Chapter 17

“The Martian”

by Pierre Bastien

Stacy stared straight ahead, muttering to herself.

“I’ll get ‘em,” she said, to no one in particular. “I’ll get ‘em all.”

“Who will you get, Stacy?” asked a voice.

Stacy looked up and her eyes came into focus on Dr. Dolores Penemann, who was sitting across the table from her.

“Who the hell are you?” demanded Stacy.

“I’m Dr. Penemann, your drug treatment counselor. This is our third session together.”

Stacy took in the doctor’s face — wavy gray hair tucked neatly into a white headband, framing a pale, freckled, slightly wrinkled face set with dull green eyes. Dr. Penemann looked like the serious type. She stared back at Stacy, unsmiling.

Ignoring the good doctor, Stacy took in the scene a bit more. The table between them was a simple, white, prison-issue folding table. The only thing on it was Dr. Penemann’s yellow notepad. The walls were cinderblock, painted an institutional beige color, the floor a plain concrete. A large mirror took up most of one wall.

It was coming back to Stacy now. She looked down at her hands and wasn’t surprised to see a pair of handcuffs binding her wrists together. An orange prison jumpsuit completed the look.

“Why am I here?” growled Stacy, even though she remembered the answer now, in this moment of clarity.

“You’re in the Dalton Correctional Facility,” replied Dr. Penemann. “You’re in jail,” she said with finality. “You’re here for court-ordered substance abuse counseling. You need to get cleaned up before you progress through the court system.”

“Do I have to have these handcuffs on?” asked Stacy.

“Yes,” answered Dr. Penemann. “For now anyway.”

“Why’s that, doc?” asked Stacy, staring at her with a mischievous grin.

“Well for starters, this is the first time we’ve met that you haven’t tried to attack me.”

Stacy, still grinning, tensed her arms suddenly, pretending to lunge toward Dr. Penemann. The quick movement and the clattering of handcuffs were meant to frighten her, but Dolores regained her composure quickly, then cooly raised an eyebrow at Stacy. The two women stared at each other.

Eventually, Dolores spoke. “You’ve been through a tough spell, Stacy, but you’ll get through this soon enough. You need to start thinking about what you’ll do once you make it through.”

“I already know what I’m gonna do,” replied Stacy, as a smirk grew back across her face. “I’m gonna get ‘em.”

“Who are you going to get, Stacy?”

“Henry. Reid. Cavanaugh. All of ‘em.”

—

Finn strode down the sidewalk, headed to an important meeting. He was dressed in a crisp gray suit, white shirt, red tie, and white pocket square. He was still young, but he knew how to look polished. Finn had seen many go-getters and various glitterati pass through the GLA-PACS courts over the years, and he had studied how they dressed themselves. Finn may have owned only one suit, but damn it looked good on him.

Finn arrived early at the office building, a three-floor converted warehouse with exposed brick and floor-to-ceiling windows. He checked in at the front desk.

“Can I help you?” asked a receptionist with a pencil tucked behind his left ear.

“I’m visiting Red Planet Capital — Chet Beau-Zeau.”

The receptionist signed in Finn, handed him a clip-on VISITOR badge, and directed him up to the third floor.

“Thanks”, said Finn with a warm smile, as he discreetly pocketed the badge. Instead of taking the elevator, Finn bounded up the stairs, and a few minutes later he found himself back in the office of Chet Beau-Zeau, stock picker extraordinaire.

Chet Beau-Zeau, or Chet, as his friends called him, made his first billion over fifteen years ago. He’d gone through a rough patch during the Obama years, but came roaring back in the tumultuous time after that, making an enormous bet on renewable fuels just before a huge boom in that sector.

Chet got to know Finn through the GLA-PACS organization, which Chet had bankrolled in the early days. Chet was impressed by young Finn’s fighting spirit on the squash court and poise off it. Chet took Finn under his wing. He liked Finn on a personal level, and felt a bit remorseful that he’d screwed Finn’s mom out of a payday in her attempted drone company land deal. But there was something else: Finn was as obsessed with Mars as he was.

“Welcome back, Finn,” said Beau-Zeau. “Please, have a seat. Tell me, how did the conversations go?”

“I think they went well,” said Finn, as he sat down in the leather chair across from Chet. “I asked Reid to track down some additional holders of GAL company stock. I think he’ll do it.”

“That’s good Finn. If I’m going to acquire a controlling stake, we’ll need those extra shares. And did you speak to Mr. Cavanaugh?”

“Yes I did. Right now he can’t even string a sentence together, but I planted the idea in his head. I’ll have to keep working on him.”

“Good man,” replied Beau-Zeau. “The last thing we need is that guy bringing a lawsuit, right as we go public with our plan.”

“I know,” said Finn. “I’ll get him to come around.”

“Everything’s going to work out. I feel it. Stay on top of them both.”

“I will,” replied Finn. Sensing there was nothing left to discuss, Finn rose to leave.

“Finn, wait,” said Beau-Zeau. “How are you doing? Your mom is in a difficult place right now. She’s going to be okay soon enough. Are you hanging in there yourself?”

“I’m fine,” said Finn. “I’m worried about her, but we’re on the right track here. She’ll be okay, and so will I.”

“All right,” said Beau-Zeau. “Let’s talk again next week. Call if you need anything in the meantime.”

Finn walked out, buzzing. He was so close to his dream. Chet Beau-Zeau was determined to bankroll the first manned mission to Mars. And Finn was going to lead that mission. The plan had been developed in secret, and they were going to announce it soon. Finn had been working his whole life towards this goal. His studies, his athletics, his astronaut training with NASA — it was all leading up to this point.

There was one final piece. Years ago, Chet had invested some of his personal fortune in the GAL drone company. True, he’d helped organize his Princeton buddies to set up GLA-PACS right on the land the GAL people wanted for their facility. A bit of fun, that was. Still, he kept up polite relations with his GAL neighbors over the years, and took notice as they grew. At one point they had expanded so quickly that they found themselves in a funding crunch, and Chet seized the opportunity to make a substantial investment. Not enough to control the company, but enough to win a board seat.

—

As he exited the building, Finn punched the speed dial for Reid.

“Hi Uncle Reid,” said Finn cheerily, “just checking in. Have you had any luck tracking down holders of Mom’s old company?”

“Yes,” answered Reid, “as a matter of fact I have. One of my clients has a decent position that she’s looking to unload. Finn, I’m not sure this is a good idea though. Do you really want to be taking all this on? Especially considering everything that’s happening with your mom.”

“Yes Uncle Reid, I’m more than sure. Send me your client’s contact details — I’ll be in touch.” Finn hung up.

It was his mom who’d floated the idea, way back when, of using one of the GAL drones to map the surface of Mars. The technology had evolved — now the latest military-grade GAL models were even better suited to the task — but it was her vision playing out.

Finn turned his attention to Cavanaugh, dialing his number.

“Cav, it’s Finn.”

“Mmmh,” replied Cavanaugh.

“Listen,” began Finn. “I’ve been talking to Mr. Beau-Zeau. He wants to make sure you’re taken care of, considering all the years you’ve worked for him at GLA-PACS. Here’s the deal: he can arrange it so you get you a slice of the drone company. Trust me, you want to do this — the value of your shares will skyrocket once the world learns that the company’s drones will essential to the Mars mission. But you’ve got to do one thing.”

“Mmmh?” said Cav.

“You’ve got to make sure all charges against my mom are dropped.”

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.