CHAPTER TWO

Kilbourn Estate

Outdoors

1 p.m.

The heir to the Kilbourn legacy, Travis Kilbourn, was soaring a hundred feet above the family estate in an Aero-GTP. The bent-winged craft sliced effortlessly through the sky.

He banked hard out of a turn and caught sight of a familiar gleam below, the glare of sunlight bouncing off Milton DeBarge’s bald head. The stoic ex-Special Forces operative and head of security stood with arms crossed, scowling. As Travis zipped past, Milton shook a fist skyward.

Travis dipped low, grinning. The wind whistled over the canopy like laughter. His baby blue eyes locked onto Milton’s frown, and for a second, he felt like a child again—unbound, untouchable. He chased freedom in barrel rolls and throttle bursts—because he knew it wouldn’t last. It never did.

The Aero-GTP executed a steep dive, its sleek frame skimming the treetops and clipping needles off the tips of the twenty-foot evergreens.

“Sir, it’s Travis. He’s in the Aero-GTP,” Milton growled into the COMM link.

From above, Travis caught glimpses of security personnel scrambling below. He mimicked Milton’s gruff voice through a smirk:

“Uh, sir? Holy shit! He’s out of his cage! Oh, no! What will we do?” He laughed so hard, tears blurred the treetops.

“They looked like monkeys,” he muttered to himself. “Full-on freak-out fest down there.”

Suddenly, a holo of Thomas flickered into the cockpit, his digital expression severe. “Travis Kilbourn, you come down here this instant! Your father would be mortified!”

Travis raised an eyebrow. “Thomas, shouldn’t you be ironing my father’s shorts?” He pulled the Aero GTP into a wide arc, trailing low through a mist of clouds.

Then Damen appeared - projected in full paternal exasperation. “Travis, get down here right now before you give me a heart attack.”

“Dad? Relax. I’m just burning off some data.”

“This isn’t a game. I need you down here. Now.”

“Wait - seriously?” He angled toward the ground, decelerating as if to land… then suddenly throttled up, buzzing inches above Milton and Thomas. Both dove for cover.

“Dammit, Travis! If you don’t land right now, I’ll donate your inheritance to charity.”

“Okay, okay, don’t get your diaper in a bunch. I’m coming …”

The Aero-GTP straightened, hovered, and descended gracefully next to a large oval fountain. Its landing gear kissed the manicured grass.

Milton jogged over, shaking his bald head. “You know you can’t be doing that. You’re too valuable.”

Travis hopped out, arms wide like a showman. “What’s the point of being heir to a fortune if you can’t enjoy the perks?”

Milton gritted his teeth. “Your father wants to see you. Now.”

Travis shoved the helmet and gloves into Milton’s chest. “Wash and wax, please. And for the record, rides like a dream.”

He gave a lazy wave and sauntered off, leaving Milton muttering behind him.

***

Travis strode through the front doors as they swished open at his approach, passed through the vestibule, and entered the spacious kitchen. He yanked open the fridge door, grabbed a bottle of simulated celery water, and took a swig before setting it down. He placed his hand on the panel at the top of the Nutri-Fi 3000 - a sleek black box on the counter, slightly larger than an espresso machine. His optic flashed with a spinning “Start” icon hovering above the unit. He locked onto the icon with a flick of his gaze and gave the Nutri-Fi 3000 a silent command to begin making breakfast.

The machine hummed to life, its soft whirring followed by a sharp grinding noise. Travis’s optic displayed a readout of his blood pressure, pulse, amino levels, minerals, and electrolytes in real time. It then switched to a new page, listing his nutritional deficits, identifying what his body lacked. The Nutri-Fi 3000 beeped, and Travis instinctively pulled his hand away from the panel. A soft plop sounded as the device dropped a blister pack behind the vending door. He lifted the lid, removed the gummy, and swiped the report off his optic.

A cheery Thank you from the Nutri-Fi 3000 blinked across his optic, blocking the Dodger highlights. Even the appliances knew how to interrupt him. Always cheerful. Always in control. Just like Thomas. Just like his father, Damen.

He grunted and mimicked the jingle under his breath: … “Building healthier, stronger cells today for a longer tomorrow. Kilgen.”

Whatever.

“Travis,” Thomas called out, trying to catch up.

Travis ignored him, stepped out of the kitchen, popped the gummy into his mouth, chewed, and swallowed. He chugged the green celery water and tossed the empty bottle into the trash with a satisfying swoosh. Still clutching the blister pack, he passed through the hall and into the great room, its high ceilings stretching above him like an open sky.

Travis ascended the winding staircase, skipping the first step like he had when he was ten. Old habits, muscle memory. His hand brushed the polished mahogany rail.

“Travis?”

He stopped halfway up the staircase, cringing, and turned toward his faithful - and at times pain-in-the-ass - butler. “Why couldn’t you have been a holo? What is it?”

“I apologize, sir, but you know how your stunts send your father’s heart into a tither.”

“Tither?” Travis tossed the blister pack wrapper onto the floor and thought, Fetch, Thomas. Then, gripping the mahogany railing, he pounded up the stairs. “As a matter of fact, I’m heading up to check in with the old man right now. Care to join me?” His laughter echoed off the high ceilings as Thomas picked up the wrapper and returned to the kitchen.

At the top of the staircase, Travis paused. Two six-foot gargoyle statues flanked the wide- hearth, their muscular stone forms bathed in flickering firelight. They looked different now—less decorative, more watchful. Like ancient sentinels sizing him up.

Above them hung a holo portrait of him and his father, taken when he was thirteen. Travis lingered on it. He half-smiled in the image—awkward, caught between boy and man. That day had ended in silence. A fight about his mother. Damen never brought her up unless forced. And even then, only to shut it down.

A dull pain flared behind his right eye. Travis winced, gripping the handrail. It felt like a hot needle threading through the back of his eye. He blinked it away. The pain faded, but it left behind a slow throb that pulsed in time with his heartbeat.

He moved on, passing a series of holo portraits lining the hallway. Most were of him, frozen in time: fencing tournaments, academic awards, a blurred smile from the Olympic rowing team. His entire life, cataloged for approval.

Then, one of Damen, young, powerful, almost smiling. Travis slowed. What a shame we get old, he touched his brow. Is that what I’ll look like? But humans weren’t built to last forever. That thought didn’t scare him. It made him smile. He’s lived his life; now it’s my turn.

A flash memory cut in. Bernice, the maid. Her eyes. Her laugh. The way she’d let him be himself. And then, gone. Just … gone. No arguments, explanations. Just another loose thread clipped by Damen. No one under forty had been hired since.

He shook his head; a smirk crept across his lips. That had always been the way. Just when he was about to touch something real, the hand of control pulled it away. But not anymore. He won’t stand in the way of what I’ve planned for the Kilbourn legacy.

He passed a nurse at a desk monitoring holo-displays of Damen’s vitals. The guards straightened at his approach. Without a word, they pushed open the double doors to the master bedroom.

Travis stepped into a time capsule.

The room reeked of expensive decay; outdated cherry wood molding, dust thick antiques, and the faint metallic sting of the Medports ambient field. Monets and Picassos hung like relics on the walls, their brushstrokes dulled by the stillness of the space. No holo displays. No AI interface. Just a mausoleum of old money and older habits.

Options, he thought. That’s the point. This room has none.

The air felt stale. Controlled. Like everything else in his father’s orbit.

He looked at the massive bed. The covers looked like they were swallowing Damen whole. His skin had a papery translucence; his once-coal hair now a brittle white, eyebrows overgrown. Faint black lines ran like roots beneath his skin; veins or something worse.

Travis instinctively held his breath. Then came the smell; medicated, preserved, and still somehow rotting beneath it.

“I told you,” Damen rasped, his eyes sharp behind the weariness, “never, ever pull a stunt like that.”

“Dad,” Travis said, stepping in slowly, “I couldn’t help myself. Why’s the Aero even here?”

“For security. Not for your joyrides. You know better,” Damen’s voice cracked but held its edge.

“I feel like you’ve got me locked up in a cage.”

“You are the only living heir.” Damen lifted a trembling hand, gesturing toward the portraits on the far wall. “We have responsibilities, not whims.”

That’s rich, Travis thought. From the man who buried every part of his past he didn’t like.

Damen pointed toward the chair beside him. “Sit. We have business.”

Finally, Travis thought. After all this time, he finally wants me involved.

Travis grabbed the chair, accidentally bumping into Thomas, who was clearing the breakfast tray with his usual ghostlike efficiency.

“Travis!” Damen barked. “Watch the tray!”

“What were we talking about?” Travis said, brushing past it. “Business?”

“Yes. It’s very important that you give a good impression. When I’m gone, you’ll be next in line. You must be prepared. Composed. So don’t screw it up.”

That last line ran a chill through Travis. He blinked. For just a moment, he saw it—his father not being around. And in that moment, his mother’s image surfaced: soft light, blurred edges, a promise never fulfilled.

He pushed the ache aside. “Okay. What do you need?”

“I want you to give the board a tour of Kilgen Facilities.”

Travis straightened. “Really? That’s it?”

Damen narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean ‘that’s it’?”

“I mean … anyone could do that. Even Thomas or Vandensmirg.”

“Vandenberg,” Damen corrected him. “The board needs to see opportunity. You give them just enough - they’ll bite. Hook, line, and sinker.”

“So I just smile, wave, and play tour guide to the richest people on the planet … at the most advanced genetic facility ever built?” He gulped down his doubt.

“It’s not just credits,” Damen said, his hand pressing to his forehead. “It’s influence. Legacy. This is serious.”

Travis nodded slowly. His gears began to turn. This is it. The door creaks open … and I’m walking through it.

He stood, slid the chair back into the corner. “Where are you going?” Damen asked.

“My room.”

“To do what?”

“Read up on Kilgen and Dr. Vandenberg. Everything.”

Travis turned, pausing at the door. “Don’t worry, Dad. I’ll make you proud. And Mom, too.”

Damen’s voice rasped behind him. “Of course you will. And no shenanigans.”

Finally, Travis thought. A chance to meet with the board! This is what I’ve been waiting for. And what the hell does that mean? Shenanigans? Is that even a word? He willed the cursor of his optic over the dictionary icon and pulled up the definition. Dammit! It is a word, a dated word, but a word. At least my shenanigans are funny and … daring.

As Travis stepped back into the hallway, his pace slowed.

To his left, a holo picture glimmered silently; him the Olympic rowing team, frozen mid victory, oars cutting across still water. They’d called it the golden boat. He remembered the tension in his shoulders that day. The scream that never made it out. Not from joy, just the pressure, lifting for one moment.

Farther down, another image: Damen, younger, ringing the opening bell at the New York Stock Exchange. His face full of control. Calculated joy.

Then he saw her.

The portrait of his mother hung at the end of the corridor. The background blurred to nothing, the focus locked entirely on her face. It made her seem radiant; like she was emerging from light itself.

He paused. Checked that no one was watching. Then inhaled. Deep and quiet.

You’d be proud.

He turned and headed for his room, the sound of his father’s voice already fading behind him.

***

Back at Kilgen, in the Celeritous lab …

Gradually, the stasis hangover began to dissipate. The fog clouding Einstein’s mind started to lift.

Ugh… oh, mein Gott… Where am I? Nurse? Nurse - where is she?

His last conscious memories played in his mind. Flashes of bright light. Shadows of men hovering. Voices, sharp and urgent. Then everything went black.

What’s happened?

His thoughts wavered. Fractured.

I can’t, I’m so tired …

I must rest …

And just as he began to reach for clarity, the exhaustion returned - and with it, the fog.