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.