a pained face.
“I think he wants to use your gentlemen’s facilities,” Rock said.
The Red guards motioned Archer forward but as he took a step, much to his astonishment, he began slowly floating up toward the cushioned ceiling, banging his head. He flailed his arms and kicked his long legs frantically as if trying to swim through the weightless air.
“Relax buddy,” Rock said, grabbing an elephantine ankle and pulling gently down until Archer reached his seat. The Red guard came over and gave them each a set of shoes with magnetic bottoms. Archer put his on, not quite able to close even the largest pair, and began, nimbly for him, walking up the aisle looking sick as a dog.
“How high are we?” Rock asked one of his guards.
“Twenty-eight miles,” the beefy soldier answered proudly. “Flying about seven times the speed of sound at ground level. Five thousand miles per hour. We are in free fall, as you say.” Rock heard the toilet flush and wondered if Archer’s huge deposit was now a meteor about to flash across the sky of the north pole. The Doomsday Warrior unhooked himself under their careful gaze—why they bothered to keep a gun on him was beyond him. If they fired it in here, it would blow a hole in the side of the jet, and they would all suffer explosive decompression as the air rushed out of the sealed jet. He slowly made his way down the carpeted aisle, passing Archer on the way, who looked a little happier but was apparently hungry again as he went up to one of the guards and pointed a finger at his own mouth.
“Fooooddd. Mooorre.” The guards quickly acquiesced, not wanting to face the wrath of the hungry mutant American.
When he had finished his trip to the men’s room, Rockson returned to the open passenger section. He was curious about the effects of weightlessness. Under the watchful eyes of the guards, he released himself from the magnetic shoes and leaped up into the air, tucking his legs in under him. He went into a spring that accelerated faster and faster the more he pulled into a tighter circle. His years of physical training and his martial arts abilities made him quickly understand how to move in zero gravity. The Doomsday Warrior took off like an acrobat, soaring around the interior of the jet like some airborne porpoise. Even the guards were impressed, lowering their rifles as they watched the gymnastic performance.
It felt wonderful, Rock thought—like being a child in a dream when one could fly by merely flapping one’s arms. He pushed his body to the limits, trying every angle, every torque of hips and arms that he could think of. He glanced down suddenly at the guards and realized that he could easily take them out. A quick push off the top steel-ribbed ceiling and he would be down upon them like a wolf among the chickens. But he wanted to meet Vassily. Who knew where such an encounter would lead?
After about fifteen minutes of weightless gymnastics, Rockson returned to his seat. Both guards smiled at him. They couldn’t help but respect the man—his abilities were almost superhuman. They looked at him with strangely friendly eyes. Rock returned the gesture. It was not the common Red troops who were his enemy—even if he did have to kill them when the occasion arose. No, it was the leadership. It had always been—since the dawn of time. Those few, power-mad men who had to rise to the top and let their primitive, sadistic impulses become the rules of life. It was governments that had caused all of man’s problems. Wizened old men who sent the young out to die while they stayed at home making pronouncement after pronouncement on the need to kill, to conquer, to destroy. Maybe the world would have been better off if man had never evolved civilization; if man had stayed in the trees, in small clusters. Hadn’t the industrial world given humanity myriad ways to die, culminating in the atomic bomb which had turned the blue and green paradise of earth into a living hell?
“I think he wants to use your gentlemen’s facilities,” Rock said.
The Red guards motioned Archer forward but as he took a step, much to his astonishment, he began slowly floating up toward the cushioned ceiling, banging his head. He flailed his arms and kicked his long legs frantically as if trying to swim through the weightless air.
“Relax buddy,” Rock said, grabbing an elephantine ankle and pulling gently down until Archer reached his seat. The Red guard came over and gave them each a set of shoes with magnetic bottoms. Archer put his on, not quite able to close even the largest pair, and began, nimbly for him, walking up the aisle looking sick as a dog.
“How high are we?” Rock asked one of his guards.
“Twenty-eight miles,” the beefy soldier answered proudly. “Flying about seven times the speed of sound at ground level. Five thousand miles per hour. We are in free fall, as you say.” Rock heard the toilet flush and wondered if Archer’s huge deposit was now a meteor about to flash across the sky of the north pole. The Doomsday Warrior unhooked himself under their careful gaze—why they bothered to keep a gun on him was beyond him. If they fired it in here, it would blow a hole in the side of the jet, and they would all suffer explosive decompression as the air rushed out of the sealed jet. He slowly made his way down the carpeted aisle, passing Archer on the way, who looked a little happier but was apparently hungry again as he went up to one of the guards and pointed a finger at his own mouth.
“Fooooddd. Mooorre.” The guards quickly acquiesced, not wanting to face the wrath of the hungry mutant American.
When he had finished his trip to the men’s room, Rockson returned to the open passenger section. He was curious about the effects of weightlessness. Under the watchful eyes of the guards, he released himself from the magnetic shoes and leaped up into the air, tucking his legs in under him. He went into a spring that accelerated faster and faster the more he pulled into a tighter circle. His years of physical training and his martial arts abilities made him quickly understand how to move in zero gravity. The Doomsday Warrior took off like an acrobat, soaring around the interior of the jet like some airborne porpoise. Even the guards were impressed, lowering their rifles as they watched the gymnastic performance.
It felt wonderful, Rock thought—like being a child in a dream when one could fly by merely flapping one’s arms. He pushed his body to the limits, trying every angle, every torque of hips and arms that he could think of. He glanced down suddenly at the guards and realized that he could easily take them out. A quick push off the top steel-ribbed ceiling and he would be down upon them like a wolf among the chickens. But he wanted to meet Vassily. Who knew where such an encounter would lead?
After about fifteen minutes of weightless gymnastics, Rockson returned to his seat. Both guards smiled at him. They couldn’t help but respect the man—his abilities were almost superhuman. They looked at him with strangely friendly eyes. Rock returned the gesture. It was not the common Red troops who were his enemy—even if he did have to kill them when the occasion arose. No, it was the leadership. It had always been—since the dawn of time. Those few, power-mad men who had to rise to the top and let their primitive, sadistic impulses become the rules of life. It was governments that had caused all of man’s problems. Wizened old men who sent the young out to die while they stayed at home making pronouncement after pronouncement on the need to kill, to conquer, to destroy. Maybe the world would have been better off if man had never evolved civilization; if man had stayed in the trees, in small clusters. Hadn’t the industrial world given humanity myriad ways to die, culminating in the atomic bomb which had turned the blue and green paradise of earth into a living hell?
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