Space For Sale Read online

  Space

  For

  Sale

  Phase 1 of 3

  Jeff Pollard

  Space For Sale

  Book 1 of 3

  All Rights Reserved

  Copyright 2013, Jeffrey Scott Pollard.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and all things are fictional and not to be confused with actual persons, businesses, events, locations or things.

  ISBN-13: 978-1494744540

  ISBN-10: 1494744546

  Cover Design by Chris Marino

  Created by Jeff Pollard

  www.amazon.com/author/JeffPollard

  www.JeffPollard.webs.com

  Novels by Jeff Pollard:

  Solipsis: Escape from the Comatorium (2012)

  Air Force Two: Going Rogue (2012)

  Space For Sale (2013)

  Moon For Sale (2014)

  Mars For Sale (TBA)

  For all my Science teachers,

  especially Lario Yerino, Ken Kramme,

  Ringo Dingrando, Ed Manchion, and Kathy May

  “I would like to die on Mars.

  .

  .

  .

  Just not on impact.”

  ~Elon Musk

  Chapter 1

  “You wouldn't think a rocket scientist would have groupies,” Robert Downey Jr. says to Kingsley Pretorius on the set of Iron Man 2.

  “I like to think of them as rocket enthusiasts,” Kingsley replies. The two men watch as security guards are overwhelmed like the under-paid staff of Wal-Mart opening the doors on black Friday.

  “They're enthusiastic about something,” Robert Downey Jr. replies.

  “And, not to nitpick or anything, but rocket scientist is a misnomer. It's rocket engineer.”

  “Whatever you say K,” RDJ says. This Vegas penthouse belonging to Kingsley is currently doubling as Tony Stark's after-party for a scene in Iron Man 2.

  Jon Favreau, the director, approaches. “I wish I had some cameras on those guards, did you see that? It was like they were the 300 Spartans, and those groupies were the Persians. It was like watching the Greek Phalanx back in action.”

  “I think that's enough geek talk for now,” RDJ adds.

  “Surely they're not all for me,” Kingsley tries to dismiss the shrieking women as the guards call for backup, the women are overwhelming them again. A few groupies break through the wall, sprinting towards Kingsley, only to be intercepted by more guards throwing elbows and busting out the pepper spray. A trigger happy guard, trying to corral all the groupies, sprays a blonde woman.

  “Did that guard just pepper-spray Gwenyth Paltrow?” RDJ asks.

  “Oh shit,” Favreau mutters as he rushes to save his female star, only to be caught up in the battle. All he can do is cover his ears to protect himself from the high-pitched shrieking of female hysteria.

  Kingsley jumps up on a bar. “Alright everyone, let's bring it down a notch.” The furor immediately dies down and order is restored. Kingsley hops down and heads to Gwenyth, plucking her from the crowd.

  “Sorry about that,” Kingsley says, putting an arm around her and leading her to bathroom to wash her eyes out.

  “Did you see how smooth that was?” Favreau says to RDJ. “He's like Einstein combined with Clooney.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” RDJ asks.

  “He's a genius and he's suave as shit, I told you he's the perfect person to model Tony Stark after.”

  “He's no Iron Man,” RDJ says dismissively. “Sure he's a genius, playboy, billionaire, philanthropist, but take all that away and he's just a guy.”

  “Jealous?” Jon asks RDJ. “Dude just swooped in on Gwenyth Paltrow, you've been trying to bang her for months, and bam, he takes like twelve seconds to get in her pants.”

  “Okay, first of all, Gwen's married, so what's this I'm trying to bone her stuff? Secondly, if I wanted to bone Gwen, I'd just go beat up Coldplay and take her. I can do that, I'm that bad-ass.”

  “You are not that bad-ass.”

  “I could beat up all of Coldplay,” RDJ insists.

  “That's like saying you could beat Christopher Reeve at basketball.”

  “Okay that's too far,” RDJ replies.

  “What? Just because the dude's in a wheelchair?”

  “He's dead D-bob,” RDJ replies.

  “Right, shit, I forgot. Now I feel like a dick,” Jon Favreau says as the two of them look to the balcony to find that somehow Kingsley Pretorius has Gwenyth Paltrow laughing off the pepper-spraying she took all of a minute ago. Kingsley smoothly escorts Gwenyth to the bedroom, grabbing an ice pack on his way. A few minutes pass before he returns to the set.

  “Sorry about all that,” Kingsley says. “So the scene, where were we?”

  “Right, okay, so Tony Stark is celebrating and he's walking through the after-party and everyone's congratulating him, and then you'll be sitting over here and you'll say, 'congratulations Tony,' and he'll say, hey Kingsley, love those Arthur engines, and you'll say, I have an idea for an electric rocket, yadda yadda-”

  “Is that my whole cameo?” Kingsley asks.

  “Yeah?” Jon Favreau says, unsure.

  “What if I come back at the end as like his partner, Titanium Man,” Kingsley asks.

  “You wanna be my side-kick?” RDJ asks.

  “Partner,” Kingsley replies.

  “Well, we do have a script and have started shooting, it's a little late to start making changes,” Jon Favreau says cautiously.

  “We have a script!?” RDJ asks.

  “Maybe I could be the super-villain in Iron Man 3?” Kingsley suggests.

  “I don't know, you don't really look villainous,” RDJ says dismissively.

  “I'm a South African with my own space program,” Kingsley replies.

  “He's got a point,” Favreau admits.

  “He's got a point?” RDJ asks, “You're always shooting down my ideas because the fanboys won't like shit that's not canonical.”

  “You can use my ideas or you can find a new location for this scene,” K says seriously.

  “So you could be a good villain, maybe like selling rockets to North Korea, what was it, Titanium man?” Jon asks nervously.

  “I'm just kidding Jon, relax,” Kingsley pats him on the back. “So are we ready to shoot?”

  “Just a few minutes,” Favreau scurries away. RDJ and Kingsley stand silently for a moment. The after-party set is oddly empty as all the extras are corralled into a meeting on the other side of the penthouse. Kingsley grabs a stray Champagne flute, taking a sip.

  “Not Champagne,” RDJ says quickly.

  “What's that about?” Kingsley asks, putting it back.

  “You don't want actors drinking real alcohol on each take, if it takes a hundred takes...I mean it's not exactly rocket science.”

  “Well now I'm in the mood for Champagne, you want some?”

  “Is it good Champagne?” RDJ asks. Kingsley just stares at him blankly. “Yeah, alright, you seem like the kind of guy who would keep some good Champagne handy.” Kingsley walks out on the balcony, he presses a button recessed under the railing. One of the black marble floor tiles slowly rises out of the ground, revealing a hidden cache of chilled Champagne. Kingsley grabs a bottle.

  “It's space Champagne,” Kingsley says as he pops the cork, letting it fly off toward the Vegas strip.

  “Space Champagne?” RDJ asks as Kingsley hands him a glass.

  “First launch, didn't have any real cargo. When NASA does a test flight, they simulate the payload mass with a block of concrete. We used Champagne.”

  “I'll bet the women really love space Champagne, you think I could get a bottle of that?”

  “We sell it at the gift shop,�
�� Kingsley replies, sipping Champagne and looking out on Vegas.

  “Let me ask you something,” RDJ says, “how much does it cost?”

  “How much does what cost?” Kingsley plays dumb.

  “Oh come on, that's what this is all about, you're trying to sell me a vacation,” RDJ replies.

  “A vacation?” Kingsley asks.

  “To space.”

  “Oh, are you interested in spending some time in space?” Kingsley replies.

  “Come on, don't play dumb, this is all a sales pitch. You don't bust out the space Champagne to impress me unless you're also trying to get in my pants and I don't get that vibe from you.”

  “I just felt like drinking some Champagne that's been aged by time dilation,” Kingsley replies.

  “So how much is it?”

  “Twenty million dollars,” Kingsley replies.

  “Oh is that all?” RDJ asks. “Why should I pay that much when I got Richard Branson breaking down my door trying to send me up in his space plane for like two hundred grand.”

  “Feel free to pay two hundred grand for a twenty-minute sub-orbital flight, I mean if you like roller coasters, you'll love Virgin Galactic.”

  “So why does your thing cost fifty times more?” RDJ asks.

  “Because it's two weeks in space, not twenty minutes. I think that's more bang for your buck, then again I'm not an accountant.”

  “Quite a sales technique, insulting the customers,” RDJ replies.

  “You'd rather I kiss your ass?” Kingsley asks.

  “Maybe a little,” RDJ replies. “Let me ask you something; do you often have women coming at you trying to have your babies like that. That one's holding a turkey baster. Is that normal?”

  “Actually I have an agent for that,” Kingsley replies.

  “Your sperm has its own agent?”

  “I mean, I can't handle all the requests, you know how many sperm banks are low on inventory in rocket scientist and philanthropist?”

  “Just to be clear. The demand for your sperm is so high, it has its own representation. There is a person whose job it is is to speak on behalf of your sperm. Most men have an agent for their sperm, it's called a dick. What's yours called?”

  “Wendy,” Kingsley replies.

  “You think Wendy ever siphons some for herself? You know what, don't answer that.”

  “When you think about it, the whole job of being a human male is being an agent for your seed. I've just outsourced it so I can focus on other things like electric cars.”

  “We're ready guys, come on in,” Jon Favreau says from the door. “Okay everyone,” Favreau addresses the extras, “remember, you're excited to see Tony Stark, that's this guy. Alright, he's the famous guy you all love. Not Kingsley, alright?”

  “Thanks for clarifying that, good job,” RDJ says sarcastically. “So Wendy, you think I could get her number? They're probably low on Iron Man.”

  “I don't know, you wanna book a ride on my Griffin?” Kingsley replies.

  “I'm hoping that's not a euphemism,” RDJ replies.

  “It's whatever you want it to be,” Kingsley replies.

  “What's your track record?” RDJ asks.

  “Track record?”

  “How many flights, and how many have been successful?”

  “Depends,” Kingsley replies, sipping space Champagne.

  “On what?”

  “How you define success.”

  “How many people have you put in space?”

  “Zero,” Kingsley replies.

  “This is some sales pitch.”

  “I'm not much of a salesman.”

  Three Months Earlier

  “Why am I doing this?” Kingsley Pretorius asks his personal assistant, Hannah.

  “I don't know, you're the boss,” Hannah replies as she applies makeup to his face. Kingsley sits at his desk at the SpacEx factory in Hawthorne, California. His oval shaped office, walled in glass, juts out from the fourth story of the building. Even the floor and ceiling are glass. Kingsley's desk is perched over nothing.

  “But the makeup? This isn't my style,” Kingsley says. “Can't we conduct the interview while I'm flying one of my planes? I'm not good at these sit down things.”

  “You'll do fine,” Hannah replies as she examines the powder job she did on his cheeks.

  “I feel like a drag queen,” Kingsley says.

  “You look fine, K.”

  “What the fuck is on your face!?” Dexter Houston calls from the door to Kingsley's office. Dexter is the head test-pilot for SpacEx, an ex-NASA veteran of two shuttle missions.

  “It was her idea,” Kingsley quickly replies, pointing to Hannah.

  “You have to have makeup to be on TV, it's a thing,” Hannah insists.

  “Why?” Dexter asks.

  “I don't know, something about the lighting,” Hannah replies.

  “Well I'm glad I got my top engineers working on it,” Kingsley says. “We've got a thousand people working on this space program and its success comes down to how I look on TV. Awesome.”

  “You don't want engineers working on your makeup K,” Dexter says, chewing loudly on gum. “Nerds and dorks don't know fuck about that shit.”

  “There are female engineers,” Hannah replies.

  “And they're all ugly,” Dexter replies immediately.

  “And we wonder why women stay away from science and engineering,” Hannah says sarcastically.

  “Oh don't start that glass ceiling bullshit,” Dexter says. “Men are just better at math. It's not because the patriarchy is keeping girls down with sexism. This ain't Mad Men.”

  “No shit,” Brittany Hammersmith, 45, the CFO of SpacEx says bluntly as she enters. Oxford educated, she's 45, English, a real ball-buster.

  “See, the CFO is a woman, there's no glass ceiling anymore,” Dexter says.

  “You guys realize we're literally in a room between a glass floor and a glass ceiling, right?” K asks

  “Oh come on,” Hannah argues, “Women are 55% of the college population, but STEM degrees are 85% male. You think that's a coincidence?!”

  “Not a coincidence, chicks just hate math and hard stuff, so they major in easy shit,” Dexter replies.

  “K, is there a way for me to stomp my high heel and shatter the floor under just Dexter?” Brittany asks.

  “First off, the glass is six inches thick,” Kingsley replies, “so unless you got stilettos made of diamond, no, but I like where your head's at, and Hannah, look into trap doors for me.” Hannah starts to write down “Trap door,” and Brittany yanks the pen out of her hand. “And secondly,” K continues, “Why are there so many people in my office, don't you people have rockets to science?”

  “I'm here to make sure you don't botch this interview,” Hammersmith says.

  “I'm not gonna botch anything,” K replies.

  “Why you doing this interview in the first place?” Dexter asks.

  “Because we're broke and we need money,” Brittany says.

  “We're not broke, are we?” Dexter asks.

  “I mean, not like all the way,” K says very reassuringly.

  “Just try not to insult anyone,” Hammersmith replies.

  “Come on Hammerdick, my man's got this,” Dexter says, patting Kingsley on the back. Kingsley's not so enthusiastic.

  “I'm not going to insult anyone,” Kingsley defends himself.

  “And don't talk about the women or the drugs or the booze or how you think everyone around you is either stupid or lazy, or deny the Holocaust.”

  “Hey, I don't think everyone around me is lazy or stupid. Usually just one or the other,” K says.

  “And the Holocaust, you aren't a Holocaust denier,” Hannah interjects.

  “Right, that too,” K says.

  “You gotta be careful with that,” Hammersmith says, “South Africa and apartheid and all, lot of ex-Nazis in South Africa.”

  “Why would Holocaust denial come up in this interview?” Kin
gsley asks incredulously.

  “You do talk a lot about Nazis,” Hannah says.

  “I tell you one story about Werner Von Braun and now I'm a Holocaust denier?” Kingsley asks.

  “Just try not to insult anyone, especially not NASA or congress, you know, our prospective customers,” Brittany Hammersmith says.

  “We're ready for him,” a PA for NBC says from the door.

  “I've got this,” K says, getting up.

  “Kingsley,” Hammersmith says seriously, stopping him as he walks to the door. “Remember, we're doing this because we're broke, and we need investors, so make us look good.”

  “You know I know all of those things right?” K asks.

  “Just trying to give you a pep talk,” Hammersmith replies.

  “Good job,” K says sarcastically.

  “So you're not a scientist or engineer by training?” Tim Andersen, the reporter for NBC asks, conducting an interview for Dateline NBC.

  “That depends on how you define training,” Kingsley replies. The two men are seated across from each other just outside the SpacEx factory.

  “Some people see this Internet-billionaire, who isn't an engineer, isn't a scientist, but has started his own space program and is not only the CEO but also the Chief-Technical-Officer and 'Lead Designer.' Some might say this is nothing more than ego run amok. What do you say to critics like that?”

  “Well, Tim,” Kingsley says, sitting up in his chair. “It's true that I didn't study engineering in college, but to say that I'm not qualified is ridiculous. In the United States people have an attitude that a college education is the only way to learn anything. But the American university is nothing more than a glorified book club. If you think any idiot with an engineering degree from Podunk university is more qualified than me because he has that piece of paper, then you're a moron.”