"Floating" by Rob

I woke, the sound of thunder in my ears, and a taste of blood in my mouth.

I resisted the urge to open my eyes, and took stock.  The thunder was engine noise, loud, low and rumbling from all around me.  Markwick's cargo plane, at a guess.  Two voices over the engine sound, I couldn't quite hear what they were saying, but I mentally filed away their direction, and distance: close but not very close.

What else?  I was sat on a cold hard surface, metallic, a crate, possibly.  Hands bound behind me, tied with rope, tight, but I thought I could get out, at the cost of a little skin.  All that would do would be to add to the pain, and there was already enough of that to go around.  Marwick's goon had worked me over for a while before consciousness had blissfully departed.  

I quietly tensed muscle groups in turn, hoping it didn't show, making sure everything was working.  I clenched my teeth at a sharp pain in my left calf, bad, but not so bad that I couldn't manage a short sprint.  I wasn't going to be running any marathons.

"I thought I saw him move."  One of the voices, same direction, but closer, still shouting over the engine sound.

Two people, plus any who hadn't spoken yet.  It was a risk, but the odds would only get worse if they checked and rebound my wrists.

Now, now, now!

I surged upwards, opening my eyes, trying to soak up information as I threw myself shoulder-first at the approaching voice.  I recognised Markwick's goon with a certain satisfaction just as I struck him squarely in the stomach.  We tumbled together, rolling along the metal floor, I managed to get on top as we slid to a halt against a jeep tied to the deck.  I knelt on the goon's windpipe, taking cover behind the jeep and trying to work a hand free of my bindings.

More information.  There had been two startled cries when I moved, one from Markwick himself, standing next to a small stack of crates.  He had the virus tube in his hand, the secure case I'd been carrying it discarded in a corner.  The second voice came from the back of the cargo area, he would have to be my next target.

Long slices of skin peeled free as I yanked the rope off my left wrist.  I couldn't quite stifle the cry of pain.

The goon at the back of the plane did me a favour by dithering, he had a gun out, but was reluctant to fire.  He should have called forward for more help, but perhaps there wasn't any.  It didn't seem likely I'd be so lucky, but was determined to ride the luck while I could.  

The goon under my knee stopped struggling and went slack.  Without looking down, I stood and ran, keeping low, sharp pain shooting up my leg each time I put my weight on my left foot.

This broke the dithering and the second goon fired, twice, but wildly.  I ignored the shots except to offer a silent prayer to the god of ricochets, grabbed the goon's wrist and slammed it into the wall repeatedly until he dropped his gun.

Which is where my luck ran out.

The plane lurched as the cargo doors opened.  Seems I'd hammered the wall right next to the release button.  On top of it.  I heard Markwick cry out in alarm, then a clatter.

I shifted my grip to my opponent's head, and slammed it into the wall with as much force as I could muster.  I must have caught an edge, there was a wet cracking noise from his skull, and he went suddenly limp.

I let go, turned and looked for Markwick.  He was struggling to stand, the rush of air through the cargo doors pulling at him, a few loose items fluttered past him and were blown out into the sky.  Markwick wasn't holding the virus.

Where?  Oh no.

The vial seemed to spin in slow motion, caught in an eddy.  I tried to tell myself it wasn't being blown out of the plane, to fall, break, and release its deadly contents on the unsuspecting world below.  But I tried to tell myself this is I began to sprint, kicking off the back wall, ignoring Markwick, ignoring the pain in my leg, ignoring everything, focussed on the vial as it was blown free of the plane and out into the blue.

I didn't break stride, just threw myself out after it.

Two objects falling in a vacuum on earth accelerate at 9.81 metres per second per second regardless of their masses.  But neither the vial or I was in a vacuum, suddenly it was a race between wind resistance and terminal velocity.  It was a race that would be won or lost in seconds, I was sure I would fall faster than the vial in the long run.

Focus.

I forgot the plane.  Forgot the rush of air.  Forgot the aches and pains from every part of my body.  Forgot the seeping wetness in my side that perhaps meant the god of ricochets had not been kind.

Just me and that vial, hanging in the air.  Matching velocities, I floated towards it.

My fingers closed around it.

And the world snapped back in focus again, and I was falling.  Falling faster.  The ground still seemed a long way off, but I doubted that would last.

Fortunately Q had prepared me for just such an eventuality.  I pulled at the middle button of my jacket, and the whole jacket unfolded around me, forming a makeshift but serviceable parachute.

Yeah.

That would have been nice.

No.  This was the job, this was the risk.  I hadn't followed the vial out of the plane to rescue it, but to prevent the virus getting out.  I placed the vial in my mouth and tried to swallow.  It wasn't easy.  My mouth was dry, I was disoriented.  I was afraid to die.

But if the vial landed by itself it would smash and release.  If it landed inside me... well hoping it wouldn't break was perhaps a little optimistic, but perhaps, perhaps the shroud of meat and pulverised bone could keep it contained long enough.

My fault.  Markwick would have done worse with it, but this is my fault.  I can see a small town below me now.  I really hope my plan works.  I hope you will forgive me.

Sometimes, this is the job.