Simulation: A Pop Travel Novel Page 2

  Gripping the door for support, Crews spoke his last words to Jonas, “You just doomed yourself. I could’ve made something of you, but your arrogance has blinded you. Your political career is but a splash, just enough to dampen the crowd, then be wiped off and forgotten. Your lack of judgment will cost you dearly.”

  Crews slammed the door shut on a bewildered Jonas.

  As the car pulled away, Crews summoned his personal droid on his QV.

  “Echo, come get me.” His high-end, custom-built android was an extra right hand and remained close by at all times. Crews had even installed a homing device in himself so it could find him if he went missing. Echo would pull up at any moment.

  While he waited, Crews took in his surroundings. Dark, desolate, and deserted. He recognized the rows of huddled, abandoned buildings as part of an old warehouse district, unofficially given to the homeless by the city of Atlanta and affectionately called the Unknown City. No cars parked along these corridors. No chattering citizens walked the gloomy sidewalk. A stark contrast to the hell raising, neon lit Plaza from whence he came.

  With one lonely, flickering streetlight to guide cars as they rushed by, rattling across the old railroad tracks, the alleys remained ominously dim. Trash blew around in the slight breeze and the abundant silence played tricks on Crews’ ears. He had a suspicious feeling someone watched him through cracks in the boarded up windows.

  Most people feared this area, describing it as a forbidden part of town, haunted by evil, lost souls. Some called it a disgusting cesspool of disease and vermin where one might not get out alive. Especially at night. No one knew the truth, so urban legends rose about it. Not even the street thugs ventured there after dark. They had nothing to gain and were ignorantly superstitious.

  Crews had no such illogical fears. He knew better. The Unknown City existed and thrived as a secure residence for the homeless and downtrodden, hidden from the general public. Blind eyes in the government absorbed the costs of electrical, water, and Qnet services that trickled into the Unknown City. No doubt someone had a few of those votes accounted for as well. These people were a new breed who no longer begged on the streets or lived out in the open under bridges. They kept to themselves, avoiding the attention of the general public. They existed with their own organized code of interdependence. And as long as they stayed invisible, they would be peacefully ignored.

  The Colonel’s old Marine buddy and on-call private investigator once told Crews the Unknown City welcomed newcomers, no questions asked, and erased their electronic histories. But anyone who rocked their steady boat disappeared. And no one missed them.

  That concept appealed to Crews. He climbed a crumbling cement staircase to the main entrance of the central building, where an office might have existed once. The rusty metal door was locked by a crude number keypad. Cupping his hands around his eyes, he peered through the still-intact, thick, square window at the top of the door. Inside, the haunting foyer funneled into a deep throat of a corridor, full of shadows and vastly empty, except for dust and spider webs—part of the eerie, abandoned façade.

  Crews nodded. The people who lived in the Unknown City relinquished their identities. They had no past, no links, no baggage. Each person who entered became a clean slate. Now that was something the Colonel could work with.

  As thoughts of a promising new strategy coalesced, a barely legal, converted electric Rolls Royce pulled up next to him. Echo stepped out to greet him.

  “Are you all right, sir?”

  “Fine, Echo. Fine.” A sinister smile smoothed out his thin lips. What started out as a lynching would end in a resurrection.

  Echo opened the passenger door for the Colonel.

  Crews held up his hand. “Not just yet, Echo. You must help me select our new house guest.”

  Washington, D.C.

  Tuesday, June 2, 2082

  young woman screamed.

  Before she reached the handsome thirty-five-year-old senator, an android guard scooped up the crazed fan and removed her from the premises.

  Cooper chuckled as he watched the scene. Since when did politicians have groupies?

  Unfazed by the incident, Dawson smiled and took a sip of his water before addressing his visiting older brother.

  “I’m glad you moved back to Atlanta, Coop.” Dawson’s boyish good looks had matured into the debonair features of a distinguished senator, complete with stylish gray streaks in his dark blond hair, rooting at his temples. It was no wonder women swooned for him.

  “I missed the anonymity. It’s easier to hide among the masses than be grilled daily by each and every resident of Walnut Grove.” Cooper, on the other hand, just looked older, with more gray, more wrinkles, and more aches and pains. He’d also found a few extra pounds he’d like to get rid of ever since he broke down and bought a car.

  Dawson’s grin widened. “I bet. You were a big celebrity for a while.”

  “Yeah. Glad my fifteen minutes are over.”

  Two years ago, Cooper fumbled his way through a scandalous, world-jolting case exposing a deadly glitch covered up by the greedy executives at Pop Travel International where pop travel abusers randomly disintegrated. Now the world ran as if none of that even happened, happily pop-teleporting across the globe or just across town. Cooper would never get used to it, still preferring to fly.

  The excitement of the pop travel case made him realize how much he missed living in the city, where Cooper had started his career as a lawyer. When his wife died, he quit his job and moved away from the painful memories. Now he enjoyed being back, even with all the hustle and bustle. He especially appreciated the variety of modern conveniences within easy reach, and the best part, having first dibs on new technology. If his girlfriend, now ex-girlfriend, hadn’t convinced him to move back, he’d still be wasting away in Walnut Grove, woefully behind the times. The secluded comfort had been a nice setup for a while, but he was glad to be back in society.

  “So are you finally going to tell me what happened with you and Geri? I thought you two had happy ending written in the stars.”

  “Yeah. Geri. Well, she had her job and I had mine. With each of us working odd hours, we were ships passing in the afternoon. You know how it goes. We just drifted apart.” Cooper hoped that would suffice. Whenever Dawson called, Cooper avoided talking about how his and Geri’s once hot romance had fizzled. Unfortunately, face to face with Dawson, Cooper couldn’t blow him off. But there wasn’t really much to tell. The doldrums of daily life and revelations of annoying habits surfaced, quenching their spark. It still hurt and annoyed him the way she’d pushed him away. He just wanted to forget about her and let the dead embers stay buried and forgotten.

  The waiter arrived with their lunch, just in time to interrupt the unpleasantness. Cooper took a moment to close his eyes and breathe in the comforting aroma of his smothered steak and mashed potatoes.

  The recently restored Blue Duck Tavern in Washington, D.C. was leaps and bounds from sitting in a booth at Joe’s Diner in Walnut Grove. Among all the fancy new French, Asian, and Moroccan upscale cafés, it represented one of the last traditional American restaurants left after the Colombians attacked the capital, aiding the Mexican Drug Lords in the Tex-Mex War. The interior designer fused a mix of down-home country with modern techno-digital. Rustic wood accents and shared bench seating accompanied glowing bead partitions and outer-spacey, glass and chrome light fixtures. The room also had an al fresco feel, as the entire ceiling reflected the real-time sky above from a receiver on the roof. Though no one else seemed to mind the close proximity to their neighbors, bumping elbows at the long tables, Cooper preferred the traditional one-person-per-chair.

  While Cooper tried to enjoy the tasty concoctions of downhome Americana whipped up by some fancy chef, annoying gawkers tainted his appetite with their desperate attempts to catch a glimpse of a celebrity or famous politician. Tourists reserved their spots months in advance, corralled in a roped-off area as if lining the red carpet of an award s
how. Cooper felt special sitting in the priority section with Dawson. They almost didn’t let him in, even though he’d worn his best jacket and tie with his jeans. Well, his only jacket and tie.

  Even with all the distractions, Dawson picked up right where they left off.

  “Coming back to reality can put a damper on any relationship. I just never thought you’d give up so easily.” Dawson was anxious for Cooper to settle down again. He’d been lucky all his life. Not everyone could find their soul mate and produce the perfect family like Dawson had. Cooper was envious of his brother, but felt his own chance to be a happy husband and father had passed.

  “It’s complicated. You know, like Jimmy and his girlfriends. How is my namesake, anyway? Is he ready to come down?” Cooper tried to change the subject, bringing up one of Dawson’s sore spots—his eldest, rebellious son. Jimmy was terribly popular and intelligent, but he was also a risk-taker with the bad luck of getting caught. A boy after Cooper’s own sarcastic heart. He was supposed to stay with Cooper the next summer while he interned in Atlanta. Cooper had mixed feelings about it. He didn’t know if he was ready for that much responsibility.

  Dawson lowered his chin at Cooper.

  “Jimmy is doing well. But he still has to earn the right to go stay at his uncle’s bachelor pad next summer. Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing, bro. You’ll have to come clean with yourself eventually. At least there’s more action in Atlanta, right?” He mercifully let it go, turning on his mischievous grin and raising his eyebrows. Dawson would never change.

  That was a good thing. As strong as Dawson’s character was, Cooper feared the corruptive influence of D.C. and its low-life denizens might infect him. Money changed hands all the time as scoundrels used donations or gifts to buy favors and votes. It was a delicate balance of who owed whom what. Cooper was relieved to know there was at least one decent man among the riffraff.

  “More action? Sure. My clientele has multiplied by a hundred and ten percent. But the shady characters aren’t my friendly neighbors anymore. I’ve gotten nasty messages and even a couple of death threats. I had to resort to wearing disguises. It gives blind dating a whole new meaning.”

  “No. Not you!” Dawson laughed. “I can just picture you in a big handle-bar mustache. Or better yet, light-up round glasses and a leisure suit! Ha!”

  Cooper laughed with him.

  As he started to open his QV to show Dawson an example, the restaurant went still. Cooper turned around and saw what drew everyone’s attention. A pale, older gentleman in a dull gray suit, with an impressive dark giant in tow, entered and approached their table.

  The entire restaurant had paused to gawk at the odd pair, and with good reason. The larger man stood at least six-foot-nine, ducking his head to avoid the low-hanging lights from the ceiling. Cooper wondered how much flax they had to harvest to create his distinguished linen suit. If the big guy flexed a muscle, he would easily pop a seam. The mismatched pair looked like a zealous manager peddling his newfound prizefighter, seeking a match. But this was not that kind of place. This was the kind of place for more discreet dealings.

  Dawson stood and shook the old guy’s outstretched hand. “Colonel Crews Hamilton. How are you, sir? I haven’t seen you in ages.”

  “Senator Cooper. Yes, it’s been too long. I’ve been grooming my latest prospect, here. Dawson, I’d like you to meet Congressman McFarland Wells,” the Colonel answered in a surprisingly strong, velvety voice that barely gave away his Southern roots. He might have been taller in his youth, but now he was only five-foot-seven. Cooper judged the old man to be in his mid-sixties, but couldn’t tell for sure. Many people had anti-aging work done once they hit forty, so the best way to tell their age was by their presentation. Cooper could tell this southern gentleman was old school by the way he spoke and carried himself. He hoped he looked so good in thirty years.

  Seeing no response from the monolith beside him, the Colonel gave him a discreet nudge. “McFarland, Senator Cooper hails from Michigan.”

  The titan, McFarland Wells, came to life as if a spell had broken the curse of a petrified statue. He nodded and struggled to smile back at Dawson. Then he returned to an attention stance, staring at a spot on the wall across the room. He had midnight black skin and doublewide shoulders. Anyone could’ve mistaken him for a Falcons’ linebacker, or Bigfoot, if they were near the Northwest. With his intimidating, stoic expression and stiff posture, Cooper might’ve guessed he was an android bodyguard rather than a crowd-pleasing Congressman. But the big guy was several inches too tall for a standard-issue android.

  The Colonel sagged at his hulking companion’s lack of a satisfactory response. Maybe he should swat him with a rolled up newspaper or dangle a treat in front of him.

  Dawson leaned over and grabbed the big black stud’s beefy hand, helping the obviously inexperienced politician with his social conventions. “Good to meet you, McFarland. Where are you from?”

  The diffident beast awakened from his trance again and searched Dawson’s eyes for a moment, tilting his head. He seemed to be judging whether he should waste his breath, deciding if the Senator would truly listen to him or not. He made the right choice.

  “Thank you, sir. I’m from Macon. Macon, Georgia, sir.” Wells’ deep bass voice had a soft, humble tone that didn’t match his brutish, imposing exterior. Cooper also heard a lick of the Southern twang he was trying to hide. His mentor would have to work on that with him, unless he was keeping it for a homegrown angle.

  “Macon, eh? My brother lives in Atlanta. Colonel Hamilton, Representative Wells, this is my older brother, Jameson Layton Cooper.” Dawson eyed Cooper, nodding for him to stand up. He just had to use Cooper’s full name.

  Cooper rose, acknowledging them with a nod, and shook their hands. Wells’ grip was weaker than expected. Weaker than the Colonel’s, which was firm and intimidating, practiced and polished, demanding respect. Cooper would win a bunch of money betting on the Colonel to take down Wells in an arm-wrestling match.

  “What’s your business, Mr. Cooper?”

  “You can just call me Cooper. I’m a private detective.”

  Analyzing Cooper’s face intently, the Colonel seemed eager to consume every bit of data he could. Surely the old man’s personal android, who Cooper spotted waiting for them by the door, was recording the whole encounter. Their stiff escort was easy to identify, since a human bodyguard would’ve instinctively avoided eye contact when caught staring at another human. The android, though convincingly real, didn’t blink away.

  The Colonel nodded. “Hmm. You should give me your number. I recently lost a close friend who did detective work for me. We could use a thorough investigator on our team. McFarland just appropriated the vacant congressional seat in Georgia’s eighth district. He is considering running for Governor once he’s acquired some experience.”

  Cooper held back a spontaneous laugh. Wells is considering the governorship? Or being prodded into it?

  “High aspirations. Congratulations, Congressman. And let me know if I can be of any assistance.” Dawson had a great heart. Solid gold.

  “Thank you, sir.” Wells nodded, but his second attempt to smile failed too, as if there was a short circuit between his brain and his mouth. Part of the problem was the sad, faraway look in his eyes. The poor guy seemed desperately uncomfortable, like he was resisting a dire need to scratch an itch. Not a good first impression for a politician. Another thing the Colonel should work on.

  Cooper decided to throw in his two-bit ante to the hundred-dollar game, “You know, I read about that tragic story. The previous Congressman, Simon Paxton, I believe, had been on his way home and was carjacked by a gang of street thugs. A shame they never made any arrests. They never do in those situations.”

  While the Colonel listened, he let a nervous habit slip, rubbing his thumb under his chin as if he was pressing a record button under there. Maybe he was an android. Those things got more sophisticated with each new generation. C
ooper was having a harder time telling the difference between them and real people. He worried what that said about his ability to judge a person’s character if he couldn’t even tell if he was talking to an artificial or not.

  Cooper continued, “It struck me as odd when they closed the case so quickly. Especially since it happened beyond the understood boundary of the gangs. The news reports claimed it looked like an initiation killing and the police left it at that. Such a shame.” Cooper remembered the story because the crime took place only a few blocks from his apartment building. The whole thing had been disturbing, with many clouds of doubt surrounding the story.

  When he finished, the Colonel raised an eyebrow at him.

  Yes, I’m smarter than I look. And I watch the news. Cooper grinned. I’m full of surprises.

  “Why yes, Detective Cooper. You’re quite correct.” And that’s all the Colonel had to say to him. Pursing his lips, he turned back to Dawson.

  Cooper zoned out as Dawson and the Colonel went into politico-speak. The old guy obviously wanted Wells to climb the ranks quickly and made the right choice bringing the awkward giant over to meet Cooper’s popular brother. Dawson was a highly sought-after prospect for the 2084 Presidential race. He was so in demand, Cooper had to plan their lunch two months in advance. The Colonel seemed to know what needed to be done, displaying his conspicuous protégé in this very public place for the cameras to spark some buzz. And with the Colonel doing most of the talking, the big guy didn’t need to say much. Just standing there, he intimidated and impressed people. He sure had the peanut galleries’ attention. They hadn’t stopped taking footage of him since he walked in, as if he was the missing link.

  “Well, Senator, thank you for your time. We must be going now. McFarland and I have business to attend. He’s joining the Android Protection Proposal Committee.”

  Touching the giant’s arm, the Colonel gave the signal for them to leave, nodding toward the door.