Logline: When former U.S. Marine Corps fighter pilot and NASA astronaut turned Wall Street Tycoon, Stephen Young, decides to use the world’s capital markets to fund his expedition to be the first to Mars, he finds the legal, governmental, and interpersonal battles are more difficult than the technical aspects of such a gargantuan undertaking.
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The Man Who Sold Mars
by
K. Anderson Yancy
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Copyright 2003-2012 by K. Anderson Yancy
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Table of Contents
1. The Eagle Has Landed
2. You Had The Dream Again!
3. One Small Step For Stephen
4. Announcement To The World
5. They’re Coming For You. Be Ready.
6. Assignation With Tatyana
7. Hell Hath No Furry . . .
8. Girl Fight
9. All Dreams Are Madness
10. The Mars Transit Vehicle
11. Message On The Moon
12. The Aliens Are Coming
13. A Gift To The United Nations
14. You Armed The Moon?!
15. Selena Returns
16. Madonna — Whore
17. Eminent Domain
18. You’re Not Taking That!!
19. We Should Have Done This A Long Time Ago
20. Seven Of The Richest People In The World . . . Homeless
21. Young Sea Resources
22. The Indian Complex
23. Private Military Company ( PMC )
24. My Commander
25. Handing Over The Reigns Of Power
26. You Will Die During The Takeoff To Mars
27. I’m A Dead Man
28. Death In The Skies
29. Four Mistresses?
30. Through Her Eyes
31. No One Returns From A Siren’s Call
32. The Launch
33. Friends
34. This Eagle Has Landed
1. The Eagle Has Landed
It was on Luna — July 21, 1969 — 02:17 GMT, Greenwich Mean Time, where Neil Armstrong radioed back to billions of people on Terra, “Houston, Tranquility Base Here. The Eagle has landed.”
On that day, he became the first American and first man to land on the moon. Exiting the lunar module, he placed his left foot upon the moon: “That’s one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind.”
Later that day, he and Edwin “Buzz” Aldrin planted the American Flag and then unveiled a plaque bearing President Nixon’s signature and an inscription: “Here men from the Planet Earth first set foot upon the moon July 1969 AD. We came in peace for all mankind.”
And I Stephen Young, a young boy of eight, half asleep, dressed in pajamas, sat in the lap of my father, Robert W. Young, a United States Marine Corps Captain, wearing his “Alpha” uniform with badges, ribbons, and a pilot’s wings.
He kissed me on the head and with great love squeezed my mom’s, Evelyn’s, hand and said to me, “It’s bedtime.”
He again kissed me, and picked me, and carried me to my bedroom, while I drifted back and forth between the lands of dreams.
In the hallway, near my room, eyes closed, partially dozing, I promised, “Dad, I’m going to be an astronaut when I grow up.”
“You can be anything you choose to be and are willing to work hard to become.”
“Good. Then, I’m going to be the first to Mars and I’m taking you and mom with me.”
He kissed me and my young cheeks ballooned with my smile. With love, he entered my room placed me on my bed, covered me, then kissed me goodnight.
Sleepy I said, “Good night dad.”
“Good night.”
Half asleep, I watched my dad leave, then slowly turning my head I saw my lunar module lying on the night stand beside me, and reached for the model my dad and I’d spent hours assembling from a kit, and pulled the spaceship to me, holding it against my chest while I slept.
The next day was beautiful and I played in the backyard with my lunar module and an armada of space ships, while my father prepared to place marinated steaks on the grill and mom set the table on the patio.
At the home beside ours, a car pulled into the alley entrance of the garage and in an erotic fueled instant, Janice and Fred Beacon exited on fire, kissing, hands all over one another, and on a fast route to their bedroom.
I stood up and greeted my buddy and his wife, “Hi, Mr. Beacon. Mrs. Beacon.”
Oblivious to all but their desires, they were surprised by me and the Beacons froze in place and a very surprised and embarrassed Janice removed Fred's hand from her breast and said, “ Hi.”
Mr. Beacon much less surprised greeted us, “Hi Stephen. Evelyn. Robert. How’s the war?”
“Like all wars, never good.”
Dad had just returned from a deployment fighting in the Vietnam War, which was raging and sadly would continue for another six years leaving millions of Vietnamese and Americans dead and wounded.
Mr. Beacon nodded, “I hear you.”
I held up my Lunar Module. “Mr. Beacon, I’m going to be an astronaut.”
“You’re a smart kid. You can be anything you want.”
Mrs. Beacon glanced at Mr. Beacon with what I later learned were bedroom eyes and hurried he said his goodbyes to us, “Well!—I’ve got to go. Good seeing all of you again. Stay safe Robert.”
“You too.”
A few brief moments later, absorbed, I played with my space fleet . . . and, from an open window of the Beacon’s bedroom soft sexual noises drifted out. At the time, I didn’t know what they were or what their cause was, but my parent’s hearing them, with alarm, glanced at me. I was absorbed in my play, and ignoring them. As the Beacon’s volume and intensity increased . . . tremendously to the point that people a block away probably could not ignore them, I broke from my toys. “What are they doing?”
“Exercising.” My mom said quite quickly.
“Like you and dad.”
My mom turned beat red with embarrassment.<
br />
“Only not as good.” was my father’s response.
I didn’t know why, but mom turned to dad, scowled and whispered, “Behave.”
The sounds coming from the Beacons bedroom died down and I returned to my play. A moment later our tranquility was interrupted by Mrs. Beacon’s angry words.
“Blow job!! You want a blow job!!! I’ll give you a bow job when — when young Stephen walks on Mars.”
This was a term new to my eight year old ears, but as it was intimately connected with my promise to be the first man to walk on Mars, I turned towards my shocked parents.
“Mom. Dad. What’s a . . . “
I paused to think of those exact words again and in silence and dread my parents looked for an appropriate answer once I phrased the question.
But dad didn’t wait for me, “Ahhhh. It’s an exercise your mom does really, really, really well.”
Shocked and surprised, mom half playfully slapped him on the arm and whispered, “Stop it.”
Still staring at the open bedroom window, I spoke with my parents. “It must be really special. Mrs. Beacon is going to wait until I go to Mars to do it.”
My dad suppressed a laugh, “The way your mom does. Yes it is—-“
My mom was not pleased with his joke under the circumstances and meaning business said, “Robert Young.”
And my dad held up his hands in surrender . . . Near surrender. He grinned, “But it is.”
Mom scowled at him.
Satisfied with the answer I returned to my play with my space fleet.
Sudden without prelude, the sounds of the Beacon’s “Exercising” picked up with an awesome intensity.
Again, I stopped my play and this time I walked towards the Beacon’s home, across the unfenced lawn our families shared, towards the open window with slow curious steps, to prevent accidentally disturbing them. “They sure exercise a lot.”
My parents stood watching me, not knowing what really to say or do. So mom did the wise thing and called me back.
Stephen, Honey, come play.
I stopped. But intrigued I stood there.
Breathing hard I heard Mr. Beacon ask, “Who’s your daddy?”
I was shocked. “He doesn’t know who his wife’s dad is?”
My parents were speechless.
“Who’s your daddy?”
“Oh, God! You are.” Mrs. Beacon said nearly out of breath.
My eyes widened with greater shock, “Mr. Beacon is Mrs. Beacon’s Dad? And he didn’t know.”
Very hurried my mom said, “Stephen, dear. It looks like it’s going to rain.”
“It sure does. And hard.” My dad added.
I glanced up at the skies, saw they were as clear as could be, and mentally questioned whether it would rain.
Mom called me again, “Honey, it’s going to rain and we should eat inside.”
Evelyn, you are so right about that. “Stephen get your ships. We’re going inside.” He then said to himself. “I have got to talk to the Beacon’s about the benefits of air conditioning.”
Mom smiled at me, “Stephen honey, pick up your toys and bring them in.”
Still glancing at the skies and studying them, I broke from studying them and the “intriguing” sounds of the Beacon’s and walked towards my space fleet. While I reached for my prized Lunar Module, the atmosphere took on a surrealistic feel.
And, I looked up to see a version of myself 19 years older, at 27 years, dressed in a U.S. Marine Corps flight suit and accompanying g-suit, helmet in hand, and like my dad also a captain, step right in front of me at eight and my space fleet.
I climbed into a Hornet, an F/A-18, 56,000 pound, Fighter/Attack Jet at the Naval Air Station Fallon Nevada and flashed down a runway into the clear blue skies towards the Weapons and Tactics Center Range, WTCRC, Tonopah Test Range.
High above the Mountains, in a “Hard” 1 v 4, I alone was engaging four Air Force F-16’s in Aerial Combat Maneuvers, ACM.
An F-16 and I passed head to head. I applied full power, pitched my 18’s nose up. Climbing and turning to intercept the “Bogie” it happened. My engines gave a horrific wail of internal destruction and cataclysmic failure; a multitude of cockpit alarms went off as other systems failed en mass and fires erupted throughout the compartment. The Hornet’s nose pitched down and the jet trundled out of control. Instead of delivering me for drinks and prime rib at the officers club, my jet and I had a rendezvous with the grounds of the Rocky Mountains.
My jet was lost. To prevent dying with it, I reached up for the ejection handle and pulled.
Blown free of my ship, the jet careened below exploding on impact with a mountain peak not too far below, becoming an instant scrap yard, and a monstrous fire bloom raced up towards me —
Where with amazing speed born of horror, dressed in a space suit wearing a patch woven with Earth at it’s center and the flags of all its nation’s surrounding it, I pulled myself through a dark, dark corridor in a space craft in zero gravity, while from behind a demon fueled fire flashed towards and engulfed me as I heard sirens two voices entwined as one spectral voice say, “Stephennnnnnn. Come to meeeeeeee.”
In terror, my heart beating out of control, I bolted out of my sleep.
Dripping with sweat, I reached for a remote control and soft subdued lighting illuminated my large, penthouse bedroom, the place thanks to Selena’s touch was of lavish wealth and elegance, a tapestry of the new and antiquarian, masculine, but with her feminine influence, a place with an amazing view of the New York City skyline that would be at home as a wing in the Paris’ Musée du Louvre, Louvre Museum.
But, none of this mattered. I was troubled, concerned, and contemplating. This dream was occurring nearly nightly for quite some time. There was a message in it. And, I knew what it was.
I lay back in bed and reached for the prized Lunar module of my childhood on my nightstand. Holding it above me, I studied it, while a myriad of questions tumbled through my troubled mind. I then held it against my chest, while the thoughts continued on and on unceasing.
2. You Had The Dream Again!
When the night that seemed so long as if morning would never come ended, Randolph, the doorman, held the door open for me, as I with much on my mind, valise in hand, exited.
“Good Morning, Mr. Young.”
“Good morning to you Randolph and thank you.”
“You are quite welcomed, sir.”
I continued on to a waiting limo. The chauffer opened the door and I entered to see Se, Selena Luce, an extremely beautiful woman of charm, grace and centuries of breeding, and Gardner Semet, a hardboiled financier from the streets of New York. Greeted by their smiles, I smiled back and sat.
Gardner put aside his Wall Street Journal and very excited asked, “Ready for the big day.”
Selena took my hand, “I am.”
Subdued and distant I answered, “Yes.”
# # #
Very concerned, Stephen’s hand in mine I studied him. “Did you have that dream again?”
He didn’t answer.
His silence was an affirmation of the answer. “Stephen, you need to do something about it.”
“What?”
Gardner’s eyes blazed. “See a therapist. Mine’s excellent—“
“You’re sleeping with her.” I said while Gardner’s eyes blazed with greater fire.
“So what, the therapy worked. My nightmares—“
“What I have is not a dream. It’s a call. A premonition? Something. It’s not going away. And I think if it does, it’ll be replaced with something . . . Ugly? Uglier.”
Sincere Gardner glanced at him, “Stephen, kidding aside—“
Stephen feigned great enthusiasm. “This is a landmark day. Let’s talk about happy things. Your kids.”
In silence, Gardner and I looked at him with extreme concern.
He squeezed my hand and held it close against him. I loved him so much. I smiled. “Selena, how’s Patricia and Lady Macb
eth coming. Quite an accomplishment for a twelve year old and all those lines too.”
# # #
My two friends continued studying me, each mentally debating whether to continue or whether to make me confront the terror that came nightly in my dreams.
# # #
Then I melted. I always did, glowing with undying love for him.
# # #
And despite the great worries I wrestled with, they could see me pledging my undying love to her.
“Patricia’s doing well. It’s a greatly scaled down version of Macbeth, written in contemporary English. And. it’s creating quite the family competition in a good way, with Catherine playing the role at Juilliard.”
In silence and with great concern, Gardner continued studying and worrying about me his old, old friend.
# # #
As did I as I spoke of my family.
3. One Small Step For Stephen
Along with Selena and Gardner, in “The Conference Room” of the corporate offices of “The Group”, at what was essentially a large ring shaped table, composed of 50 arched segments separated and spaced to allow easy entry into the center of the room, I sat at a breakfast meeting with 49 of the wealthiest people in the world covering all the world’s ethnicities, among them Selena, Gardner, Greg Tomsho, Allan Matsumura, Michael Hemmingson, George Carleton, Kevin Fay, Camilla, Leday, Sunny Sahijwani, and Leanne Tobias, while their staff and security dined and awaited in the background.
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