"Roger. We have Flight 36D on radar. Course normal. Expected time of arrival: thirty minutes."
On the far side of the world, the control tower of the destination airfield was abuzz with activity. Both the money and the secrecy of the project had their full attention, and by God were they going to see it through. So far, everything proceeded according to plan. The new prototype's flight path was unchanged, and they had tracked the incoming plane for at least two hours, well before I entered the airspace under their jurisdiction. On my end, I could hack in and listen to their communications from 15 minutes ago. I picked up on them looking for me. "Manifest?" one person in the control tower asked another. "Test flight specs say it's a simulated payload: approx. two tons. Single pilot, no copilot. Experimental aircraft, no serial number, only their valid transponder code...the rest is completely redacted." the other said. "They could've let us know a bit more, right!? How are we supposed to know if everything's in order!?" With a simple grunt, the first one just said "Best we can do is follow what they have written there. Expected course, transponder code...and that's about it." I just smirked.
The traffic controller sighed. "Okay then. Keep quiet and get this thing done. What kind of aircraft do you think...?" "I don't know so stop asking me," their colleague shot back. "...just 'cause I was thinking maybe it was a military flight..." "If it was, we'd be notified. Nothing seems awry, so just monitor the incoming flight." This was a simple privately owned warehouse. The owner had helped financed the project on the condition that they could see their investment. It was just a quid pro quo scenario for them. I was to meet them on the runway, drop off the payload and return. The crackle of active radios filled the silence as a monochrome green-and-black display showed my flight as a small dot accompanied by a string of letters and numbers, intelligible to the control tower personnel but gibberish otherwise. Ten minutes passed, with the peculiar flight information creeping closer. The next step of proper protocol was to get in contact with the plane. This fell to the previously-admonished air traffic controller, who swiped a black handheld communicator from its socket and activated it.
The voice was in my head. "Flight 36D, do you read?" the young man asked over the thick static of the radio. A short pause ensued. He waited for my response. I kind of wanted to mess with them a bit. "I think we have something," he mentioned to the other on-duty controllers. Through the hiss of interference, I spoke: "This unit reads you, over." "Good to hear someone from your end at last!" he said, a small chuckle decorating his cadence, "Can you confirm if you are the only person flying? We're a little in the dark about you over here." "Of course, it's just me. You can call me Alice." Technically my full designation was A.L.I.C.E. P01-Alpha. The "P01" was for the first protype batch the military made. There were 6 of us in that group. There was a second group, "P02", that were more offensive. They also had a disguised purpose. While looking like simple, private jets they had hidden machine gun turrets. "Okay Alice. Do I get a rank or...?" he trailed off before speaking up. "Never mind. I am getting looks from my colleagues -- can you confirm your approach heading and current altitude, over?"
A flurry of data packets were exchanged with the incoming flight; all the necessary information to permit landing. Once confirmed against their copy of the plan's details, I was contacted again: "Alice, you're now cleared for landing. North-West strip. Course adjustments are being sent..." he chirped. "Thank you! Received without error. This unit will begin my final approach in seven minutes." I said. The time passed quickly for the crew at the destination airstrip. Ground crew mobilized, and the control tower kept their eye on the sky for me. I made my descent, and I could feel the stream of air through my nasal inlets and the large intakes on my shoulders. It surged through me, as natural as breathing. It found its way to my chest where it mixed with jet fuel and compressed deep inside the core before firing behind me in a column -- lighting up the evening skies. My lower back heated up as my primary exhaust blazed with life. Above my ankles, secondary jets grew from the biometal exterior of the flesh, helping steer. Cutting through dwindling light, I twisted and turned, whirred and whirled.
