports in "A Short Hop" 
You have the following choice: 1. Continue |
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