"It wasn't my fault. The other kids started it," he said weakly.

"I don't care who started it or whose fault it was," his fathered seethed, saying almost the exact same thing his gym teacher had.

Do all adults think the same way?

"A bunch of bullies were picking on my friend and I had to stop them," Colin finally spit out. This stopped his father dead in his tracks and the angry expression on his face disappeared for a moment. His old man stood silently, contemplating how to react.

"Was this friend a girl?" he asked.

"No, it was my friend, John."

Colin did not know why but this answer did not appear to be the correct one. The evil look in his father's eyes returned.

"Why the hell you sticking up for a dude?" he asked, whipping Colin viciously across the shoulder with the belt. Colin immediately put his hands up to protect himself and the belt soon struck the flesh of his hand. "Are you a queer or something? Was he your boyfriend?"

"No," Colin cried, the stinging pain in his hand too much to handle. If his father felt any sympathy, he did not show it as he continued to crack the belt against his son's arms and shoulders.

"Men take care of themselves," he yelled. "Men are supposed to be tough. They aren't supposed to stick up for other men. And they aren't supposed to cry when they feel pain."

The beating continued for nearly five minutes. A few whips of the belt into the beating, Colin turned around, covering the back of his neck, but taking the rest of the blows on his back and legs. If there was one thing he knew about taking a whipping, it was that getting hit in back of his body would hurt a lot less later than getting hit in the front.

CHAPTER FIVE.

October 6, 2012 President Marshall's big night had finally arrived, though nearly two months earlier than originally expected. He stood on the stage of a very large, empty auditorium, the size of which would hold the normal number of people for one of his televised debates with Charles Davis III. Tonight was not about the Presidential campaign, though, or at least he would be treating it like it was not. The public was smart enough to realize that his presentation did have underlying significance in his second bid for the White House, but that was something he refused to come out and say. His opponents would surely accuse him of trying to steal the presidency with this stunt, and they would not be far from the truth. But tonight would serve a purpose far greater than just Marshall's campaign.

If Neil Peterson failed his secret mission, tonight would be the second link in a chain of events that would attempt to save humankind. Of course the American public, or the world population for that matter, would not know this just yet.

On stage behind the President was a large projection screen, nearly three stories high and thirty feet wide. Displayed across this huge screen was an image of Earth and the surrounding darkness of space, a stark contrast between the lively blue and green of the planet and the cold blackness around it. Dozens of cameras were strategically arranged in a way that would capture every possible angle on stage. A large television monitor was placed directly in front of the stage, and Marshall could see two newspeople talking to one another, a headline on the bottom of the screen reading: "PRESIDENT'S SPEECH MOMENTS AWAY".

"Are you ready for this, Mr. President?" a man asked off-stage.

"Yes, just make sure everything runs smoothly," Marshall responded.

The man off-stage would direct the presentation. He was an oddly dressed man who wore an expensive suit jacket over a plain white T-shirt and pair of jeans. He seemed a bit eccentric to Marshall, but the President was assured by his top people that this director was the best possible person for the job. The director made a comfortable living from directing live shows, as every awards show, from the Academy Awards to the Tonys to the MTV Music Awards, begged for his services each year.

"Don't worry," the director said. "That ghastly Chief of Staff of yours has already made sure to procure a spot in the control room. I really don't like to work under the constant surveillance of somebody else. But as long as he doesn't get in my way, we'll make this work."

Marshall understood why people didn't like doing their jobs with Peter watching them like a hawk. But he couldn't help feel comforted that his Chief of Staff was supervising the production. Peter was the most reliable person in Marshall's life, the one person he could truly trust, the one person who best understood the importance of things running smoothly tonight. To most people, Marshall was just making a presentation. To other people, he was making a last, desperate attempt at trying to win more votes. But to the 'Inner Circle,' Marshall was taking the first step to possibly saving the existence of human life.

"In a few minutes, all of the newscasters will make their final comments before switching to our live feed. The Presidential logo will appear on screen for about ten seconds, and then the cameras will switch over to the live shot of you. From there, we follow the planned script to a T. The TelePrompTer will have all of your lines, but if you want to sound spontaneous and not rehearsed, try not to rely solely on what's written. You take care of what you need to up here, and I will be sure to take care of all the videos and production stuff. Okay?"

Marshall nodded, knowing full well how live broadcasts worked. With that, the director disappeared, leaving President Marshall all alone in the huge auditorium. The President took deep breaths in an attempt to calm his nerves.

A few minutes after the director disappeared, Marshall watched the monitor and saw the newscasters fade away as the Presidential seal appeared on screen. He felt calmed by the presence of the familiar bald eagle with the red, white and blue emblazoned across its chest. Marshall began to silently count, and when he got to eight, a light on the camera in front of him turned red and the picture on screen switched from the seal to him. The view was an extreme close-up of his face. He could not see the image of the large screen behind him on the television monitor just yet.

I do look pretty good tonight, don't I?

"Good evening, my fellow Americans. Tonight, I would like to begin by saying that I will be taking a night off from my campaign. No speeches, no debates. None of the things that you have been subjected to on a nightly basis by my opponent and myself. No, tonight is different. Tonight, I will be bringing to you something very special indeed."

Marshall watched on the TV monitor in front of him as the camera view zoomed out, perfectly on cue. After a few seconds, there was a shot of his entire body standing in front of the picture of Earth and outer space.

"My opponent has constantly reminded me and the American public about the lack of progress on the space station that I announced two years ago. According to Charles Davis, my proposed space station, while, and I quote, 'worthless and a waste of money,' has not even been given to the public yet. Well tonight, I am here to address just that issue. And I don't want people to think that I am trying to prove Mr. Davis wrong; that is not my intention at all. I am not doing this for myself or for my campaign, I am doing this for the American people." Marshall flashed his best smile for the cameras.

"Behind me is a view of Earth, a view that would be seen from the approximate area where a space station would orbit in space. As you can see from this image, we are quite a distance above Earth's surface. Because of the peril involved with placing a space station over 200 miles above us, plenty of work has to be done to assure the potential craft's safety, as well as those aboard it. Designing a space station that would not only survive but also prosper under such circumstances takes quite a long time to do right. The way Mr. Davis talks about the lack of space station plans, he seems to think that designing something of this magnitude should only take a few months, or even a few weeks. While I'm sure designs could be made in such a short amount of time, I felt that it was my duty to the American people to wait long enough for perfect models to be constructed and designed. And how long, you may ask, will this take?"

President Marshall looked down at his watch.

"I'd say about two years. I realize that waiting this long has made many people impatient, especially those most excited about the project. Believe me, you can count me among that group. For that, I apologize. But I hope that what I bring you tonight will earn me your forgiveness, as we are about to take the first step of a massive journey into occupying and inhabiting outer space.

"Following my initial announcement two years ago, twelve companies stepped up to the plate, twelve companies whose main goal has been to design and draft proposals for the best possible space station. Originally, it was thought that NASSA would be lucky to receive four or five different proposals. The fact that we have received twelve is amazing, a true testament to the level of awe-inspiring excitement that has gripped this nation. Unfortunately, NASSA had to cut that number in half, a decision-making process that was very difficult to do. Every single proposal was unique and special in its own right, but only six of them were feasible for the level of technology that exists today.

"Tonight, I will unveil the designs of the six proposed space stations that experts have spent two years perfecting. One of these six models will someday become a reality and will orbit hundreds of miles above the Earth's surface. Each model has its own pros and cons. I urge you to pay close attention, as you will soon understand why the opinion of every single American citizen will play a key role in deciding which proposal ultimately proves most worthy.

"But first, the proposals. The creative team at SpaceDreams, a subsidiary of McDowell Industries of San Diego, brings the first proposal to us tonight. McDowell Industries has been one of the world's top companies of space technology, providing vital pieces to previous space stations, as well as contributing many parts to the American space shuttle program. SpaceDreams was created by Randolph McDowell IV, President of McDowell Industries and son of Randolph III, founder of the company. The team at SpaceDreams comprises some of the top designers for McDowell Industries, as well as numerous former employees of the old NASA. Roll footage."

The lights in the auditorium dimmed and the image of Earth on the main screen was replaced with the footage of space zooming by. President Marshall watched the video footage on the TV monitor directly in front of him. After a few seconds of traveling through space, a small square could be seen in the distance. The square grew larger as the audience was brought closer and closer. The production of the video was worthy of a Hollywood blockbuster. President Marshall watched in awe, astonished when he thought about how much money these companies had spent in hopes of winning the contract.

As the square grew larger, Marshall could see more details on the computer-generated model of the space station. To the President, this model looked like an oversized box, though he did not know the use of all the contraptions that protruded from the top of the box. There was no audio in the auditorium; all he could hear was the sound coming from the lone TV in front of him.

"Need some water?" a voice whispered.

Because he was trying to hear the low sound of the TV, President Marshall hadn't heard anybody enter the auditorium. Surprised, he turned and saw Peter Mansfield standing just off stage, holding a bottle of water in his hand. This presentation was the last thing the 'Inner Circle' could do to help Marshall's chance for reelection and the pressure was enough to make him want a drink stiffer than water.

"How are you doing up there?" Mansfield asked. It was rare for the Chief of Staff to question how Marshall was doing in a public-speaking situation. The President always thrived in situations like this. Mansfield was probably more nervous about the impending election than Marshall. In Mansfield's mind, he had the most to lose if Charles Davis III won. Mansfield felt tempted to utilize his network of people who took care of problems but knew nothing bad could happen to Davis. That was too big a risk to take and he was not sure that the Presidential opponent's death would solidify a victory for Marshall.

"I'm doing pretty well, I think," Marshall said. "How does everything look on TV?"

"Everything seems perfect so far. This director guy is a major flake but he and his people seem to know what they're doing."

President Marshall turned back around and watched as the camera view finished circling around the outside of the space station. It moved closer to the station, eventually coming upon a small window, which the camera passed right through to the inside of the craft. The camera view floated through the hallways of the space station. There was a multitude of different colored lights and the doors slid open upward, giving the station a very futuristic feel. It reminded Marshall of something he might have read in an Arthur Clarke novel. Knowing this video would soon come to an end, the President handed the water bottle back to Mansfield and took his position at center stage.

The tour of the model's interior ended and the camera view once again found a small window that led back outside of the 'box space station.' The camera continued to pull backward, as the space station became smaller and smaller until it could no longer be seen against the vast backdrop of space. As the lights came back on and shone down on President Marshall, the TV monitor switched back to the auditorium.

"After every video presentation, I will read a short statement from each company, highlighting the features most important to the designers."

Perfectly on cue again, the TelePrompTer began to display the message that SpaceDreams had prepared for the American public.

"First of all, SpaceDreams would like to thank the American public for considering the dreams they've made and the plans they've worked so hard to design over the past two years," the President read. "They realize that designing the space station is only the first step in the process of making this dream a reality, yet they look forward to serving the people and becoming the first publicly owned company to help conquer space.

"One of the main reasons SpaceDreams feels extremely confident about their design is because of the lag boosters. While in orbit, gravity eventually begins to take a toll on space stations and engine burns must take place every few months to push the station back into its correct orbit. Their boosters would be placed in each of the four corners underneath the space station, far enough away from the living quarters to avoid troublesome turbulence."

"This is just one small example of the hundreds of features that SpaceDreams has added to make their model the best for the American people," Marshall read, the sound on the television turned down very low. Bad reception, along with a black-and-white screen did not make this TV ideal for entertainment purposes, but nobody was watching it anyway. The old TV sat in the corner of a small, simple living room. There was an old brown throw rug in the middle of the hardwood floor, a single couch the only other piece of furniture in the room. A fire crackled in the corner fireplace, the snapping sound of burning wood even louder than the TV volume.

On screen, President Marshall continued with his presentation, moving along to the proposal for the next company. A few minutes into the next demonstration, Earl Ackerman walked into the living room, pushing a wheelbarrow overflowing with dirt. When Earl saw the President on TV, he took a quick break and listened to what Marshall had to say for a few moments. Earl's face was covered with dirt and drenched with sweat. He took off his T-shirt to wipe the perspiration from his eyes. With his shirt off, Ackerman who had been small and scrawny his entire life could now see the discernible muscle tone that had been building in his chest and arms. He knew he wouldn't win any bodybuilding competitions but if only his ex-wife could see him now...

Earl listened to the next proposal.

"You son of a...," he said out loud, nervously glancing around the room and wishing he had kept his thoughts to himself. After all, he never knew who could be listening.

What the hell am I thinking? There is no way any bugs could be in here. The government probably doesn't even know I live here. And if they do know, I don't think they could've put anything in here without me knowing.

He continued to look around the room and began to notice more and more possible hiding spots for electronic listening devices.

I can't start thinking about this stuff now. I have too much to get done, he thought to himself.

Earl dug his hand into his pockets and brought out a small bottle of pills. His psychiatrist had prescribed the little pills to Earl a long time ago, but he was never too keen about taking them on a regular basis. He kept them with him at all times, though, just in case of emergencies such as this. He had tons of work to get done and could not allow his paranoid thoughts to get in the way of completing his colossal assignment. After catching his breath and cooling down for a moment, he put his shirt back on and began to push the wheelbarrow again. He would have preferred to sit down and watch the President's presentation like the rest of the country but knowing what Marshall was talking about, knowing the true reason for the need of a space station, enforced Earl's need to keep on working.

He pushed the wheelbarrow through the living room and down the wooden ramp from his front door to the outside. Because he worked so hard and perspired so much, it always felt good to go outside. The early November air was chilly, just cold enough to feel refreshing. Working during the summertime had been like working in hell. In the upcoming weeks, when the cool autumn air would turn frigid, his working conditions would become just as bad. It was just another hardship he had to endure, one that Earl could have avoided if he hadn't gone crazy. He could have remained part of the 'Inner Circle' and gained access to the space station, which was no doubt being built as an ark for the human race.

The past was the past, though, and Earl had to build his destiny with his bare hands. Worrying about what he'd done in the past would not help where he'd go in the future.

Earl looked up at the night sky. Countless stars sparkled as if someone had taken thousands of diamonds and thrown them straight up. Earl's small cabin was located in a small clearing in the middle of the woods, miles away from civilization and the city lights that dimmed the brightly shining stars. The view alone had been well worth his escape to the isolated area of the forest. But even more important was the fact that Earl did not have a single neighbor around for miles and was free to work as much as he wanted, in the way that he wanted, without anybody raising questions as to what he was doing.

Earl steered the wheelbarrow past dozens of dirt piles, each one rising six or seven feet off the ground. The dirt piles lined his entire driveway, which started in front of Earl's cabin and disappeared far into the woods. Since there were no empty areas where Earl could dump this new dirt, he walked over to his pickup truck, where another small ramp led up into the bed. Pushing the wheelbarrow up the ramp was the most strenuous part of the entire operation, but the task had become easier with every passing day that Earl grew stronger. After dumping the load of dirt onto the truck, he pushed the wheelbarrow back into the house, stopping again in front of the TV.

He sat down on the couch as President Marshall began the presentation of another space station proposal. Earl tried to concentrate on what was being said but could not take his eyes away from the calendar that hung on his wall.

Damn, less than eight years left. I don't have time to relax. There will be plenty of time to sit around and do nothing eventually.

Although utterly exhausted, Earl knew he still had at least an hour to work before he had to go to bed. The next morning would arrive quickly and he did not want to be too tired at school the next day. He often trudged like the walking dead through the school hallways. Now that he no longer had to go to the psychiatrist three times a week, at least he wouldn't have to labor quite as late on those days.

Earl begrudgingly stood up from the comfortable couch and grabbed the wheelbarrow with his work-hardened, callous-laced hands. He crossed through the kitchen and walked down yet another ramp, this one leading into the basement of his cabin. Like the rest of the cabin, the basement was tiny and mostly empty. The only difference down there was what made it the most important part of his home.

Along the wall across from the ramp was a large, gaping hole, nearly large enough to drive a dump truck through. Earl pushed the wheelbarrow into the hole, carefully balancing the wheels on the narrow pieces of timber arranged in a line as a makeshift floor. The timber path made the wheelbarrow easier to move, yet when the wheels slipped off the wood, it would sometimes tip over. Earl had meant to add more wood to make the floor wider, but he ran out of lumber. Besides, building a better floor would come only if time permitted. For now, he had to move as much dirt as possible.

A dozen oil lamps were placed throughout the tunnel and provided light along the path, yet in no way was the area well lit. If anything, the dim illumination did nothing but cast eerie shadows and provide the underground burrow with an ominous atmosphere. Every twenty yards or so, Earl had to construct wooden beams into the sides of the tunnel to brace it. The last thing he needed was for the walls to cave in and bury him alive. The tunnel gradually sloped downward the further he went until he finally reached a wall of dirt at the end. Sticking out of the ground in front of the dirt wall was his trusty shovel, which Earl grabbed and dug into the dirt. Within minutes, the wheelbarrow was full again and he jammed the shovel back into the ground. He took a deep breath and began the arduous uphill journey back to his basement.

When Earl passed the living room, the President had just introduced the third proposal, designed by a company called Ainsworth Industries. A video began to play showing two men, one very old and frail looking, the other a good looking younger man of about 30. They introduced themselves as Tyler Ainsworth Senior and Junior. Earl had no intention of watching this proposal, but something made him stop, something that he could not quite put his finger on. The younger man seemed so... familiar.

"The process of designing the perfect space station has been an arduous one," the older Ainsworth said. The old man did not look to be in a good state of health, a fact that Earl could tell just by looking at him. Anyway, all Earl wanted was for the camera to pan over to the younger Tyler, the man who Earl could have sworn he'd seen before.

Where do I know him from? Is he a famous person I've just seen on TV before?

"But at Ainsworth Industries, we take great pride at not only completing, but also succeeding when it comes to difficult tasks. Our great workers thrive under pressure and we've been able to produce the greatest technological achievements on this Earth for the past forty years. But now, we've set our sights even higher."

The camera finally panned to the right, stopping on the face of the younger Tyler Ainsworth. Earl hated when he recognized people and couldn't remember from where; it drove him crazy. Earl gave up working for the day and collapsed on his couch. He stared closely at Tyler Ainsworth, Jr., desperately trying to figure out how he knew him. Before he could figure it out though, fatigue defeated curiosity and Earl was soon snoring.

Tyler Ainsworth Jr. could barely stand to look at the depressing sight of his frail father. The old man, once so strong and proud, barely looked like he weighed a hundred pounds. He continued to refuse medical treatment whenever his son offered to get a doctor, though, remaining the same stubborn man during his final days as he'd been throughout life. Tyler Jr. did not know how much longer his father could hold on to life, but the old man's eyes still burned fiercely, especially now that he watched the President's presentation of his company's space station proposal.

Tyler Jr. sat at his father's bedside, watching the large plasma-screen television. The TV hung on the wall at the far end of Tyler Sr.'s spacious room, one of a dozen different bedrooms in the stately mansion that rested on 200-plus acres. Tyler Ainsworth Sr. had been incredibly wealthy for a long time and had lavishly surrounded himself with those belongings that illustrated his riches. That had always worked out well for Tyler Jr., as he'd never been subjected to anything less than the very best. But now that his father lay in bed sick and dying, all Tyler Jr. wanted was to provide his father with the best doctors money could buy. Even if the old man could not be saved, at least a doctor would be able to administer medication that would dull his final pains.

But no, Tyler Sr. had only mocked his son when he tried to help. The old man argued that he was a strong enough man not to think about pain. Senior had not allowed his delicate health to dissuade him from appearing in front of the NASSA selection board. Tyler Jr., who had worked so hard to make sure he was well-versed concerning every detail of the space station proposal, tried to convince his father that his attendance was unnecessary, but the old man would not budge. In fact, he was so adamant about his health that he didn't allow his son to speak a single word in front of the NASSA board. Tyler Jr. supposed his father knew he was dying and all the old man wanted was to give one last performance, one final exhibition of the brilliant business showmanship that had helped him build his empire. In that way, Tyler Sr. was very proud, even a bit vain and egotistical, but his speech to the NASSA board proved that he obviously still had some gas left in the old tank. After all, Ainsworth Industries's space station proposal was among the top six chosen by NASSA.

The old man knew that because of his masterful business skills, all of America was watching a video about him at this very moment. He knew that because of him, he would accomplish the last great thing in his life before he could give in to death. Tyler Sr. knew that watching TV right now, watching this presentation of his work being given by the President of the United States, was the pinnacle of his life.

It will be monumental when my company is given the contract, Tyler Sr. thought to himself. And it will be great when we build the station and it will be great when it is fully operational and America sees just how good a job we've done. And even though I won't be around to see all of that, I will always know that it happened because of me. I just hope the boy doesn't screw it up when I'm gone.

Tyler Jr. could not stop watching his father's eyes as the old man watched the television. Long after Senior died, Tyler Jr. knew he would think back to this moment and remember the youthful gleam in his father's eyes. After countless years of strained relationship between the two, Tyler Jr. was glad to know that the happiest moment in his father's life was something the two of them had made together. A tear was beginning to form in Tyler Jr.'s eye and he felt the need to convey this thought to his dad.

"This is a really special moment in my life, Dad, and I'm glad that the two of-"

An icy glare replaced Senior's youthful gleam.

"Will you shut up? I don't want to miss any of this because of your emotional blubbering," he yelled, pushing a button on the remote control to turn the volume even louder. His father's happy expression returned when he looked back at the television.

Every time Tyler Jr. tried to have a connection with him, the old man seemed to stab him in the heart with the sharpest emotional knife he could find. Junior was hurt but all he could do was look at his father's skinny little neck and wonder what it would feel like to squeeze the life out of him. At least then he could show his father just how strong he could be...

Because the TV was so loud, Tyler Jr. nearly missed a new sound in the bedroom. His father, whose ears were still apparently as sharp as his eyes, heard it right away. Before Tyler Jr. could push the button to silence his cell phone, the old man was again yelling.

"Turn that damn thing off, I can barely hear the TV."

The caller ID on his phone read "NASSA" and Tyler Jr. knew this call must be important enough to take. He wanted to continue watching the presentation but knew what was going to happen anyway. He hoped this call would be some kind of good news that he could pass along to his father, anything for his father to show some semblance of appreciation for all that his son had done.

Tyler stood from his chair and crossed the large room, getting yelled at one more time when he passed in front of the television. He walked across to the door before answering the phone, hopefully far enough from the TV so as not to draw his father's continuing wrath.

"Tyler Ainsworth speaking," he answered.

"Tyler, it's James Armour. It's nice to speak with you again. How is your father?"

Tyler was a bit surprised to hear from the head of NASSA but the excitement he felt in the pit of his stomach told him this had to be a good sign.

Surely James Armour would only call if he had good news, wouldn't he?

"He's hanging in there, sir, thanks for asking."

"I assume the two of you are watching the President's presentation right now?" Armour asked.

"Yes, sir. We were very confident with our space station designs but we're still relieved to see we made the top six. I think our presentation is holding up pretty well against the competition so far," Tyler Jr. said.

His father began to yell again so Tyler went into the hallway. Expensive Persian rugs covered the floor and ancient Chinese vases were scattered about; if not for that, Tyler thought it might be fun to drive a golf cart around these halls. It would certainly make getting from one side of the house to the other much less time-consuming.

"Yes, we have determined that the proposal submitted by Ainsworth Industries was better than the first two presentations that aired. But I was calling to give you the heads-up on the President's big announcement that he'll be making very soon," James Armour said.

"Yes, we've been guessing what that might be," Tyler Jr. responded, trying to remain calm and professional while talking to such an important man.

"The President's announcement will be made right after he's done with your presentation. He will be informing the country that American citizens will be making the final decision about which space station design will be awarded the contract."

"That's good news indeed, sir. As you've said, our proposal has been the best so far and I'm confident it will be the best of the final three. I'm sure the American people will be smart enough to realize that," Tyler Jr. answered.