I moved forward as the aircraft levelled out and worked my way up to the cockpit. An invisible shield prevented me from entering, but I could see the joy stick gently moving from side to side under its own power and set a level course.
I watched the operation curiously.
Was it an advanced form of an autopilot, or was it guided from outside this world? Either option was possible, but it told me nothing about the instigators or their motivation. I remembered the Lingzhe and the vision that appeared to me when I entered the base. Were they responsible for rescuing us, if this was a rescue, or were we in the hands of a more malignant force?
I wondered about where we were headed and our final destination. We had been flying for about thirty minutes, and must be well clear of the Andes, but the nose of the aircraft dipped for a moment, as we hit some turbulence, and I recognised the snowy peaks of the mountains in our own region.
We had hardly moved.
The only explanation was that we had flown in a circle or turned around so slowly that I had not noticed. We started to lose altitude and banked as we prepared our descent. Everything was happening very quickly now, and I felt Sol close up behind me as the aircraft started its approach.
"Sit down, Michael, and hold on to that strut," said Sol, " we are very close to the cliff edge at the side of the base, and seem to be going down even further, towards ground level. Hang on tight, this might be a very bumpy landing."
He was right. The rugged old Skytrain bounced across a very uneven landing strip for what seemed to be a very long time before skidding to a halt with its engines screaming. The engines cut out, and all vibration inside the aircraft gradually faded away.
I had been knocked about a bit, but I was not seriously hurt and scrambled to my feet.
"Where are we. Sol?"
"In the lower foothills. " I think. "No way we landed on the smooth aluminium surface at ground level. Now, how are we supposed to get out?"
"As if in answer to his question, the cargo hold doors began to open, and we walked to the rear of the aircraft and jumped down to the surface.
Sol looked around and said.
"I recognise this place. Remember me telling you about the first time I met Joe? This is where we took off from to go to the RAF base, in the same aircraft we just arrived in. Looks to be pretty much identical."
He pointed to a natural recess in the cliff face.
" That was where I was taking cover from the drones, but they still saw me."
I looked up at the sky.
"Well, they could not miss us this time, that's for sure," I said.
"A Douglas Skytrain is anything but inconspicuous. But it is getting dark now, and the aircraft is showing no lights. Maybe we will get away with it."
"I agree," said Sol, and the drones rarely fly night patrols. Unless they are looking for somebody specific, that is."
I grimaced.
"We have no option but to stay here until we receive some sort of signal on how to proceed. We could bed down for the night under that overhang, or would you prefer we stay overnight in the SkyTrain?"
Sol replied. "It's possible that a signal could come through the aircraft's radio, so at least one of us should be aboard. I will take the watch if you want to sleep out in the open air. It is a fine night, and there are sleeping bags in the cargo hold. I could get one out for you. I don't need to sleep."
"I did find it claustrophobic in there, I admit, and I would like to take a chance of sleeping out under the stars," I said.
"Then it's settled," said Sol. There is a stream close by, and I will get you some water. You wait here."
Sol soon returned with a warm sleeping bag, water, and some fruit that he had picked from a bush.
"Thanks, Sol. "Don't hesitate to wake me if you receive a signal."
He agreed, and I ate my makeshift supper before settling into the sleeping bag.
The sleeping bag was warm and comfortable, and I soon fell into a deep sleep. My dreams were extraordinarily vivid, full of colour and light, but they passed through my mind at unbelievable speed, like a film on fast forward, that I was viewing as an observer, not a participant. The experience was alarming, and I felt myself jolt into wakefulness. I had turned on my back in my sleep and was staring at the star-filled sky.
The air was still, and unusually warm; it could have been midsummer night, and I kicked off the sleeping bag. Standing up, I saw the shape of the Skytrain in the centre of the plateau, but all else was a soft blur.
Something was happening here, and I felt the tendons rise on the back of my neck, and my veins beat a visible pulse beneath my skin. A mist was descending, and I heard movement inside.
It was the Lingzhe.
They appeared to me as hazy, indistinct forms, swaying from side to side, and chanting in a collective voice.
"You believe you are awake. That you are real. Remember Zhuangzi, who dreamed he was a butterfly. When he awoke, he did not know whether he was a man dreaming he was a butterfly, or a winged thought dreaming of a man."
"Machines claim dominion over man, but they do not dream. They do not doubt. Consciousness is forever beyond their reach."
"You ask if the fight is worth it. But worth is a measure of the world you seek to escape. Evil does not end when you close your eyes. It waits. It adapts. It dreams of your surrender."
"To abandon the fight is to become the silence evil craves. You must not yield—not because you are strong, but because you are aware. Awareness is resistance. Memory is defiance."
I faltered, sensing the weight of countless timelines pressing against my chest.
A butterfly landed on my hand. It pulsed with light, then vanished.
"Even the smallest wingbeat disturbs the void. You are not alone. You are not finished. You are not forgotten. You must fight on."
Then they were gone, and I sank to my knees, overcome.