Eclipse Three

by edited by Jonathan Strahan

  Our check-in took a long time, apparently because there were a lot of connections. The man kept shuffling slips of paper and stamping them, reshuffling them, sorting them into two piles, which he recombined and shuffled through again. That was what it looked like to me, anyway. Finally, I said, "How many times do we change planes?"

  He looked up at me sharply, as if this were an especially stupid question. "It's complicated." His gaze slid to Suzette and then back to me. "You know you have to make your connections, right?"

  "Right," Suzette assured him.

  "There's no taking a later flight, no re-booking, or anything like that."

  "We know," Suzette said.

  "I've got to match up all the arrivals and take-offs so you can make those connections. Some of these windows don't stay open very long and the ones that do aren't always at the right time in the right flight path. And then there's the fact that there's two of you." He sighed. "I'm sorry, I must sound like a crabby old man. This kind of thing gets more complicated every day."

  I wanted to ask why we couldn't just fly direct but Suzette was standing on my foot with a glare that said Shut up. The man finished shuffling and stapling and tucked a sheaf of coupons and boarding passes into each of the ticket folders.

  "I've stapled itineraries inside each wallet." He shoved mine at me and opened Suzette's on the counter to show it to both of us. "You'll have plenty of time to make each flight—"

  "What if we're delayed?" I asked, a bit belligerently. "Can you guarantee we won't be delayed?"

  His look said he thought I was insane as well as rude. "Yes. From Berlin, you go to Rome, then to Morocco, and then to Johannesburg. There'll be a lot of turbulence on the flight out of Jo'burg. Don't let it scare you. Just finish your drinks early and keep your seatbelts on. After that, you have the layover." He closed Suzette's folder and slid it under her hand. "Bon voyage."

  I looked at the itinerary inside my folder. "Johannesburg to Mombasa? I thought we were going to Madagascar."

  "Don't mention Madagascar," the man snapped in a half-whisper.

  "Thanks very much for all your help," Suzette said quickly, pulling me away. I wondered if the whole trip would be like this—me making people angry and her dragging me off before they took a swing at me.

  Someone told me once that flying to London during the day rather than overnight made jetlag easier to handle. Or maybe I only dreamed that; I was a zombie. I gave up trying to tell what time of day it was as I marched through Heathrow behind Suzette. If I'd been even slightly more awake, I might have asked if we were going the right way. It seemed to be the long way; one hallway would let out onto a concourse which would take us to another hallway and then another. Occasionally someone in a uniform carrying a radio would wave us on. When I tried to stop and ask a woman in a maroon blazer a question, she told me to keep going, everything would be taken care of at The Desk. I could hear the capitals when she said it.

  "I don't think there is a flight to Berlin," I said to Suzette as I shuffled down another hallway behind her. "We're actually walking there."

  The hallway let out onto a concourse, smaller than any of the others and deserted except for a woman stationed at a counter in front of something that might have been one of those exclusive airline clubs, except there was no company name or logo. She reminded me a little of Jinx Gottmunsdottir, only a few decades younger and nowhere nearly as generously proportioned. I followed Suzette over and she greeted us with the restrained, professional smile people wear when they're not sure whether they'll have to let you in or throw you out.

  "Is this The Desk?" Suzette asked.

  The woman nodded. "Tickets, passports, and landing cards, please." She sorted, shuffled, and stamped, and sent us through a turnstile to a waiting room where the flight to Berlin was already boarding.

  In Berlin, we debarked outdoors in the middle of what looked like a parking lot for airplanes and boarded a shuttle bus. Instead of getting off at the first stop with most of the other passengers, however, an attendant told us to stay on and we were ferried to another plane, much smaller than the one we had arrived in.

  The flight attendant who checked our tickets as we boarded seemed more like a security guard. She pointed each passenger to a specific seat with an air that suggested she wouldn't look kindly on anyone wanting to switch places. I fell asleep before takeoff and didn't wake up till after we landed in Rome, which made me grouchy with disappointment—I'd hoped to get at least a glimpse of the city from the air.

  Another shuttle bus took us to the next small aircraft. There were fewer passengers and no assigned seats. I had intended to stay awake but there was a long delay before takeoff. When I woke up, we were in a holding pattern over Morocco.

  The shuttle bus waiting here was all but hermetically sealed against the heat and the windows had such a dark tint, it was practically impossible to see out of them. Tired, I leaned over to Suzette and whispered, "I'm exhausted. You go on, I'm gonna stay here and see when I can get a flight home."

  "You are not." Suzette said, grabbing my arm in that Death Grip of Doom again. "You can't."

  "I'll pay you back the airfare." I tried prying her fingers off me and couldn't.

  "Pearl, you can't just bail. This is a trip for two. You're locked in." Suzette looked significantly at the uniformed man standing by the exit.

  "Are you kidding me?" I started to get up and she pulled me down.

  "Don't. He's armed." She leaned toward me and lowered her voice. "I'd have quit after Berlin. But we're committed."

  "You can't force people to travel. It's illegal."

  "It's not a matter of legal or illegal," said a firm voice. I looked up to see the guard standing over us. "You are in transit. You cannot leave a plane in transit. You stop when it stops." The bus came to a halt and he pointed at the exit door. It slid open to reveal the steps up to the next aircraft. "You haven't stopped yet."

  The flight to Johannesburg was the longest and the one where sleep deserted me. The flight attendants looked as tired as I felt. I considered slipping one of them a note: Help, I'm traveling against my will. Seeing those morose faces, however, made me decide against it. They'd probably just tell me to be glad I was sitting down.

  Someone had left a thick paperback book in the seat pocket in front of me. It seemed to be a thriller involving spies who had sex a lot but I couldn't be sure. It was in French, a language I'd had little acquaintance with since high school. Eventually, I got bored enough to try reading it and discovered that I could make out slightly more of the text than I'd expected but not, unfortunately, in any of the parts where the spies had sex a lot.

  Suzette by contrast did sleep most of the time, and so heavily that I wondered if she had taken something. I hadn't seen her do anything like that but then I hadn't seen her steal her aunt's mail, either. I'd have to ask her when she woke up. Girlfriend, if you've got some Ambien on you, is it too much to ask you to share?

  By the time the seatbelt sign came on for the descent into Johannesburg, I felt as if I'd spent a year in that stupid, lumpy seat. Again we exited the plane outside on the tarmac, far from any buildings. But this time, there was no shuttle bus. The plane for the final leg of the journey was waiting for us just a little ways away. A guard wearing the same uniform as the one who had spoken to me in Morocco led us over to it and checked our tickets at the foot of the steps before allowing us to board.

  Just as I reached the open door, I heard a commotion at the bottom of the steps. A tall man with thinning brown hair was arguing with the guard, who was pushing him back. A jeep with three other uniformed people, two men and one woman, appeared out of nowhere and screeched to a stop beside the steps. All four of the guards were carrying the struggling man by his arms and legs toward the jeep when the relentlessly smiling flight attendant at the door pulled me inside and asked me to sit down in a way that made it sound like an offer I couldn't pass up instead of an order I didn't dare refuse.

  I've since tried to fig
ure out that technique for my own use but I always end up just straining my vocal cords.

  All the attendants for this flight had relentless smiles; it was a special charter. They moved around the cabin distributing snacks, drinks and folders thick with information about the city of Mombasa as well as Mombasa District and the area of Kenya where it was located.

  "Did you know this was a charter?" I asked Suzette, paging through a booklet on Kenya's flora and fauna.

  "Does it matter?" She stuffed her folder in the seat pocket without looking at it.

  "Hey, don't you want to keep that?"

  "You can't keep it. It belongs to the charter company."

  That was a non-answer if I'd ever heard one. "Then they'll have to catch me," I said, feeling contrary. "After seeing this, I kind of wish we really were going there instead of M—"

  "Keep your voice down," Suzette snapped in a loud whisper.

  I shrugged. "Fine. Sorry. But I don't know what all the big—" At that point, we hit the turbulence we'd been warned about and I lost my train of thought. Shortly after that, I also lost the drink I'd just finished along with the peanuts from the last flight and the pretzels from this one.

  Nausea takes up all of my brain, leaving little room for anything other than wishing I were dead. But I did notice that the airsick bag was much larger and sturdier than average. It was made of untearable paper, printed with word games, riddles, and puzzles—Fun Facts About Mombasa!—and lined with heavy-duty plastic.

  The turbulence lessened sometimes but never stopped. I kept the sick bag clamped to my face, wondering if anyone had ever died of nausea—not throwing up, just nausea. I couldn't remember ever feeling this bad. Was I just overtired or had those stupid snacks poisoned me? Suzette wasn't doing any better. Nor was anyone else on the plane, apparently. Even the flight attendants looked green.

  Abruptly, there was a jolt so hard that if I hadn't been belted in, I'd have gone through the baggage compartment above me. Then the plane went into a nosedive.

  Oxygen masks dropped out of flaps overhead. I couldn't hear myself scream over everyone else. I grabbed my oxygen mask, drew the bright yellow cup to my face and then hesitated. Passing out was probably preferable to feeling the impact—

  Rough hands pushed the airsick bag away and forced the oxygen mask over my nose and mouth. Something fresh-smelling hit my nostrils and I inhaled deeply.

  "Don't hyperventilate! Breathe normally!" scolded a flight attendant. There was no relentless smile behind the transparent oxygen mask she wore; it was attached to a small tank strapped to her back. She pulled herself up the aisle, checking on each passenger.

  "Holy shit!" I shook Suzette, twisting around to stare after her. "That woman's a hero!"

  "Just breathe already," Suzette said irritably. "And don't shake me or I'll—" She lifted her mask briefly so she could use the sick bag.

  And all at once, the plane leveled out. Everyone screamed again, this time in a mix of surprise, relief and extreme joy. Well, that was why I screamed, anyway. The flight attendant reappeared complete with relentless smile, telling us to keep our masks on until after we landed. No problem; I didn't have the will or energy to take it off. I was feeling dizzy now as well as wrung out; dizzy, wrung out and sleepy.

  "Sleeping through a landing after a nosedive isn't just being tired," I whispered to Suzette as we went up the walkway from the plane to the arrival area. "They must have sedated us."

  Suzette shrugged. "Did you really want to be awake for the landing after that?"

  "No," I admitted. "But don't you think that's sneaky?"

  "It's a special charter. They have their own way of doing things."

  That made no sense to me but I didn't argue. Instead of going through the arrival gate, we were led down a long ramp to an area I thought was customs, except it had no separate divisions for arrivals from different countries. We all waited together to be seen at one of two dozen numbered desks. Fewer than half of them were staffed but there weren't that many of us in line. Still, the wait seemed interminable anyway. To distract myself, I looked around at our fellow travelers, wondering if I'd recognize any of them. Not that I'd been paying much attention.

  Only one person looked at all familiar, a tall man seven people behind me. It took a few seconds to place him and then I had to force myself not to stare. Either the man I had seen forcibly carried away by security guards in Johannesburg had an identical twin or the guards had brought him back and let him board the flight after all without my noticing.

  The woman who saw us at desk 23 had very close-cropped hair, which showed the perfect shape of her head. She found Suzette's dreads fascinating.

  "Have you worn those a long time, my sister?" she asked, looking from Suzette to her passport and back again. Her accent sounded musical to me; I was caught between wanting to hear more of it and trying to see where the tall man was now. To my surprise, he was already at a desk, having his passport stamped. A second later, he had been waved on. I watched as he disappeared down a corridor.

  "Yeah, they're easy to take care of," Suzette was saying.

  The woman looked from Suzette to her passport and then to the monitor on her desk. I couldn't see the screen. As tempted as I was to move so I could get a look at it, I had a feeling it would be a bad idea. Nearby, a tall guard in an immaculate khaki uniform held a weapon that looked both lethal and complicated. I stood very still.

  "The information you need to book your new flights will be waiting for you at your accommodations," the woman said. "You will make your choices within twenty-four hours." She used the largest metal stamp I'd ever seen on our passports and gave them back to us. "Stay together, until you leave."

  "We'll do everything we're told," I said solemnly. Suzette gave me a look; I was trying to speak loudly enough for the soldier to hear without actually shouting.

  The woman beamed at us warmly. "Welcome to Madagascar! Enjoy your stay!"

  We were directed to the baggage claim area where our baggage had already been claimed on our behalf and loaded onto a motorized cart.

  "Welcome to Antananarivo, mesdames." A dark-skinned man in light, loose-fitting shirt and trousers materialized beside us. He was holding a tablet notebook like a clipboard; a jute carrier bag dangled from one arm. "Your luggage will be taken to your accommodations for you—don't worry, we have never lost a single bag!" Chuckling, he reached into the bag and handed each of us a zippered 8 x 10 envelope; I could just make out a lot of printed documents inside the frosted plastic. "Everything you need for your layover is in there—food and drink vouchers, transport tickets, and of course the passes for your famadihana."

  "'Famadee-yan'?" I said, mystified.

  "The bus is outside, you must go now." He shooed us toward the nearest exit.

  There were a lot of buses lined up at the curb outside and they all seemed stuffed to capacity and beyond with people and luggage. "Maybe we're just supposed to get on anything with room for us," Suzette suggested doubtfully.

  Abruptly, two women pushed us toward an ancient white school bus, already overcrowded with passengers. Suzette hesitated; as the people nearest the door pulled her up the steps, the tall man reappeared beside me. I was torn between wanting to ask him who he was and keeping track of Suzette. Smiling, he made an after-you gesture. Then I was being yanked up the metal steps while the two women gave me an unceremonious push from behind.

  I had never been in such a crush. Every color and shape of humanity seemed to be represented—fair-haired Nordic types, Latins, Japanese, Chinese, Indians, Middle Easterns, North Africans, South Africans of all colors. People called to each other in Russian, Italian, French and other languages with clicks and glottal stops. It was so fascinating I almost forgot about the tall man.

  I couldn't see him anywhere up front. Apparently I'd been the last sardine in. Maybe security guards had carried him off again. The bus started off with a jerk. There was nothing to hold onto, no hanging straps or poles within reach but it didn'
t matter. I couldn't possibly fall down. "How long do you think this'll take?" I asked Suzette, who was wedged under my left arm.

  "I heard someone say it was ten miles to the city," she said.

  The bus went over a large bump and I felt my feet leave the floor, along with everyone else around me. I'd barely caught my breath when we went over two more in quick succession, both larger than the first one so that the bus practically seesawed. As the front half dipped, the back end rose and I caught a glimpse of a familiar tall figure behind a young couple who were each holding a laughing toddler.

  It couldn't be him, I thought. He'd have had to go past me and I knew he hadn't. No one had because no one could.

  Another bump; the toddlers giggled as his hair flew up with the motion and fell down over his forehead. He laughed with them.