“Sir, the cable’s out. You’ll have to… _static_… it’s the only way. Over.”

“What’s the only way?” I jab the walkie-talkie’s call button frustratedly.

“The Air Crawler. _Static_… you’ll need to… _static_… It’s experimental, but… _static_…”

“Fine. I don’t want to spend another second stuck on top of this building.”

“_Static_… now, sir. Over.”

It doesn’t take long to learn what _now_ means. A large, heavy box drops from the helicopter above, thudding onto the rooftop with a crunch of metal. I jump out of the way just in time, and watch as it dents the metal tiles where it lands, nearly taking me out in the process. No time to complain.

“How…?”

“Put your hands on… _static_.”

The wind batters the chopper relentlessly, scrambling the signal somehow.

“Then your feet… _static_…”

“Repeat that—I didn’t get it. Over. Over!”

More static. I look up, watching the helicopter buck in the wind. No time. I fumble around the box, and find… a button. I press it. With a mechanical doink, the casing splits open, revealing four shoebox-sized metal devices. Each one glows with a symbol: two with hands and two with feet.

I go with instinct, because, well, what choice did I have. I slip my hands and feet into the matching openings, and experience a split second of panic as the boxes clamp shut. They’re snug, but—I wiggle my fingers and toes—everything moves. I’m good!

But now what? I wave my hands and nothing happens. The boxy mitts are smooth with no buttons or visible controls. There’s just the glowing, now _moving_ symbols. I watch for a beat as the open palm animates, slowly forming a fist.

I mimic it. To my shock, it’s like I’m gripping solid stone. My hand floats in mid-air, locked in place.

I pull, but my hand remains fixed in place. Then I remember what Johansen had called it: Air Crawler. So I reach.

And climb.

I scale the air like a invisible mountain. My feet find steps that shouldn’t exist, while I find hand-holds just as ethereal. The wind howls, but I’m steady. Higher I go. Higher.

The helicopter looms above, swaying hard in the turbulent atmosphere. I slow as I near it, trying not to get smacked by the landing skids. I pause, eyeing the entrance, and maneuver carefully as the chopper bucks wildly. Getting aboard looks almost impossible, I think, then I hear it: beep-beep.

The symbol on my right hand flashes red. Well, that can’t be anything good for me. I adjust myself, moving up and to the side, trying to line up on the side of the chopper with the open door. The pilot spots me and struggles to hold the chopper steady, failing miserably. My left hand starts beeping. Then the right-hand box goes dead. As in dead weight. I’m out of time. As if to accentuate my words, both my feet start blinking.

It’s now or…. The chopper veers back toward me, cutting off my thought—and I jump, stretching out my fingers and toes as I do so. I crash into the backseat just as the other three boxes shut down. The pilot looks back at me.

“Raise your fingers and toes!” he shouts.

I comply, and the boxes release, clattering to the floor. I wrestle into the seat restraints and yell over the roar of rotors and wind.

“Go! Go! Go!”

He doesn’t wait. The chopper pulls away just as three men burst onto the rooftop. The first one raises a pistol and aims it, but within seconds we’re out of range. He lowers the weapon, realizing it’s too late, then turns and shoves one of his men to the ground, likely furious as letting us get away. The pilot glances back.

“Good to have you back, Commander.”

I twirl the prize in my fingers—a memory stick with plans for an attack satellite—then place it back in its zippered pouch.

“Good to be back, Johansen,” I reply, breathless. And, more importantly, alive. As we fly back to base, a singular thought occupies my thoughts.

How can I get myself another Air Crawler?