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Page 7.
Chapter 6. Night Flight
 What happens in my dreams stays in my dreams.
I sat in the jet liner as it whispered over banks of clouds under a night sky filled with stars. I wore absolutely nothing, and felt a twinge of embarrassment, so I willed myself to be wearing a flimsy pink nightgown that came down to my ankles.
My dreams are mine.
I was having a dream. I think I had had an orgasm not long before, and I knew another one was coming (no pun intended) soon. I did not know where or when I was, and I did not care. I did not need to.
Nobody but me has any business knowing.
Outside, the moon floated like a white something, a face maybe or a headlight as of a car passing in the night.
My dream world is the only place where I am truly mistress.
Sitting in the dark, silent jet liner all around me were shadowy people. Most of them were asleep. Maybe some where ghosts. I didn't know or care. I was alive—that much I knew, like so many things I knew and understood in my heart at that moment, without needing to be told. If there is such a thing as lucid dreaming, here we go.
My dreams are private.
My feet were bare, but I did not feel cold. I could feel hard, dry carpet under my heels and the balls of my feet. It felt good to rub my feet on the clean carpet, and feel electricity or heat or energy of some kind. As I felt this warmth, a nice comforter suddenly draped over me, dark blue like the edge of night. I was having such a good dream.
We need you, said the masked man.
A beautiful man with dark hair and a crisp coffee face leaned close from out of nowhere. He wore a steward's uniform—black coat, white shirt, skinny black tie. His name tag said Bonuit or Benoit or something French or French-Canadian. As he leaned close to speak with me, his breath smelled faintly like spearmint. His teeth shone even and white, and his dark eyes were set in china-white. A single thin stripe the color of merlot circled his dark sleeve behind just-visible white shirt cuffs. Matching braid graced his shoulder epaulets. The captain in the cockpit would have four such braids, the co-pilot three, and the chief cabin attendant (a tall, beautiful woman with a great lipsticked smile and glowing caramel skin who stood talking with another passenger far down the aisle) would have two such tokens of rank.
Will you serve us?
I learned about their ranks because, a while earlier, when the release-seatbelts lights quietly flashed, the chief came and sat beside me. She was a tall, elegant woman with strong hands and the most amazing deep-pink-almost-violet glossy perfect fingernails I had ever seen. She was tall and perfect, with a glossy coiffure the color of deep forest wood, brown as tree bark but faintly redolent of bubble gum or something girly and fun. She sat friendly, beside me in her dark uniform with two braids, hands folded in her lap in an authoritative but relaxed attitude. "How is your flight so far?"
Yes, I'll serve you, said I to the dark lady.
"Wonderful," I said. They had given me a small mocha pudding with tiny dark chocolate chips in it, to eat with a silver spoon from a glass ramekin, along with a steaming hot espresso, also in glass.
You will be rewarded beyond all your dreams.
"You won't remember anything," she said. "Our people saved you from an impossible situation.'
Let us begin then, said the master of clouds.
I had no idea what to say, so I shrugged and kept savoring my sweets. If something terrible had happened, I was ready to cry, but I didn't want to. I pushed the possibility away and imagined a memory of night, of peace, of a quiet bed in a quiet house in a quiet suburb (southern California, near the Pacific Ocean with its rolling breakers under full moonlight?).
No time to waste, said a dozen white-cloaked women in thickly falling rain.
"When you are ready, what needs will be revealed," said the woman. I could almost smell her fragrant, expensive lipstick. In a dreamlike state, I almost leaned forward and craned my neck to look closely at her beautiful teeth. I was such a child. I wanted to be like her. "You will learn what you need, and nothing more. You will be shielded at all times."
I'm as ready as I will ever be, I said with a sigh and lay back. Let the dreams begin. We were already in the air, reaching for cruising altitude. The engines were strong, the cabin quiet and dark, with just a few lights winking on and off in tiny red warnings. And that pretty much how my service with Nocturne Missions began…
"Bruino will attend to your needs," she said. She briefly brushed my knee with her heavy fingers. "Enjoy your flight. There is work ahead for you. Thanks for joining us, and we look forward to working with you." Her words were almost like a formal letter, and I half expected her to add a signature of some type (no pun intended; ha, I still had a sense of humor) but she rose and busily looked in half a dozen directions where she might be needed. What was the person's name? "Briunff (something) will be your attendant on this flight." I didn't catch his name, but it didn't matter. My own name was just a smear in the rain, a mixed up scramble of letters on a game board.
With that, and a blink of my eyes, almost a watery passage through tropical tides, she was gone. So was my pudding and so was my espresso but I'd had enough.
The same tall, dark, handsome young man stood beside me once again. He said in a slightly accented voice: "Do you wish for anything? Maybe a brandy, or tea? A pillow?"
I could still savor aftertastes of coffee and chocolate, and shook my head. The thought of a pillow entranced me, and I nodded happily, burrowing deeper into the warmth of my comforter. How did he know I wanted a pillow? I might have asked for brandy or tea, but I was too lazy. I just wanted to be toasty in my comforter, and a pillow seemed like just the perfect final touch. Or was it the perfect final touch?
Bonuit vanished for a twinkle and reappeared just as quickly with a small white pillow trimmed in lace. I had a hard time lifting my head, so he reached under the roundness at the back of my skull, under my thick dark hair, and gently lifted while with his other hand he pushed the pillow under my head. It smelled clean and linen and mommy. I moaned happily and folded my hands together under my cheek to sink into a deeper sleep.
It was my first such dream, on the way to Night City on a mission that had not yet been fully explained to me. I only needed to know (Need To Know, as such shadowy documents are very importantly stamped) that I should relax and everything would be explained later.
So I had a dream within a dream, in which I sat upright as we were all getting ready to deplane, as the expression among airliners goes. I had that wonderful sense of travel we have especially when we are young and single, and the whole world is new, and everything is an adventure. We are so lucky to live in this futuristic fantasy world where people fly around the atmosphere in these fabulous ships of the air, waited on by beautiful young men and women, and sipping drinks and munching on finger foods. We don't have a care in the world.
Sitting near me was a very elegant woman touching her lips and eyes with makeup. I wondered if she knew Fanna. She had pale, narrow features, a very red generous mouth, and large dark eyes under a wide, intelligent forehead on which well-defined, long thin brows made sensuous double bow. I was so jealous of her strong, noble features and the way she held herself. She must be a very important business executive or an actress in a major movie. She must be a billionaire, or is it billionairess? Or an heiress? Or both? How silly we babble in our dreams.
She seemed to hear me thinking, because she glanced toward me with sharp yet friendly eyes the color of warm, wet slate—gray, moody, impetuous. "Your dreams are your private world," she said for whatever reason. Nothing made sense, so why should that? I was all ears, as they say. I think the glow of my admiration must have shone on her. Was she embarrassed or was she used to it? Used to it, I think, because she was kind. She could not have been older than I was, however old (or young) that might be. With her authority, the way she carried herself, age was no matter. She might be thirty, or a thousand years of age. I think in our dreams we do not age.
"Did they take your baggage when you planed?" she asked. I must have looked puzzled. She explained: "Planing is what you do when you get on the plane. Deplaning is when you get off."
I made an embarrassed little shrug, a curtsy, wrapped in grins, with my hands folded respectfully on my knees. I wore at that moment a dark-chocolate business suit, whose dress hem came to just above my knees. I seemed to have round, full knees, and pulled the hem down in embarrassment.
"You are too easily embarrassed," she said. She too, like the cabin attendant Benoit or Bonuit, had a faint accent of some European origin, but her English was flawlessly Midwestern U.S.A. without any regional peculiarities. "Don't be. Your dreams are your private country. You check your baggage when you plane. Did you hand everything over?"
I half nodded, half shrugged, seeming to remember only vaguely tipping a stout middle-aged man with a red cap—a sky cap, I guess they call them. "Yes, and I gave the sky cap a dollar for each bag, two bucks for the first one."
The lady nodded. "You are doing everything right. Relax, be comfortable, and enjoy your flight. You have a lot of work ahead of you."
"What exactly am I supposed to be doing here in my dreams?"
Her gunmetal blue eyes flashed haughtily. "We don't tell you until it's time for you to know. Everything is on a need to know basis."
"We?" I asked with a sudden sense of foreboding. She was my employer, my owner, my boss, my goddess, many layers up. I suddenly realized this, speaking of need to know. I needed to know, so she let me see the truth.
"I will be watching over you, so don't worry. You take care of me, and I'll take care of you."
"How do I do that?"
"Need to know. When the time comes, everything will be explained so your can accomplish your nocturnal mission in the city. It's really very enjoyable, with hints of joy and sadness and danger and exhilaration, like blues music."
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