Debatable Space by Philip Palmer Read Free Book Online Page A

below us, like icebergs. The air up here is thin, but breathable, though I have an oxygen tube to
     supplement the native air. Flanagan hands me my wings, and looks at me, with a friendly, approving glance. For weeks he’s
     been polite to me, kind, respectful, charming. I almost, I must concede, have started to warm to him.
    I glance out at the edge of the plateau, and see below a vast, impossible drop. We are miles from the surface; and our plan
     is to
fly
?
    What am I doing here? I think to myself, suddenly fearful.
    “Frightened?” Flanagan asks.
    “Not in the least,” I tell him calmly.
    I am so very scared.
    You’ll be fine.
    I’ll fall, and shatter every bone in my body, and the pain will send me mad.
    You won’t fall.
    I might.
    Well, you might.
    “Put the harness on.”
    I strap myself into the flying contraption. The wings are soft, malleable, made of some plastic or PVC material that is supple
     yet amazingly strong. The wing spans are strapped on to my upper arms and shoulders, moulding effortlessly so that they feel
     like an extension of my body. Complementing all this is a vast tail feather that stretches from my lower back to my ankles,
     and in the air will extend still further. Mine is a vivid purple; Flanagan’s an angelic white.
    “Press this, and the wings fly off, and the parachute will glide you to earth.”
    I nod, my lips dry.
    “If I die you won’t get your ransom,” I eventually manage to say.
    “Don’t die then.”
    I shrug and roll my shoulders, getting a feel for my new wings. Flanagan does the same. We walk together to the cliff edge.
    We jump.
    The thermal gusts are strong, and reliable, the gravity is low, the atmosphere is thick, the wings are wafer-light. I am caught
     in an updraft and find myself soaring.
    Through the sky, body arcing and bucking, legs firmly held straight, my chest and breasts squeezed and bruised by the wind.
     And I fly . . .
    I feel a surge of exhilaration. The planet is mapped out beneath me. I am sensitive to every gust of wind, every current of
     air. I follow Flanagan’s lead, tilt my body and soar
    Then up again! Soaring, skating, bucking, wheeling, kingdom of daylight’s dauphin. I fly!
Harry
    While the Captain and Lena go flying, the rest of us go our separate ways. Alliea goes sightseeing, exploring the local temples
     and artworks. Brandon hits the libraries. Jamie goes to a playground and makes out like a ten-year-old for an afternoon. Kalen
     barters in the markets.
    And I spend the day at the leisure centre. As well as a gym, and a pool, they have a competition running track. Athletes in
     training limber up and stretch. A pole vaulter leaps high up in the air and skims the bar. Two runners match paces as they
     cruise at an effortless sprint.
    I take the field. My brawny hairy Loper body feels vile to me as I see the sleek and muscular professional athletes around
     me, but no one can deny that I am a magnificent runner. So I run, and run, and run. Not quite as fast as the competition-winning
     athletes, who can move like mercury exploding. But when they are flagging and tiring, I am still going strong. I vary my pace;
     from run to bound. I leap huge leaps along the track. I roll a forward somersault, leap ten metres in the air, backflip, forward
     flip, then continue running.
    I do this for eighteen hours. And slowly, hour by hour, I feel the stiffness leave my joints. I was built for this, bioengineered
     to run for twelve hours a day without any need for food and drink. My home planet of Pohl was an airless wilderness, but we
     man-beasts were modified so we could inhabit almost any of its terrains. We had cities in the valleys, we built temples in
     the mountains. We were a low-culture, high-technology mining planet, but as far as we Lopers were concerned, we were the lords
     of all we surveyed.
    I miss those days. I had lovers in plenty, I savoured the cold crisp airless Pohlian nights, the blistering heat of the summers,
     the icy