by Jeff Pollard
The ballistic trajectory on the guidance screen passes the landing site and continues farther inland. Kingsley then throttles all the way down, keeping the capsule pointed downwind. As they near the landing site, way high and overshooting, K flips the capsule around, pointing the blunt end downwind, and throttles all the way up, burning the engines hard to come to a near stop horizontally. The capsule is plummeting almost straight down, right at the landing site. Kingsley throttles down again. The capsule falls straight down, unpowered. Falling faster and faster, Kingsley keeps the throttle at zero. He waits until the last possible second, at only three hundred feet, Kingsley turns the engines up to maximum, blasting them to slow the capsule down. They approach the landing site at high speed. Kingsley slows their descent, but they still come in very fast. He hits the gear deploy button at the last moment. The Griffin's landing gear can soften the landing pretty significantly, and are supposed to be able to handle up to a thirty-five mile per hour landing without snapping. It wouldn't be super comfortable, but they would walk away from it. They land at twelve miles per hour and the engines run out of fuel just as they hit the ground.
“And that's how you do that,” Kingsley says as the other men are stunned. Kingsley climbs out of the sim and the three men remain, laughing.
“How the hell did he do that?” T-Bowe asks.
“Dude practically lives in this sim,” Travis replies.
“He's probably landed this thing ten thousand times,” Dexter adds. “He's a machine. If he's not designing a rocket or a flying car, he's in the simulator trying some crazy stunt. It's all he knows how to do.”
“That and bang chicks,” Travis adds.
“Jeez,” T-Bowe says.
It's well after dark by the time Kingsley heads home for the day. Hannah waits at her desk. When K exits his office, he finds her still dutifully at her desk.
“Why are you still here?” K asks.
“I go home when you go home,” Hannah replies.
“You really don't need to do that,” K says as he heads for the door. Hannah turns off her computer and quickly catches up with him.
“So what's on the agenda tonight?” Hannah asks.
“Nothing,” K replies awkwardly. Hannah walks with him, staying beside him. He reaches the K-mobile in the parking garage and Hannah immediately hops in. K didn't invite her. Dexter was right. She thinks they're dating. K doesn't say anything, staring for a moment before getting in and closing the glass canopy.
On the highway, on the way home, K keeps eying his rear-camera. K presses both sticks forward, accelerating the K-mobile well over 100 mph through traffic.
“What are you doing?” Hannah asks.
“Nothing,” K says calmly.
“K. You don't think we're being followed again, do you?”
“Of course not,” K says, eying the rear-camera as a pair of headlights weave through traffic, keeping up with them.
“You're not being followed! Are you losing it or something?” Hannah demands. “Seriously K, slow down. You're not being followed, you're just paranoid!”
“Alright,” K says, slowing down. He keeps his eyes on the headlights a hundred yards behind him. As they approach his exit, he loses track of the headlights. Maybe he was just seeing things. As they drive the last few miles through the sparsely populated rich neighborhood, there seems to be nobody behind them. Maybe he was losing it.
As they near the house, K spots headlights coming around a corner, a few hundred yards behind them. He pulls into the driveway, heading up to the garage. He leaves the garage door open, eying the rear-display as Hannah hops out of the K-mobile. The car stops at the end of the driveway, then inches along, past the entrance to the driveway.
K hops out of the car. He goes to a large tool cabinet, pulling out a drawer, he pulls up a plastic liner holding dozens of sockets of different sizes. Beneath the liner are several guns, resting neatly in black cushioning. K pulls a pistol as well as a magazine. He loads and cocks the pistol and walks toward the open garage door.
“Is that a gun?” Hannah asks, following him.
“Just go inside,” K says as he proceeds outside.
“K, seriously, put that away,” Hannah says.
“Shh,” K says to her as he walks off the driveway, proceeding through dense trees, heading toward the road.
“K!” Hannah whispers insistently, following after him. “You're not being followed.” Kingsley approaches the road about a hundred yards away from the entrance to his driveway. He gets to the edge of the tree-line, taking cover behind a moss-covered oak. Hannah is not far behind him.
Hannah steps on a branch, making a loud snap. K turns to her with wide eyes, puts the gun to his lips and shushes her again. Down the street, near the entrance to his driveway, a white Toyota Prius sits parked on the side of the road. The lights turn off and the car door opens. Hannah reaches K, walking as quietly as possible.
“Who is that?” Hannah asks, K puts his hand over her mouth to silence her.
“Stay here,” K says. He ducks back into the tree-line, walking quietly, he moves towards the car. A figure gets out of the car, moving to the trunk, searching for something inside.
K gets close, taking cover behind a tree, just off the side of the road. The figure searches the trunk, then stands upright, pulling out a large pair of bolt cutters.
“Freeze,” K shouts, aiming the pistol right at the figure. Hannah hears K's alarmed shout. The figure charges at K, then Hannah hears a scream as the two silhouettes become one. Hannah fears the worst. She quickly moves through the brush. They appear to be in a struggle, a fight. Hannah races to get there to help. She finally reaches K, finding that he's pinned against a tree by a woman who is kissing him all over.
“What the hell?” Hannah asks.
“I told you I was being followed,” K says apathetically, covered in lipstick.
“What are you, his stalker?” Hannah asks derisively. The woman ignores Hannah. She's incensed, kissing, groping, rubbing herself all over K.
“Who wants to get some dinner?” K asks.
Kingsley, Hannah, and K's stalker, Jessica an attractive woman in her early-twenties, are served dinner by Kingsley's chef.
“Thank you Jarvis,” Kingsley says.
“I thought his name was Michael?” Hannah asks.
“It is,” K replies.
“Then why'd you call him Jarvis?” Hannah asks.
“He's making a joke about being Iron Man,” Jessica says. “That's the name of Tony Stark's robot butler thing. How do you not know that?”
“So Jessica, what do you do, aside from following me around?” K asks.
“I'm an actress,” Jessica replies, brushing back her blond hair from her eyes.
“Uh huh,” Hannah says, staring this woman down. “Do you often use bolt cutters for the dramatic roles you play?”
“Not usually,” Jessica replies.
“So what was the plan? Break in, steal some of his hair?” Hannah asks.
“Hannah, it's okay, relax, she's a rocket enthusiast,” K says, then takes a bite of steak.
“It's true, I love technology. Kingsley is just so amazing, the solar cars and rockets and all that stuff. He's gonna save the world.”
“To saving the world,” Kingsley toasts, clinking glasses with his stalker. “Who's up for some X?” K asks. Kingsley offers a bottle of aspirin to Jessica and Hannah. Jessica quickly takes it. Hannah reluctantly takes hers, then palms it, only pretending to take it. Hannah keeps a close eye on Jessica, not trusting her. As the drug kicks in for Kingsley and Jessica, the night quickly devolves into debauchery. They retreat to a basement level, to a large room that serves as a dance club at some of K's wild parties. LED lights surround the whole dance floor. The LED lights change color and brightness to match the music. The psychedelic display would be impressive even without a drug in your system. To Kingsley and Jessica, the lights are god damn profound. Before long, K busts out neon-glow-in-the-dark body paint. Clo
thes come off, and the next thing you know, Kingsley, Jessica, and Hannah in the middle of the dance floor, naked, covered in paint. Kingsley draws Griffin capsules on Jessica's back.
For Jessica and Kingsley, the experience is profound. For Hannah it's a hellish nightmare. The thumping music, the flashing lights, the dirty, dream-crushing sex.
“I told you, didn't I tell you, admit it, I fucking told you,” Dexter Houston says, standing over Kingsley's desk.
“What?” K asks.
“She's out there bawling her eyes out,” Dexter says.
“Who?” K asks.
“Who do you think?”
“So I banged one of my groupies, so what?” K asks.
“You fucked another woman right in front of her, what is wrong with you?”
“I fuck multiple women all the time,” K says.
“Are you that goddamn clueless?” Dexter asks.
“I'm kinda busy designing a Mars Colonial Transporter at the moment, is this really necessary?” K asks coldly. Dexter storms out of K's office, past Hannah's desk, where she sits, trying to not let anyone see her red eyes. T-Bowe stands there awkwardly, waiting for Dexter. Dexter walks past him and T-Bowe quickly catches up.
“What's that all about?” T-Bowe asks Dex, who's clearly upset.
“K's a genius, but he doesn't have any fucking common sense,” Dexter replies.
“Why's the secretary crying?”
“She's in love with him, he uses women like they're rental cars, you know, that whole thing.”
“Is he alright?” T-Bowe asks, as the two of them walk briskly down the hallway.
“I don't know,” Dexter replies.
“I think he has PTSD,” T-Bowe says. Dexter stops in his tracks.
“What?” Dex asks.
“Post Traumatic Stress Disorder,” T-Bowe says. Dexter shushes him, looking around the hallway to see if anyone heard. He opens an empty conference room and pushes T-Bowe inside.
“What are you talking about?” Dexter whispers.
“PTSD, I think he has it.”
“What are you a psychologist?” Dexter asks accusingly.
“I know a thing or two about it,” T-Bowe replies. The veteran of both Iraq and Afghanistan doesn't need to add to his credentials. “I've seen too many friends look like that. PTSD is a an avoidance disorder. You're scarred by something, but you don't want to even admit it. You'll do anything to avoid talking about it, avoid bringing it up, anything. So guys will close up, they won't open up to anybody, they don't really have close friends, they don't love. If they're already married, it won't last, because they become distant. They bury themselves in work, doing anything to keep their minds preoccupied. I don't need to tell you about the families I've seen destroyed after they get home.”
“Okay, but he's not a soldier, he wasn't in a war,” Dexter replies.
“I've seen my share of PTSD, and he's got it. You said it yourself, the dude is always designing rockets or in the sim, or he's out there drinking, using drugs, hooking up with women he doesn't care about. He's trying to keep himself distracted. You can see it in his eyes.”
“So what was he traumatized by?” Dexter asks.
“I don't know,” Tim replies.
“So what do we do?” Dexter asks.
“I have been thinking about building a volcano lair,” K replies sarcastically.
“Then why are you here?”
“Some people I work with are...overreacting,” Kingsley says, sitting across from Dr. Taylor, his new psychologist.
“Kingsley, stop pretending that you're fine.”
“I am fine,” K says.
“I'm not playing this game with you,” Dr. Taylor says. “You're here for help, so I'm not going to waste time trying to convince you that you aren't fine. You came here. You want help.”
“I came here because half of my staff threatened to quit if I didn't,” K replies.
“And why do you think so many people would make such a threat?”
“Because they're overreacting, I told you. And I told them. I wasn't trying to kill myself. I'm fine.”
“Alright Kingsley, I'm not here to argue with you. I don't need to. I'm not going to sit here and try to convince you that you have PTSD.”
“Good,” K replies.
“I don't need to convince you because you already know you have it,” Dr. Taylor says. “You know you have it. You just don't want anyone else to know.”
“I don't follow,” K says.
“Ecstasy,” Dr. Taylor says, “ecstasy has been used with quite some success to treat PTSD, and you know that. You've been self medicating. That's fine, that's a good step in the right direction, but you're not going to fix this by medicating and then never talking it through with someone else. The drugs might help, but they aren't magic pills. You still need to face your demons.”
“Ecstasy treats PTSD?” Kingsley asks.
“Don't play dumb, I know, okay, I know that you know you have it, and I know that you are self-medicating.”
“How could you know any of that?” K says dismissively.
“Because you're a rocket scientist, genius. I'm sure you have a working knowledge of psych 101.”
“Do you normally diagnose your patients after talking to them for ten minutes?” K asks.
“Only when it's this obvious,” Dr. Taylor replies.
“So if you've got me all figured out, then what gave me PTSD? I mean, I'm not a veteran, I wasn't shot.”
“Your parents died in a plane crash,” Dr. Taylor replies quickly. “Then you tried to commit suicide by crashing your plane.”
“I wasn't trying to commit suicide,” Kingsley says defensively.
“I know that,” Dr. Taylor says. “Your friends told me that you tried to commit suicide, but they thought you couldn't go through with it and at the last moment ejected. But that's not really what happened was it?”
“No. I told them a hundred times. I wasn't trying to kill myself.”
“You were trying to face your demons,” Dr. Taylor says. “Your parents died in a plane crash. You've been haunted ever since by plane crashes. You wake up in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat. You have nightmares. You daydream, finding yourself in a crashing plane. Some people would avoid planes altogether. Some people avoid anything at all similar to their trauma. Those are phobias. Other people try to face their demons and beat them. You spend all your time in a flight simulator, going sky-diving, building rockets, driving fast. You're trying to beat your demon. You wanted to look death in the face. You wanted to be in a plane that was about to crash, and then survive, to show your nightmares that you aren't afraid.”
“Is that what I was doing?” K asks.
“Yeah,” Dr. Taylor replies. “I've seen it hundreds of times. Soldiers come back from war, then will do anything to get back to the front lines. Rape victims will go out and put themselves in bad situations, where men can take advantage of them, because they want to show their demons that they aren't afraid. They feel powerless so they try to take back some control.”
“So what are you saying? That I'm crazy?”
“Not at all. The first step is admitting that you have a problem. You've admitted it to yourself. Just admit it to someone else. Otherwise, you'll spend your whole life living in fear, living with a secret, trying to prevent anyone from penetrating your tough skin, not opening yourself up. No man is an island.”
“Fine, I have a problem,” K says. “There, I admitted it to someone. Can I go now?”
“I don't count. I already know. You need to admit it to someone you care about. Someone who you can let into your life, someone that can help you. If you were married, I'd tell you to go home and tell your wife. But you're not married, and I don't know that there is a single woman in the world that you don't see as more than a sexual object.”
“Why do you think that is? You got a theory about that Sherlock?” K asks sarcastically. “You gonna tell me that I need to settle down, have a
family, stop sleeping around. Is that what this is about?”
“No,” Dr. Taylor replies. “Sleep with all the women you want. But you do need to have someone in your life that you have an emotional connection to. It can be a friend, a lover, but you need someone. I can't tell you who that someone is. But I can tell you this. If the idea of telling this person that you have PTSD isn't scary to you, then it's not the right person.”
Chapter 4
“I'm going to Monaco, who's in?” K asks, sticking his head into the Mission Control room at the SpacEx headquarters in Hawthorne, California.
“We're launching in three days, and you're jetting off to Monaco?” Travis Clayton asks.
“Just for the day. Grand Prix of Monaco,” K replies.
“This isn't for that girl is it?” Dexter asks.
“I'm trying to get customers. Hammersmith is all over me. We haven't booked a single passenger. Caroline is the key. She knows everybody. We get her, suddenly we'll have plenty of customers.”
“So this is purely a business trip,” Dexter says.
“Purely,” K replies.
“I'm in,” Dexter replies.
“Can I go?” One of the many nameless technicians asks.
“No,” K says quickly. “You've got rockets to science, get back to work.”
“Can you take over now?” K asks, sitting in the pilot's seat of his jet Starship.
“Sure,” Dexter says from the co-pilot's seat. Out the window is nothing but ocean in every direction. K excuses himself from the cockpit, walking back through the small cabin, bending down to avoid the low ceiling. Kingsley sits down in a window seat at the back. Of course, in the Starship, every seat is a window seat.
Kingsley opens a briefcase, finding a bottle of aspirin. He takes a pill then cracks open a bottle of Perrier to wash it down.
K leans back, looking out on the ocean. The sun is reflected by the shimmering waves thousands of feet below. In three days, the first Eagle 9 will fly to space not too far from here. Taking off from the Cape, the rocket will accelerate over the ocean, picking up speed as she heads for orbit. The first stage will parachute down into that big ocean and be recovered, assuming all goes well. Kingsley wonders how many rockets lie at the bottom of that ocean. When you go to space, unless you're trying for a polar orbit, you take off heading east. The Earth rotates eastward at over a thousand miles per hour, so launching east builds in a head start. Of course, the further north or south of the equator, the less of a head start you get.