Air Born | Generation Icarus #1

Tyler - Falling With Style

We shovelled down our breakfast rations, and then huddled over his phone, searching everything we could think of that might help us crack the mechanics of flying.

As morning brightened into full daylight, I saw the bags under his eyes, and the thinness of his neck, shoulders and arms. I felt like a fat, pampered turkey compared to this lean, determined guy who'd tracked me down like he was some sort of bird of prey.

But the last few days I'd spent scavenging on the run hadn't been kind to me either. I had superficial wounds — scrapes and bruises from rough-edged dumpsters and jumping from slow-moving trucks — but that was nothing compared to the crushing exhaustion that I could also see ground into Miguel's face.

As he scanned diagrams showing how a hummingbird flaps, I discreetly tried to get a good look at his wings.

"You can look as close as you want," Miguel said cheerfully, shuffling around and extending his wings out to either side while he continued reading on his phone. It was taking a long time for the page to load with the weak signal.

Instead of two wing holes he had a single slit from just below the collar to halfway down his back. However, I could see by how tight the fabric was that it wasn't going to be a practical solution for long, assuming our wings would keep growing. His shirt would rip trying to take it on and off - the same problem I had.

I felt awkward at first, but the more I examined his wings, the more I understood about my own. They were like another set of arms. Each one emerged from a thick shoulder just below the normal shoulder blade, and had three large bony sections connected by an elbow and wrist. These folded into an N or И shape, and the massive wing tip feathers that grew from the end point formed a fourth segment that was entirely feathered.

As Miguel demonstrated his folding and unfolding movements, I saw he had another joint at the tip of his wing arm. He could bend this like a finger and at full flexion rotate the section of longest, largest feathers 180 degrees so they were pointing upwards, tucking underneath the bulk of the main wing. I was pretty sure no real bird in existence had evolved to do that.

Then I realised that this was how he'd been able to move without detection through major cities and hitchhike along highways, as the entire lump of his wing remained hidden, instead of poking out at the bottom of his jacket, like mine did.

I tried copying him. It looked and felt weird, and the movement was jerky, but I knew I'd only get better at it. Unfortunately, having a bunch of large feathers stuffed between my wing arms and back wasn't very comfortable, so I had a feeling that when there were no regular humans around, the 'full angel' fold which left our long feathers trailing down the backs of our legs, would be our normal relaxed position.

Miguel's feathers seemed to be a uniform black, but as I looked closer, I saw flecks of brown and red. There didn't seem to be any underlying pattern. A slightly musty smell wafted up when he moved them. I brought my own wings forward for a sniff and the scent was nearly identical.

"How are we meant to clean them without beaks?" I asked.

After a quick online search, Miguel found an even more compelling reason to start grooming. "It says the way the feathers sit, and a bird's natural oils make a big difference to how well it can fly. Something about interlocking vanes and barbs making an aerodynamic surface. We might have to experiment until we find the best way."

If cleaning myself up would help me fly, then I'd do it without complaint.

"Can I have a look?" Miguel gestured to my wings.

"Oh, right, sure." I took the phone and turned my back to him, and began searching for a slow-motion video of birds flying so I could study their wing movements.

"You're going to have some great markings," he said after a few minutes. "You've got darker stripes coming through already. They're more obvious in the lighter feathers underneath."

The signal disappeared and I tossed the phone back to Miguel with a frustrated groan.

"Find anything useful?" he asked, calmly turning it off to save the battery.

"Our bodies are completely the wrong shape. We might never get in the air."

"Don't worry, Tyler," Miguel said quietly as he started re-packing his gear. "We wouldn't have been given these wings unless there was a reason."

"How do you know?" I demanded. "Just because we've got wings doesn't mean we'll be able to use them. What about ostriches, and emus? They're tall, with feathers and wings — just like us — and they can't fly either."

Miguel stood up and hesitantly put his hand on my shoulder. It was the first time either one of us had made direct physical contact since we'd met and it was both reassuring and unsettling. "Have faith, Tyler."

"In what?"

He tapped his crucifix. "This was my grandmother's," he said quietly. "She saw my wings just before she passed on, and she told me that we have a purpose. I have to believe it's true. I know it's true. It's not a coincidence that you and I are here together. We're meant to be like this." As he spoke he spread his wings to their full width. "You've already saved your own life twice by flying."

I snorted. "Flying? Hardly. More like, 'falling with style'. And not even much style, really."

"It's still a sign that these wings aren't simply decoration," Miguel said. "Maybe we just have to earn the right to fly by figuring out the last step. Or, two."

"Hopefully it's not our final step," I muttered.