Authors: Kevin Leffingwell
“You ready?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Okay, let’s see if this will work with you. See that
tiny blue circle on the upper-left corner of the visor? That will
pressurize the sub-suit and connect the oxygen tank to the helmet and seal off
the breather mask. I want you to stare at that circle and think
‘activate.’ Concentrate really hard if you——”
He heard Jorge’s suit click inside and hiss.
“I did it!” Vanessa said. “Wow . . . thought
power! That was cool. You sure I can’t fly your fighter?”
“I’m sure.” He activated his own zero-g
function. “Okay . . . let’s do this.”
Darren sealed the personal effects compartment above the
recliner, its usual contents of ammo clips, weapons and alien tools now an
amalgamation of Neiman Marcus shopping bags, suntan lotion, $800 shoes,
passports, and a multi-cultural detritus of a two-week, world vacation still in
its infancy.
The cockpit hissed and the windshield slid back.
Darren and Vanessa climbed out and stood on the fighter’s nose, hearts beating
faster.
“Ready to make some footprints?” he asked.
Vanessa held up her cell phone to record the event.
“For history.”
To the sound of Tom Petty’s “Here Comes My Girl,” Darren and
Vanessa leapt hand-in-hand off the Dragonstar’s nose.
THE END