Excerpt of Beyond Hercules by Paul Bussard

Dammit! Angie mentally cursed herself for looking back. Two perfect hemispheres in a light blue cardigan sweater moved to Duke’s side as she turned to wave one last goodbye to him and her parents.

Damn him and every one of his stupid bimbos! How dare he bring a woman when he’s seeing me off?

Her wheeled suitcase caught on something in the boarding tunnel, and she yanked it loose, ripping a hole in the fabric big enough that a pair of her undies fell out—the frayed frumpy ones for cold weather, of course. She grabbed them and stuffed them in her coat pocket before the whole plane knew what her underwear looked like. She’d deal with the torn fabric when she got to Atlanta. Duke, the jerk, had advised her to pack duct tape. Now she was indebted to him for that, too. She stomped her way into the airplane. A crowd just inside the doorway blocked her way, and she fumed in silence waiting for the aisle to clear.

No one sat in her row when she reached her coach-class seat. She crammed one bag into the overhead bin, kicked the other one under the seat, and plopped down by the window with her arms crossed, hands clenched into fists. Someone waved from the terminal window. She refused to turn her head, but saw two shapes, and one of them wore light blue.

Don’t hang around on my account. She spat the thought in his direction. You can go screw her now . . . and screw yourself while you’re at it! Tears rolled down her cheeks.

Today should have been one of the happiest days in her life. She was on her way to Russia—to Moscow State University—a giant step toward her goal of becoming an astronaut—or cosmonaut. She didn’t care which. The target of her curses was the guy who was making it all possible. He was providing everything—travel, tuition, room and board, health insurance, and spending money. Everything. Free! Shame took the place of her anger for a while, then self-pity.

Why can’t I have a great body and beautiful boobs like she has? Then he would want to make love with me! When will I ever start developing? I’m seventeen!

She tried to imagine what sex would be like with Duke. She’d read enough steamy romance novels to know it could be good—wonderful with someone you love, and she loved Duke. He didn’t love her, though. Not the way she wanted him to, anyway. He doesn’t love any of the other women, either, based on the length of his relationships. Somehow that didn’t make her feel much better.

She felt the plane lurch and quickly snapped her seatbelt, glancing out the window. Duke was there, waving. She studiously ignored him. No way was she going to forgive him for ruining her special day.

She should have known that he had a girlfriend again. She’d seen the signs often enough before—garage door closed, Jeep gone, Lobo left alone in the back yard.

The flight attendant started going through her safety spiel, interrupting Angie’s thoughts. She could hardly wait to change planes in Atlanta and be airborne again. Tomorrow morning I’ll be in Moscow!

The idea of going to Russia would never have occurred to Angie. If it had, she would have dismissed it immediately as one more thing that was beyond her means. But the idea came from Duke, and he did have the means. Once he convinced her he was serious, she could think of nothing else.

The only major obstacle to her trip had come from an unexpected quarter—her late development. In order for Duke to provide her with health care, she’d had to get a physical. The general practitioner sent her to a gynecologist, who sent her to an endocrinologist, who prescribed estrogen patches to see if the hormones would trigger her development.

Mamma Sgambelli, who suspected the patches were a sneaky form of contraceptive, put her foot down. “Absolutely not! No birth control!”

“Mamma, we’re not controlling birth,” Angie argued. “We’re enabling it. If I don’t become a woman, I won’t be able to have babies, and you won’t have any grandchildren.”

A few minutes later, Mamma nodded her assent.

# # #

Angie looked out the windows until the plane rose above the clouds, then she lost interest. She kept thinking about Duke. Every time she thought of him, her mind went through the same cycle—love, disappointment, anger, shame, self-pity, and back to love.

You’ve got to stop doing this to yourself!

But I love him.

He doesn’t love you.

Does, too!

Okay, maybe so, but he doesn’t know it.

He might someday.

Yeah, right. When he runs out of bimbos. You’re fantasizing about him while your real dream is about to come true. Which one is more important—space or Duke?

The question brought the mental Ping-Pong to an abrupt halt. Angie fantasized about her future a lot—piloting a shuttle, going EVA at the space station, walking on the Moon, but where was Duke? They’d be married, she was sure, but try as she might, she could only picture him at home in Haysville in his garage or . . . No! She quickly suppressed the image of two perfect hemispheres in blue cardigan that popped into her mind. He wouldn’t . . . would he?

Reluctantly, Angie forced herself to face two very unpleasant realities—Duke’s emotional maturity was in just as sad a state as her physical development, and there was no possibility of a romantic relationship between them unless and until both of them grew up.

But I love him.