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  © 2013 Tara Tyler

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  Cover Art by Eugene Teplitsky

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  ISBN 978-1-62007-282-0 (ebook)

  ISBN 978-1-62007-283-7 (paperback)

  ISBN 978-1-62007-284-4 (hardcover)

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  A Taste of Simulation, by Tara Tyler

  About the Author

  More Books from Curiosity Quills Press

  Full Table of Contents

  For my sons, Jace, Logan,

  and especially my inspirational little guy, Cooper.

  Seattle, WA

  2078

  war raged in Sarah’s head. Never had she experienced such agony. This migraine far surpassed the last one, but she refused to put off her meeting. Pain would not win. Clenching her teeth, she banished the urge to empty her stomach. She struggled to remain composed while her high heels clacked, enhancing the throbbing, and background city noises exploded in her ears. Even the beckoning of her Qnet Viewer rumbled through her like a train, shaking her off balance. She couldn’t bear to answer it, so she fumbled to turn off the annoyingly chirpy ringer. Shielding her sensitive eyes from the dim glare of the sun diffused by the clouds in an overcast sky, she forced herself to reach the next crack in the sidewalk, then the next one. Never a cab around when you need one. At least it isn’t raining.

  I need to pop.

  A pop would take care of the pounding in her head. Sarah always felt fresh and healthy after a pop. Reborn.

  After an agonizing three blocks, the Valium the doctor gave her finally kicked in. Spying the welcome sight of her high-rise home, Sarah sighed and touched her head. The hammering softened to a slight, steady pulse. Hopefully, the drug’s effects would last until she made it to the travelport.

  “Hello, Ms. Johansen. Your car is here and your bags are in the back,” Henry said, holding the door open for her.

  “Thank you.” Sarah hopped in and shook off a chill. Making chitchat with androids gave her the creeps.

  Inside the compact econ limo, Sarah felt confined and wished the carmakers would hurry up and bring luxury back to the electric car age, before she was too old to enjoy one again. When she finished fidgeting, she opened her schedule on her wrist imager, the latest Qnet Viewer. Sarah bought the upgraded QV hoping the clearer 3D imager would help with the recurring headaches. While she reviewed the notes hovering over the QV for her upcoming meeting, a message flashed in the corner. It was her mother. Again.

  “Hello, Mom.” Her greeting triggered the notes to minimize and her mother’s face to zoom in.

  “Sarah. I’ve been calling and calling. How did your doctor appointment go?”

  “Fine.”

  “What did he say?”

  Knowing her mother wouldn’t let up until she told her everything, Sarah took a deep breath and spilled.

  “He said I should cut down on pop traveling for a while and reduce my stress. But my stress test results came back stellar.” Sarah touched her forehead. The pain had gone, but her mother could easily trigger another migraine.

  “I knew it! I wish you would take some time off and come down here. We have the condo for another month. We could do some sightseeing and shopping.”

  “Oh, Mother. I see enough sights when I work. I’m popping to New York again in an hour. I’m sure I’ll catch a glimpse of Lady Liberty from my hotel window.”

  Sarah couldn’t let up now. Too many vultures hovered, waiting for her to slack off at work so they could swoop in and pick her bones dry. A few headaches, or even her mother, wouldn’t slow her down.

  “Sarah, I wish you’d reconsider.”

  Sarah tilted her head and cocked an eyebrow. Did you forget that I’m a grown woman?

  “I’ll be fine, Mom. I’ll call you this weekend.”

  Her mother frowned.

  “Whatever you say, dear.”

  They disconnected. Sarah shook her head and sighed. I’ll rest when I’m retired like you, Mom.

  When she reopened her notes, she felt a drip from her nose. She dabbed it and cursed under her breath. Blood. Perfect.

  Praying the pain would not return with the nosebleed, Sarah pinched her nose and tilted her head back. This crap happens to low-life neph-heads, not self-respecting businesswomen!

  After waiting a good ten minutes, Sarah released the vise grip on her nose. The bleeding had stopped. She breathed a sigh of relief, back to normal. Thank God.

  As the cab pulled in at the Seattle TransAmerica Travelport, Sarah took a peek in her compact and checked her nose for dried blood. Satisfied with her reflection, she stepped out, wearing a triumphant smile.

  When she finished trudging through the security scanners, Sarah flashed her frequent traveler card, allowing her to bypass the long lines at the pre-pop medical scanning checkpoints required for the general public. As she continued down the wide causeway, she passed the mass transit platforms on either side. Besides the pop travel renovations, the gates hadn’t changed much from when they were waiting areas for planes. The seats had been replaced with the brightly lit floors of transport platforms holding twenty-four shiny, steel cylinder docks each. But average folk and bickering families still fussed and clamored to find their spots. First class, here I come.

  At her gate, Sarah placed her hand on the palm pad for ticket verification, and the privacy door slid open. Focused on the dock chair calling her name, Sarah ignored the friendly smile of the technician, standing at his station. Entering the cylindrical chamber reminded her of an ancient pneumatic message tube or a giant syringe. Sarah smiled to herself. Shoot me home. As she reclined in the padded, steel, body-length chair, she relaxed and waited for the anesthesiologist to give her the sedative.

  “All set?” the anesthesiologist asked.

  “Yes.” Sarah grinned. This was her favorite part.

  After administering the sedative, the anesthesiologist closed the dock and Sarah was out.

  The technician pressed send.

  Pop! She was gone.

  At the JFK International Transport Hub in New York, a receiving technician stood by. The signal alerted him of Sarah Johansen’s transmission. When he answered it, he watched her form on his imager. A green silhouette appeared, one slice at a time, from the bottom up, as she re-formed in the receiving dock chair. A ping indicated her reconstruction was complete, and the reception nurse went over to welcome her.

  When she opened the door, the nurse screamed and fainted.

  The technician looked through his translucent imager into the receiving dock.

  In the chair sat a pile of sparkly dust.

  Walnut Grove, GA

  Monday, July 22, 2080

  amouflaged by the tall reeds, Cooper focused on the small boat thirty yards out. Nothing could distract him. Not the gnats buzzing around his eyes or the water sneaking into his waders. His objective: not to fall into the muck while gathering evidence on his two marks. If Cooper destroyed another QV, Miki would kill him.

  As if reading his mind, the wrist imager quacked. Dawson blinked in a corner of the translucent frame.

  “Click.” At Cooper’s command, the QV snapped an image.

  “Hello, Dawson,” he whispered. His voice triggered a sub-frame to open, and a handsome, grinning f
ace appeared. Cooper’s charismatic little brother, with perfectly messy, dirty blond hair and cool, blue eyes that always had a smirk behind them, was the only person Cooper would take a call from in the middle of a stakeout.

  “Hey, bro. Nice hat.” Dawson strained to see behind Cooper. “Jameson Layton Cooper, where the hell are you?”

  Cooper held back a laugh and gave his brother a nod. It would take more than using his full name to blow Cooper’s cover.

  “I’m incognito.”

  “Where’s Cognito?” Dawson did laugh.

  “Good one.”

  “Well, I won’t keep you. Just wanted to let you know I have a meeting in Atlanta this week with Mayor Athawan. He’s been talking with Ford-Mercedes about adding another fleet of Econ Cars to the city supply and wants me there for the negotiations. Anyway, I’d like to treat you to lunch tomorrow. If you’re available.”

  “I don’t know. Let me check my schedule. Sure.”

  A huge splash followed by howls of laughter drew Cooper’s attention.

  Dawson shook his head and chuckled.

  “Great. See you tomorrow. I love your job,” he said.

  Cooper grinned, and they disconnected. Another e-car meeting. Only a few years ago, Dawson surprised the family taking a job at the floundering Ford-Mercedes. His innovative proposal of limiting all inner city travel to electric cars and public transit flew through legislation with the help of President Powell Johnson, whom Dawson interned for during college. But back then, the title was Senator Johnson. Now, at only thirty-three, Dawson currently held the Michigan Congressional District 8 seat with plans of becoming a Senator the next election year. Cooper beamed, proud of his little brother. He always pictured Dawson as a great leader.

  “Record.” Cooper aimed to shoot more video.

  Once the two bumpkins righted themselves, they continued to laugh and joke. While they traded puffs in their little boat, they forgot about their poles floating away in the water. What a life. They reminded Cooper of lazy fishing days with Dawson when they were young, minus the weed. Getting old sucks.

  After a few more minutes, Cooper began his stealthy slosh back to shore. Carefully bagging his fishing disguise, he packed it into Miki’s hand-me-down sedan. Cooper hated borrowing her car, meticulous as she was, but the bus wouldn’t take him this far out. Times like this, he considered getting a car of his own.

  By the time he got back to town, he had talked himself out of it, as he always did. Most places were close enough to walk to, and he could save the cost. Deep down, he remembered test-driving cars had been a favorite date for him and Kristen. He still couldn’t do it alone.

  Even though he had left Atlanta, reminders of Kristen still jumped out at him, catching him off guard. He couldn’t believe five years had passed since his wife’s tragic plane crash. Every day, he relived the argument with her to fly instead of using pop travel. He hadn’t trusted the sketchy new science of laser teleportation. Being a pilot, he thought flying would be best. His skepticism cost him his reason for living. Most days, he felt empty.

  After pulling into the lot behind his building, a turn of the century, two-story house, Cooper dropped off his disguise at the foot of the stairs leading to his apartment above and entered his office through the side door. The lonely reception area matched his mood, with a drab, slipcovered couch and two matching chairs daring someone to sit on them. Fortunately, the local clients didn’t expect much from the “Peeping Tom” detective, and he lived up to their low standards.

  The atmosphere around Miki’s desk, with plants and pictures, brightened the room, contrasting dramatically with the second-hand furnishings. Miki once told Cooper that a peaceful setting encouraged visitors to relax and unload their sad stories. Luck brought Miki to him and he appreciated her perking the place up.

  When he saw Miki talking on the voice phone, Cooper did a double take. Highly unusual. No one used voice phones anymore, especially Miki. She was superstitious about it. He scrunched his eyebrows at her and waved as he headed for his desk.

  “I’ll check in later,” he whispered.

  The pretty, cocoa-complected girl gave him a stern look, pursing her lips, and shook a finger for him to wait.

  “Could you hold on a moment, sir? Thanks,” she said politely into the phone and put it on hold. “You need to talk to this guy. Here.”

  She shoved the phone at him. Cooper jerked back and took it.

  “Why is he on the voice phone? Who is it?”

  Her hands and shoulders flew up in a big shrug as she mouthed, “I don’t know!” and took the call off hold.

  “Hello?” Cooper asked.

  “Mr. Cooper? Hello. I, uh, don’t know how to begin.” The man’s voice quavered. “I can’t talk long. I think I’m being followed and possibly listened in on. But I’m using the lobby phone, so I don’t know how they would tap it. But they have ways…” He rambled, sounding like he just escaped from some kind of institution.

  “Okay. Take it slow. What did you need?” Cooper asked.

  “I hoped I could talk to you in person.”

  Cooper sensed the guy’s desperation through the line. He sighed and decided to humor him.

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m in Conyers. At the La Quinta Inn.”

  Conyers? I wonder how he got my name.

  “I know the place. It’s got a diner across the street, right? Want me to meet you there?”

  “Yes. I see it. Dixie’s Diner. I guess that’ll do. I’m pretty sure I lost them when I left the city limits and changed buses. But those damn cameras are everywhere! How soon can you be here?”

  “Twenty minutes.”

  “Okay. I’ll wait,” he said and hung up.

  “That was interesting.” Cooper handed Miki the phone.

  “Who was it?”

  “He didn’t say. He was freaked out. He may just be a loon. Should be a good story, if nothing else.”

  “I don’t know. You better be careful, Cooper. Anyone who doesn’t use a vid phone has something to hide and shouldn’t be trusted.” Her eyes peered up at him with a hint of worry. She underestimated his ability to deal with surprises. She had never seen him in his previous life as a shark attorney. He could still stare down a hostile witness.

  “Don’t worry. I’m sure it’s nothing.”

  Conyers, GA

  Huddled in the farthest booth, Cooper easily spotted the mysterious caller. Leery of everyone, the small, gaunt man peered from behind a menu at the door with dark, shadowy eyes, and stole glances at the security camera over his head. He looked like a bum who had wandered in for a cup of hot water to put a bone in. When he noticed Cooper, his eyes widened, and he gave a quick, summoning wave.

  Cooper walked through the deserted diner, looking down at his shoes to hide a smirk at the guy’s ridiculous super sleuth behavior, and slid into the booth.

  The guy promptly adjusted two menus to block the view of the other patrons.

  Is this guy serious?

  “Mr. Cooper, I apologize for the way I contacted you. I realize I must appear a little… nervous. But once I explain, I think you will understand.” He leaned in as he spoke, his eyes wide and wild with urgency.

  A little nervous? With his scruffy, brown hair, dingy smell, and crumpled suit, he looked like he needed a shower and some sleep, and possibly a prescription.

  “Fire away, Mr…”

  “Oh, yes. Sorry. I have forgotten my manners. Please forgive me. Jonathan Phisner.” He raised a shaky hand.

  Cooper clasped it firmly and gave the man a reassuring smile, staring into his frantic eyes like a father calming down his son before coming in to relief pitch for the win. Cooper had used the same technique when comforting timid clients before they took the stand.

  Phisner released and visibly relaxed a notch, as his shoulders sank.

  But his calm didn’t last long. At the jingle and whoosh of the door opening, Phisner’s chin snapped up and his eyes filled with fear, searc
hing over Cooper’s shoulder. Cooper turned around and watched an elderly couple waddle in and sit down.

  “Mr. Phisner, you are safe here. What has you so worried?”

  Phisner wrung his hands. When he realized it, he clenched them into fists and hid them in his lap. Squinting at the table, he took a deep breath.

  Cooper could tell Phisner struggled to keep it together.

  “I’m sorry. I…”

  “Mr. Phisner, look at me.” Cooper leaned in and waited for Mr. Phisner to meet his gaze, again the patient father. “You don’t have to apologize. You have obviously been through something traumatic. I am here to listen. Try to relax and start at the beginning.”

  Phisner nodded, took one more deep breath, and let loose.

  “Okay. Here it is. I used to work for an accounting firm in Atlanta where I met my fiancée, Aleesa Kingston. She was wonderful, even though I only saw her on the weekends, with all her travel. But maybe that’s why our relationship flourished…” He shook his head, cutting off his rambling.

  Cooper nodded for him to continue. Giving an apologetic smile, Phisner nodded back.

  “Anyway, a couple of months ago, Aleesa went to Denver for one of her many meetings, only this time she never made it to her destination. She didn’t call anyone and she didn’t come home. She just disappeared.” He snapped his fingers. His hands never stopped moving. Up, down, slicing, pointing. The exaggerated, shaky gestures told Cooper Phisner was genuinely frazzled.

  “When I asked the police, they didn’t care. They told me they had zero leads and missing person cases go unsolved all the time. And listen to this. The same thing happened two years ago to her cousin, Sarah. She vanished like she never existed after popping for a business trip. Two weeks after Sarah vanished, her mother found a suicide note, but her body was never found. Aleesa’s disappearance ate me up. Since the police were useless, I decided to do some investigating on my own. I promised Aleesa’s family I would do my best to find her, one way or another.” Phisner’s eyes clouded.

  Poor guy.