At the time, I thought it was the worst day of my life. I saw my career at NASA imploding into nothing. I had graduated Cum Laude at MIT, become a Major in the Air Force, got recruited into the astronaut program, been chosen to pilot an actual mission, and made it all the way to the ISS; then one zero-g fuck with a hot Russian scientist obliterates my career and turns me an international disgrace.

I went back home to our family estate with my tail between my legs. A grand, resort-like compound situated amidst the gentle rolling hills of the Pennsylvania countryside was the perfect place to lick my wounds. I clipped the article written about me out of our local paper. I must have read it and re-read it a thousand times, wondering how I managed to completely screw up my life. After forty-eight hours of drowning myself in whiskey and feeling like a massive fuck up, I was abruptly overcome with a sensation I hadn’t felt since graduating college: the sweet taste of freedom. On that day a decade ago, I gave my uncle a friendly middle finger when he asked me when I would be starting at Durant Industries, our massive seventy-two billion dollar ‘family business’. 

I may have avoided becoming a cog in Durant Industries, but I’d inadvertently become a cog in the massive machine that is the National Aeronautics and Space Administration instead. Cogs don’t set the agenda or make meaningful choices. I was just following a script written for me by my ‘betters’. 

When I was a kid I dreamt of setting foot on Mars, exploring the moons of Jupiter, and helping push humanity deeper into the cosmos. America hasn’t even set foot on the moon in almost fifty years. 

Fifty. Fucking. Years. How utterly pathetic. 

But what’s the use of owning a quarter of the largest privately held company in the United States if you can’t make the shit you want to happen, actually happen? I sat down with my family and we worked something out. Durant Astronautics was formed with the stated goal of commercializing space travel, but I want to do more than fly billionaires around Earth’s orbit. I wanted to propel humanity to the next stage of civilization.

I wanted everyone to have the chance to practice the Kama Sutra in space. 

I ended up framing the newspaper clipping and hanging it in my home office right next to my desk. Within a few short years I was the CEO of the largest and most important spaceflight company in the world. We were weeks away from sending the first private, manned, ship into space, completing the initial step in the process of constructing the first privately owned space station. After that— a Durant Astronautics colony on the moon. A Durant Astronautics colony on Mars. A Durant Astronautics colony on Europa.  

Banging that hot Russian scientist in zero-g was the best bad decision I’ve ever made. 

Now, I was the one calling the shots.

“Ok, run us through the data again,” I said to the computer, and it obediently spit back the data overlaid over the video from the previous test launch.

It looked good. I could see the two engineers in my office, Drs. Matthews and Gonçalves, fidgeting in their seats. This was at least the fiftieth time we’d gone over this data. My reputation notwithstanding, I’m actually not impulsive when it comes to my work. Impulsivity gets astronauts killed. Good astronauts (good pilots in general), are thorough and methodical.

“What do you think about the modifications to the telemetry prior to stage two of reentry?” I asked Matthews, wondering if we were making a mistake by not going for a more traditional approach.

“All the data says it’s solid as-is,” Dr. Matthews replied blandly, peering at me owlishly through her super-thick glasses. At her side, Dr. Gonçalves nodded in agreement and stroked his long, grey beard thoughtfully. Not that he would know. He was in charge of the module’s structural integrity, not the physics of reentry.

Then again, maybe after the fortieth time I’d asked this question, he’d memorized the answer. We’d been through the models so many times we’d all dream about them for weeks. I needed to stop torturing the two of them. They were at the top of their respective fields, stolen mercilessly from NASA by the promise of money and autonomy. I trusted them implicitly; it was just hard to greenlight a mission like this.

“Ok,” I said, “I’m satisfied. We’ll find out if we’re right tomorrow.”

The tension in the room decreased significantly. The two middle-aged scientists exchanged a delighted smile with one another, and then looked away, vaguely embarrassed. They were totally into each other but were too awkward and shy to admit it. I considered telling them to get a room but didn’t need the EEOC complaint.

“You two should go get a drink to celebrate,” I suggested instead, “even if the module bursts into flames, we’ve already done more together in two years than NASA has accomplished in the last decade. Go celebrate. Seriously. Expense it back to me.”

The excited pair of scientists departed a moment later, looking as stoked to buy some drinks on me as they were about the launch tomorrow. Hopefully I didn’t live to regret that decision. It would be unfortunate to lose either of them to a bad breakup.

“Incoming call from David Breyer,” the computer told me in the sexy Russian-accented voice I’d programmed it with as a bit of self-deprecating joke. I’d turned the stupid thing on voice-mode during the meeting with Gonçalves and Matthew, and now it thought it needed to announce everything to me.

“Hello David,” I answered warily, “what can I do for you?”

My fraternal twin David and I may not look alike, but we were too similar in temperament to get along. The both of us were overly competitive, extraordinarily stubborn, extremely ambitious, and unapologetically arrogant. We had very different interests (he’s a chef, of all things), but approached our problems and one another with an identical mixture of bullheadedness and snarkiness. Our poor mother was a saint.

“Hey Starboy,” he replied, referring to me with his nickname of the day (a marginal improvement over ‘Spaceoddity’ or its predecessor ‘Rocketdick’), “I’m just calling to remind you that everyone’s meeting tonight at the Hunt house for the board meeting. It’s the Senator’s turn to host. Don’t be late.”

I had completely forgotten about the board meeting.

“I didn’t forget about the board meeting,” I snapped at him, “but I don’t see why I need to attend in person.”

“Yeah about that,” David said, and I could now hear what sounded like cows in the background, “I’m out of town, so you actually need to be there for the in-person quorum.”

“Where are you?” I asked him, wondering if it was even worth the effort. David had a habit of wandering off the beaten path in search of ingredients. One time he spent a month in Spain looking for the right saffron.

“Out on the range,” was his cryptic reply. Yeah, those were definitely cows I heard in the background.

“Texas?” I guessed. Texas has cows, right?

“Farther south,” David replied.

“Farther south than Texas?” I asked incredulously, “Are you in South America?”

“Ding ding ding!” David sang at me, “I’m in Argentina. Land of beef.”

“Ok. Whatever. I’ll go to the damn board meeting so you can chase cows in Argentina. Try not to marry any heifers while you’re down there.”

“Dude, have you seen Argentinian women? They are definitely not heifers.”

“No, I meant literal heifers. I have seen Argentinian chicks. They wouldn’t have you.”

“Oh, you’re so clever. Just for that, I’m not gonna bring you back any steak.”

“I’m still a Pescatarian, dumbass.”

“Yeah, well you’d change your mind if you tried this meat.”

“I’m sure that’s what you tell all the girls,” I replied snidely, “look, I’ve got actual work to do. What time is the stupid board meeting?”

“Ha! I knew you forgot. Seven. Also, it’s at Angelica Hunt’s house. The Senator’s having his house fumigated or something. Anyway, we can’t meet there. So, you might get to see Angelica. Have a blast,” My brother replied. Then he hung up before I could get another rude comment in.

I groaned and checked my watch. I had about two hours before I had to see my uncles. Sometimes I thought my cousins Alexander and Nicholas were smart to cut ties with our family business. I was dreading the familial interaction.

A bad mood was threatening to descend, and distraction was needed immediately to avert it.

“Run me through the launch data again,” I told the computer.