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The frame is heavy on my shoulders: metal tubing, carbon fibre, mylar, plastic and fabric making up a brightly coloured wedge. The hang-glider is larger, more unwieldy and harder to control than the wings of my G-Force gear.
But I didn't know that, then.
Not the first time, not for that first step.
We had trained for it: tandem parachute jumps, zip lines, even cable-supported runs in the glider harness with a mock-up; ultralights, aeroplanes, jump towers...
And I was afraid.
I was always afraid.
It would start as a nagging, nauseous feeling in my gut, and it would work its way down to my knees and up through my spine and into my brain.
I don't remember when it started, but I'd never liked heights. I was uncomfortable on ladders, nervous climbing up and down from the tree house in the Hallorans' back yard, even. I'd never told anyone about it, hell, it didn't seem important, but it was there.
I was always afraid.
Even though I knew that the static line would open the chute, even though I knew the cables would hold me up, even though I had seen others do it, the first step was always the hardest.
The door of the aircraft, the platform, the precipice, whatever it was would yawn and the fear would turn solid and cold and my bones would freeze.
My breath would come short and shallow and my skin would go clammy as blue sky threatened to engulf me, swallow me whole, and the ground lurked huge and hard and ready to smash me.
I would gulp, mouth dry, swallowing air and swallowing spit but never swallowing the lump in my throat.
And then the jump master would shove me out, breaking the spell, without ever knowing that I was too scared even to scream.
And the static line would pull and the chute would open and jerk me backwards, hard in the shoulders and the groin and even that was welcome because it meant that I wasn't falling out of control but that was okay, because it was only that first step.
After the first step, it was easy.
But always, just before that first step, I was scared shitless.
This particular day, there's no jump master to shove me out of the plane to float earthward, no drill sergeant to push me off the tower like an overdressed bungee jumper, no instructor pushing me down the zip line.
I have to do it myself.
I have to step off the edge of a cliff. Voluntarily. Under my own steam.
And I can't.
I'm standing at the top of the bluff, with the others, staring out and down into the valley. Mark's excited, as usual. Anything to do with flying, and Marco's all for it, always ready to hurl himself into the air. He should have been born a bird. Or hatched, or something. Twelve years old and addicted to blue sky, bad as any junkie could ever be. I'd like to throttle him.
Princess is waxing lyrical about the view, and how pretty it is. Princess always finds something nice to say. It's an admirable trait, and sometimes, it makes me want to throttle her. No... no, make that "most of the time, it makes me want to throttle her." I like, Princess, really. She's my sister and she'll always be my sister, no matter what. If there was anyone I could tell about my fears, it would be Princess. But I can't.
Don just sneers and looks superior. If I was ever given only one shot at throttling only one member of this family, I'd have to let Mark and Princess live so I could kill Don.
Tiny is calm... wait a minute, he's not calm, he's asleep! He's stretched out on the grass with his hands behind his head and he's out like a light. Holy cow, is there anywhere in the galaxy where that guy can't sleep?!
Nobody knows that I'm afraid.
They strap me in to the hang-glider. I need the skills, they tell me, for the Work, when we're grown. I must be able to glide, with special equipment they're developing, just for the Project.
I'm afraid.
It's that first step.
The glider's heavy, and a stray gust of wind pulls me sideways. The instructor moves to help me balance, but Anderson says, "Jason's okay, he can handle it."
So I right the glider and stare out into the shimmering blue and green and brown of the valley.
The bluff falls away below me: rocks, tufts of grass. In front of me, a huge empty space through which I could fall to my death. Above me, a solitary eagle makes lazy circles in the updraft, a dark shape against the burning blue sky.
I'm cold.
It's a warm day, but I'm cold... shivering.
My teeth are chattering.
"Ready?" Anderson demands.
I'm paralysed. I can't speak. I can't nod. My heart is thumping in my chest like a great hoop drum and I can taste bile at the back of my throat.
The eagle's shadow crosses me. I look up at it...
It's maybe fifty feet above me, but it's not an eagle.
It's a condor.
Alone, solitary, free.
I can do this, if I can only get my feet to move.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
"Jason?"
There's an edge to Anderson's voice. Does he know? Oh, man, he can't possibly...
The wind smacks me in the face and I kick out and push myself forward.
For a horrible, terrifying moment I'm falling -- really falling, but then the kite catches me and carries me into the sky.
I'm flying.
Really flying, for the first time. Not falling, not hanging off a flying fox, no static lines or tandem rigs.
I'm flying...
And the laughter bubbles up from somewhere deep inside me... from the place where only a moment ago, the fear was sitting like a lump of ice in my belly.
I'm flying...
I can hear the wind in my ears, singing and roaring and whispering to me of freedom and power and grace. I can't hear Anderson, or Mark, or Princess, or Don -- especially Don -- or Tiny.
I'm completely and utterly alone.
Me and the wind.
And I'm not afraid.
I've been trained in the use of the kite: I bank, using my arms and my body to balance the turn, and like the condor, I wheel in a slow, easy arc. I can see my family on the bluff, and they can see me, but I'm alone up here, with no-one to answer to until I come down. And I will come down... eventually.
Just not right now.
The wind lifts me higher, and its song fills me. It sings of wide, empty spaces and turbulent clouds and roller-coaster rides over mountaintops. It sings of bright stars and blazing Sun and the cool, silky light of the Moon over the desert. It sings of warm breezes and icy tempests and whirling dust devils.
And I don't have to be afraid any more.
The frame is heavy on my shoulders: metal tubing, carbon fibre, mylar, plastic and fabric making up a brightly coloured wedge. The hang-glider is larger, more unwieldy and harder to control than the wings of my G-Force gear.
Since that first day, I've spent more time in the air than I care to think about. When I unfurl the wings of my G-Force uniform, it happens instinctively, with my adrenaline pumping, with my anger burning, with the battle heat rising in my veins.
When I heft the glider on my shoulders, it happens consciously, with my blood singing a different song, and with a sense of calm anticipation.
I move to the edge of the precipice and wait for the right gust of wind.
Below me, the canyon yawns, and I feel the ghost of my fear brush past me, touching me, reminding me that I am only a man.
Then the wind fills the sail of the kite and I leap out into empty space. Alone, with the wind singing in my ears.