A warning chime from the instrument panel yanked Hal back to the present. He'd unconsciously let the aircraft drift off its landing approach vector, distracted by the memory flash.
"Hal, your approach is off by eight degrees," Carol's voice had returned to professional calm, but with an undercurrent of concern. "Are you experiencing control issues?"
"Negative," he responded, making the necessary corrections. "Just enjoying the view."
It was a lie, and they both knew it. In all his years of flying, Hal had never once "enjoyed the view." He flew with almost manic focus, as though any lapse in concentration might result in disaster. It was part of what made him such an exceptional pilot—and such a difficult employee.
The landing was perfect, of course. Despite his momentary lapse, Hal's instincts were flawless. The Starjumper touched down with textbook precision, its experimental tires squealing against the tarmac as he brought the aircraft to a controlled stop. Ground crews immediately swarmed the vehicle, checking temperatures and structural integrity after its unprecedented test flight.
Hal sat motionless in the cockpit for a moment, allowing his heart rate to normalize. Every landing felt like a small victory against an invisible opponent—not death itself, but the memory of death that had haunted him since childhood. The rush of adrenaline that had carried him through the test flight was ebbing now, leaving behind the familiar hollow feeling that always followed these moments of pushing the envelope.
He glanced at the instrument panel one last time, confirming what he already knew—he'd taken the aircraft well beyond its designated test parameters, and the data logs would show exactly how far. Carol would have the numbers soon enough. She'd be furious, of course, but the Starjumper had performed beautifully. The military brass would be impressed, and that's what really mattered for Ferris Aircraft's bottom line.
He removed his helmet and ran a hand through sweat-dampened hair, taking a moment to compose himself before facing what he knew would come next. His father's voice echoed in his memory, advice from one of their last conversations before the crash: "Flying the plane is the easy part, Hal. It's dealing with the suits on the ground that takes real courage."
The canopy hissed open, and he climbed out with practiced ease, dropping to the tarmac with a fluid motion that spoke of thousands of similar exits. The desert heat hit him immediately after the climate-controlled cockpit, the dry air carrying the familiar scents of jet fuel, hot metal, and scorched rubber.
Carol Ferris was waiting at the base of the ladder, arms crossed, expression composed but with fire in her eyes. At thirty-two, she cut an impressive figure—Harvard Business School graduate, competent pilot herself, and now CEO of her father's aerospace company. Her dark hair was pulled back in a professional bun, and her tailored suit projected authority despite the sweltering desert heat.
Behind her stood a cluster of men in military uniforms and suits—the Pentagon observers whose opinions could make or break the Starjumper project's funding. Among them, Hal recognized General Sam Lane, who had recently been reassigned to weapons procurement after the Metallo incident in Metropolis. The general's face was impassive, but there was a glint of approval in his eyes as he studied Hal. The military always appreciated results, even when they came at the expense of protocol.
"Gentlemen," Carol addressed them without taking her eyes off Hal, "would you excuse us for a moment? I need to debrief my pilot."
The men nodded and retreated toward the hangar, several of them casting impressed glances back at Hal. Whatever else might be said about his methods, the results were undeniable. The Starjumper had performed beyond projected capabilities.
"Quite a show, Jordan," General Lane commented as he passed. "Reminds me of some maneuvers we saw during the Metropolis situation. If this bird performs half as well in combat as it did today, we'll be very interested."
The reference to Metropolis—to the flying man in blue and red who had saved the city from that cybernetic nightmare—wasn't lost on Hal. That incident had changed everything in aviation circles. When a man could fly without any visible means of propulsion, it raised serious questions about the future of aerospace technology.
"Thank you, sir," Hal replied with a confident nod. "I think you'll find the performance data exceeds all expectations."
When they were out of earshot, Carol unleashed the storm she'd been containing.
"What the hell was that, Jordan? We had a flight plan. We had parameters. We had protocols that you explicitly agreed to follow!"
Hal maintained his practiced nonchalance. "I followed the spirit of the parameters."
"The spirit?" Carol's voice rose despite her obvious attempt to control it. "This isn't interpretive dance! These are multimillion-dollar aircraft with specific testing requirements!"
"And now we know it can handle Mach 3.2 with minimal structural stress," Hal countered, removing his flight gloves with deliberate calm. "That's valuable data you wouldn't have if I'd stuck to Mach 2.3."
"That's not your call to make!" Carol stepped closer, lowering her voice to avoid being overheard by the ground crew. "We could have lost the aircraft. We could have lost you. All because you can't follow simple instructions."
There it was—the real issue beneath the professional objections. Carol cared, and that complicated their already complex relationship. She was his boss, his late father's boss's daughter, his occasional lover, and perhaps the only person besides Thomas Kalmaku who saw through his carefully constructed façade.
"But you didn't lose either," Hal replied, softening his tone slightly. "The data shows—"
"The data shows you have a death wish," Carol interrupted, her eyes searching his face. "Or at the very least, a pathological inability to recognize appropriate boundaries."
That struck too close to home, and Hal's expression hardened. "I know exactly where the boundaries are. I just choose not to be limited by arbitrary ones."
"They're not arbitrary! They're calculated safety margins designed by engineers who—"
"Who've never actually flown experimental aircraft," Hal finished for her. "Theory versus practice, Carol. You can't discover what's possible by staying inside the lines someone else drew."
For a moment, they stood in tense silence, the familiar argument reaching its usual impasse. Around them, the airfield hummed with activity—ground crews checking systems, data technicians downloading flight information, security personnel maintaining the perimeter. But in the space between them, it felt as though time had frozen in a tableau they'd enacted dozens of times before.
"Did you even think about what would happen if something went wrong up there?" Carol finally asked, her voice quieter now but no less intense. "Did you consider for one second what it would do to the people who care about you?"
Hal felt a flicker of genuine remorse, quickly suppressed. "The Starjumper's structural integrity was never in question. I made calculated risks based on performance feedback during the flight."
"This isn't just about today, and you know it." Carol ran a hand over her face, frustration evident. "Hal, this isn't about the aircraft. It's about you. This pattern of behavior—pushing limits, disregarding protocols, taking unnecessary risks—it's getting worse."
"I'm doing my job," Hal insisted. "Testing aircraft means finding their limits."
"No, it means methodically evaluating their performance according to established scientific protocols." Carol's professional demeanor slipped further, revealing the concern beneath. "Look, I know today's date isn't easy for you—"
"Don't." Hal's voice went flat. "Don't bring that into this."
Carol stepped back slightly, recognizing she'd crossed one of his carefully established boundaries. Today was indeed the anniversary of Martin Jordan's fatal crash, but Hal never acknowledged it openly—not to her, not to anyone.
"Your mother called me yesterday," Carol said after a moment, ignoring his warning. "She's worried about you."
Hal's jaw tightened. "My mother worries professionally. Has since the day Dad died."
"Can you blame her? She lost her husband to an experimental aircraft. Her oldest son joined the Air Force and served in combat zones. And you—you've made it your life's mission to push the envelope of flight safety every chance you get."
"She wanted me to be an accountant," Hal said with a humorless smile. "Nice, safe desk job. No risk of burning up in the atmosphere."
"And yet here you are." Carol's expression softened slightly. "Hal, she just wants to know you're okay. A phone call would mean a lot."
The mention of his mother brought back memories Hal preferred to keep buried. Jessica Jordan had never fully recovered from watching her husband die. She'd raised her three boys with fierce protection, trying to shield them from the dangers of the world while battling her own depression and anxiety. When Hal had announced his intention to become a pilot, it had nearly broken her.
"You can be anything, Harold," she'd pleaded, using his full name as she always did in serious moments. "Anything but that. I can't lose you the same way I lost your father."
He'd promised her he wouldn't let fear hold him back—not his, not hers. What he hadn't understood then was that fear wouldn't stay behind; it would climb into the cockpit with him every single time, a co-pilot he could never eject.
"I'll call her tonight," Hal conceded, though they both knew it might not happen. "But this has nothing to do with my flight performance today."
"Fine. Then as your boss, I'm telling you that you're on probation." Carol's tone shifted back to professional. "One more unauthorized deviation from flight protocols, and you're grounded."
"You can't ground your best pilot," Hal responded with practiced confidence. "Especially not with the military contract review coming up."
"Try me," Carol said, meeting his gaze directly. "I value your skills, Hal, but I won't let this company enable your self-destruction."
"Self-destruction?" Hal repeated, genuinely taken aback. "That's a bit dramatic, don't you think?"
"Is it? Since the Metropolis incident, you've been pushing even harder than before. It's like watching Superman save the world made you feel inadequate somehow."
The observation was uncomfortably accurate. While the world marveled at the alien who could fly without engines, who could break the sound barrier with his body alone, Hal had found himself questioning the relevance of his own skills. What was the point of being the best pilot on Earth when beings existed who made aircraft themselves seem obsolete?
"Superman has nothing to do with this," Hal lied. "I'm just doing what I've always done—finding out what's possible."
"There's finding what's possible, and then there's what you did today." Carol handed him a tablet she'd been carrying, displaying his flight telemetry. "You pulled 9.7 Gs on that final turn, Hal. The human body isn't supposed to withstand that. The aircraft certainly wasn't rated for it."
"Yet here I am," Hal spread his arms. "And the Starjumper is intact. Sounds like success to me."
Before Carol could respond, Thomas Kalmaku approached from the hangar, conveniently ending their standoff. Thomas—whom Hal affectionately called "Pieface" in a nickname that had evolved from their first meeting—was Ferris Aircraft's head engineer and Hal's closest friend. His Inuit heritage gave him a different perspective than most of the California-raised engineers, something Hal had always appreciated.
"Sorry to interrupt," Thomas said, clearly reading the tension between them, "but the Pentagon guys want the preliminary data readouts. And they're pretty excited about that Mach 3.2 dive, by the way." He gave Hal a knowing look.
Carol shot Thomas a glance that suggested he wasn't helping the situation. "I'll handle the Pentagon delegation. Hal, I expect your full flight report on my desk first thing tomorrow." She turned and walked toward the hangar, her posture rigid with unresolved frustration.
"Make sure it includes an explanation for the 9.7 G turn!" she called over her shoulder. "And why you thought the airframe could handle it!"
Hal watched her go, admiring her determination despite their confrontation. Carol had taken over Ferris Aircraft when her father's health began to fail, stepping into a male-dominated industry with confidence that matched Hal's own in the cockpit. Their complicated relationship—professional rivalry, occasional romance, shared history through their fathers—made every interaction a complex dance of emotions neither was particularly good at expressing but when it all clicked, it made him feel like Superman must surely experience as he flew the skies.
"So," Thomas said once Carol was out of earshot, "that looked intense."
Hal shrugged, already moving toward the locker room. "The usual. I push boundaries, Carol pushes back."
Thomas fell into step beside him. "Except today you pushed harder than usual." It wasn't a question. Thomas was one of the few people who remembered the significance of the date without being told.
"The Starjumper can handle it," Hal replied, deliberately misinterpreting. "The thrust vectoring system exceeded expectations."
"You know that's not what I meant."
They reached the locker room, and Hal began stripping off his flight suit with mechanical efficiency. The physical evidence of the extreme G-forces was visible on his body—burst blood vessels in his arms where his flight suit had compressed during high-G maneuvers, bruising around his shoulders from the harness.
"Leave it alone, Tom."
Thomas leaned against a locker, watching his friend with undisguised concern. "You can't keep using these test flights as some kind of therapy, Hal. Or penance. Or whatever it is you're doing up there."
Hal paused, his flight suit half removed. For a moment, the mask slipped, and raw pain flashed across his features. "You know what I hear every time I take off? Every single time, even after all these years?"
Thomas waited, knowing better than to interrupt.
"I hear his screams. Not my dad's—the investigators said the explosion was instantaneous. He never had time to scream." Hal's voice was distant, as though coming from somewhere beyond the locker room. "I hear my own screams. My brothers'. My mother's. And I can still smell the burning fuel."
"Hal—"
"But you know what's really messed up?" Hal continued, as though Thomas hadn't spoken. "I live for that moment when the engines fire up and I feel that fear. That's when I know I'm alive. That's when I feel closest to him."
The confession hung in the air between them, more vulnerability than Hal typically allowed himself to show. Thomas had heard variations of this before, but each time it revealed the depth of Hal's unresolved trauma—the seven-year-old boy who had watched his father die was still very present beneath the confident exterior of the test pilot.
"Have you ever considered talking to someone about this?" Thomas asked carefully. "Professionally, I mean."
Hal's laugh was short and without humor. "Sure. 'Doctor, I'm a test pilot because I'm trying to conquer my fear of dying like my father, but I also do it because it makes me feel closer to him.' That wouldn't get me grounded permanently or anything."
"You know that's not how it works anymore," Thomas countered. "The military has made huge strides in addressing trauma and mental health. Even Carol would—"
"Carol would use it as another reason to rein me in," Hal interrupted, pulling a clean t-shirt over his head. "Besides, flying is my therapy. When I'm up there, everything makes sense. It's down here where things get complicated."
Thomas sighed, recognizing the deflection but pressing on anyway. "Jim called me this morning. Asked me to keep an eye on you today."
That caught Hal off guard. His older brother Jim had followed their father into military service, but as an Air Force lawyer rather than a pilot. The brothers maintained a cordial but distant relationship, their different ways of processing their father's death having driven a wedge between them years ago.
"Jim should mind his own business," Hal muttered, though there was no real heat in the words. "He's got his own family to worry about."
"He worries about you too. So does Jack."
Jack, the youngest Jordan brother, had taken the most dramatic departure from their father's legacy, becoming an architect who designed buildings firmly rooted to the ground. His fear of flying was so severe he took medication even for commercial flights.
"The Three Jordan Boys," Hal said with a bitter smile. "One who fights battles on paper, one who refuses to leave the ground, and one who can't stop trying to conquer the sky. Dad would be so proud."
"I think he would be," Thomas said quietly. "All three of you found your own paths."
Hal paused in the middle of tying his shoes, a memory suddenly surfacing with painful clarity—his father's face in the final moments before the explosion, looking directly at his family through the cracked canopy. There had been such love in that expression, such pride and sorrow mingled together.
In his nightmares, that look always transformed into horror as the flames consumed the cockpit. But in his waking memory, Hal clung to the truth—his father's final expression had been one of love, not fear.
"You know what I remembered during the flight today?" Hal said, his voice uncharacteristically soft. "That last look Dad gave us before the explosion. He knew he wasn't getting out. He knew it was the end. But he took that moment to make eye contact with each of us—me, Jim, Mom holding Jack."
Thomas remained silent, recognizing the rarity of Hal voluntarily discussing this memory.
"The investigators said he should have been focused on escape, on survival. But he chose instead to connect with us one last time." Hal's hands stilled. "I think about that choice a lot. Especially in the cockpit. What would I focus on in my final moments?"
"That's a heavy thought to carry into experimental aircraft," Thomas observed carefully.
"Maybe." Hal resumed tying his shoes. "Or maybe it's the perfect thought. Keeps priorities clear."
"And what are your priorities, Hal? Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you're trying to prove something to a ghost."
The words hung heavy in the locker room. Hal stood up, closing his locker with more force than necessary.
"My priority today was testing the Starjumper's capabilities. And I did that successfully." His walls were back up, the moment of vulnerability passed. "The fact that I pulled 9.7 Gs and lived to tell about it is just a bonus."
Thomas recognized the defense mechanism but pressed on anyway. "You know, when that thing happened in Metropolis—when we all saw a man flying without an aircraft for the first time—I thought you'd be more rattled by it."
"Why would I be rattled?" Hal asked, though he knew exactly why.
"Because it changed everything about what we thought was possible. Because it made conventional aircraft seem suddenly obsolete." Thomas studied his friend carefully. "But instead of being intimidated, you've been pushing even harder since then. Like you're trying to prove humans still have a place in the sky."
Hal remembered watching the news footage from Metropolis with fascination and, yes, a certain jealousy. The man they were calling Superman had flown with such natural grace, such freedom. No aircraft. No life support systems. No fuel concerns. Just pure flight.
"Maybe I am," Hal admitted. "But not for the reasons you think. It's not about competing with Superman."
"Then what is it about?"
"Possibility." Hal's eyes lit up with genuine passion. "If a being from another planet can fly through our atmosphere unaided, imagine what it means for our understanding of physics, of flight dynamics. There are principles at work there that could revolutionize human flight. I want to be part of that revolution."
It was partly true. The existence of Superman had sparked a renewed drive in Hal to push boundaries, but not just from competitive instinct. The alien's abilities suggested possibilities beyond conventional aerospace engineering—new horizons that Hal was determined to explore, one test flight at a time.
"That's the part of you I admire," Thomas said with a slight smile. "The visionary who sees possibilities where others see limitations. But Hal, that 9.7 G turn today? That wasn't about advancing aerospace science. That was about seeing how close you could come to the edge without going over."
Hal couldn't deny it. In that moment, suspended in the turn with G-forces threatening to crush him, he'd felt fully alive—and terrifyingly close to death. It was an addictive feeling, that dance along the edge.
"Look, what do you want me to say?" Hal spread his arms. "That I'm reckless? Fine. I'm reckless. That I push too hard? Sometimes I do. But I'm still the best damn test pilot Ferris Aircraft has, and Carol knows it."
"Nobody's questioning your skill," Thomas replied patiently. "But skill without judgment is just an accident waiting to happen. You're not invincible, Hal. You're not Superman."
"Thank God for that," Hal quipped. "The cape would clash with my jacket."
Thomas didn't smile at the joke. "I'm serious. Carol's right about the probation. You need to dial it back before you push too far."
"Or what? I'll end up like my dad?" The words came out harsher than Hal intended, the defensive edge unmistakable.
"That's not what I'm saying, and you know it."
Hal sighed, the fight going out of him. "I know. I'm sorry. It's just... today is always tough."
"Which is why I'm suggesting you come to dinner tonight," Thomas said, returning to his earlier invitation. "Jessica's making her famous lasagna. The kids would love to see their Uncle Hal. And more importantly, you shouldn't be alone with your thoughts today."
Hal knew what his friend was doing—trying to make sure he wasn't alone on this particular anniversary. Part of him appreciated the gesture, while another part resented the implication that he couldn't handle his own emotional state.
"Thanks, but I'm beat. Rain check?"
Thomas clearly wasn't satisfied with the answer, but he knew better than to push too hard. "At least promise me you won't spend the night at the aviation museum again. Last year the night guard called me at 2 AM because you fell asleep in front of your dad's display."
Hal winced at the memory. He'd had too much whiskey that night, ended up talking to the reconstructed remains of his father's aircraft until exhaustion claimed him. Not his proudest moment.
"I've got other plans," he lied. In truth, he'd intended exactly that pilgrimage, but now he'd have to find another way to mark the anniversary.
"Just... take it easy tonight, okay?"
"Always do," Hal lied with practiced ease.