Pop Travel Page 28

  The three of them moved through the transport house without a problem. Guards were posted there only for parties, so it was deserted except for a minimal technical and medical staff that deferred to Hasan.

  Hasan had a tech pop them all back to Mumbai.

  Before she popped, Geri let out a disappointed sigh. She never got to say goodbye to Cooper.

  FBI – Atlanta Division

  12:30 p.m., Saturday, July 27

  “Thank you for volunteering to tell me this information, Ed.” Mr. Taylor clapped him on a droopy shoulder.

  “I don’t know how I let her use me. I can’t believe I didn’t see the signs.” Ed lowered his head and shook it back and forth. He played the part of the ignorant lapdog to a T. Inside, he rejoiced. He might get out of this yet!

  “Ms. Wiley, get me Mr. Gibson, please,” Mr. Taylor said to his assistant on their office communicator as he stepped back behind his desk. “Don’t worry about it, Ed. Vivienne will be arrested immediately. Her office will undergo a thorough investigation.”

  Ed nodded with a woeful frown, barely containing his mirth. Vivienne will finally get what she deserves. He was almost clear!

  “And you will, too. Purely as a formality. I’m sure Vivienne will have some accusations for you. Right?”

  Ed stopped his inward celebration and straightened up to an attention stance.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I want Geri to handle the testing and implementation. She’s been invaluable.”

  “Yes, sir.” He looked at the ceiling.

  “And your technical expert?”

  “Nate.”

  “Yes, Nate. See that he sends me a full disclosure of all the information he collected for you.”

  Ed didn’t like that, either.

  “Why? I included it in my report.”

  “Something to hide, Ed?”

  “No. But some measures were necessary to protect the Creator,” he said.

  “I’m sure they were. We will take that into consideration. You may go now, Ed. I’ll be talking to you soon.” Mr. Taylor dismissed him as Mr. Gibson from the Washington FBI office appeared on Mr. Taylor’s imager.

  At least Ed still had his job. For now.

  Walnut Grove, GA

  1:30 p.m., Sunday, July 27, 2081

  It had to be over a hundred degrees outside. Luckily, the air conditioner and sweet iced tea kept Cooper from feeling it. Reclining on his couch, he watched the Braves, who were losing to the Phillies, on his enormous new imager, courtesy of Hasan.

  At the bottom of the third, the game feed fizzled.

  The President came on to make a special announcement.

  “My fellow Americans. And friends around the globe. One year ago today, we were forced to suspend the greatest technological advance of our time. It has been a rough road, taking such a deep step backward, resorting to outdated, slower modes of transportation. Now I am here to announce to you that pop travel is back.

  “Seeing our greed for speed, negligent shirkers rushed this astounding technology through a hasty approval. Those who cut corners and tried to cover up the ensuing damages are paying for their tragic mistakes. More stringent laws, with stricter requirements and enforcement, have been put into place to prevent anything like it from happening again.

  “And not forgetting this marvelous method of transport, over the last year pop travel has undergone vast improvements. Rigorous, extensive testing has been completed beyond regulation standards, guaranteeing risk-free transport. Across the world, every travelport has been equipped with updated machinery, travel precautions, and safety features to ensure travelers’ protection. Nevermore will there be cause for concern.

  “Finally, I want the public to know Hasan Rakhi has taken every measure to perfect this technology. He is here to attest and stand behind his hard work and efforts to keep our future moving forward. And with his assistance, I am going to demonstrate to you how safe it is, personally. Don’t be afraid to pop travel!”

  The President waved at the cameras and photographers as he stepped into the dock. Hasan administered the shot and sealed the President in.

  With his willingness to put himself in such a position, President Powell impressed Cooper. He couldn’t believe his advisors and the Secret Service and his wife let him do it.

  The scene split to keep Hasan in view on one side, and the receiving dock in another location on the other. Secret Service men and a doctor stood by, ready to attend the President when he arrived. Hasan made grand gestures of plugging in the transmission code.

  A technician received the President, who came out all smiles and waves. The demonstration was a success, a magnificent magic trick with the assistant stealing the show. After a few more words of praise and encouragement, the President bid everyone, “Safe travels,” and the network newscasters took over for a few congratulatory comments and jokes.

  The baseball game resumed, but Cooper had lost interest. The past year had brought happier moments back into his life. More time with Dawson and his family and reconnecting with old friends. He even let Chelsea fix him up a couple of times. But he never forgot about Geri.

  Assigned to watch over Hasan’s top secret testing in India with his uncle, Geri and the entire team had been sequestered, not allowed to contact anyone, due to the delicate nature of the experiment, according to Hasan. But part of Hasan’s agreement left him free to do as he pleased on his own time. He had kept in touch with Cooper, letting him know of his progress once in a while.

  Now the sole owner of Pop Travel International, Hasan decided to keep the remaining VP, Charles Maynard, around to run the business side, since he had been such a tremendous help during the investigations and turned out to be an honest, competent executive, when working with the right people. Hasan also kept the security guards at the plantation, who proved their loyalty time and again.

  Watching Hasan transform over the year from an imprisoned, whiny genius into a jet-setting, suave celebrity made Cooper smile. Hasan could finally enjoy his well-deserved spoils. In addition to fixing his plantation home, he bought a house in Aspen and another on Juhu Beach in India. Cooper laughed, thinking about some of the tabloid covers that caught him dating an actress here or a model there. Hasan was in heaven. Good for him.

  Turning off the imager, Cooper stood up and stretched. It was time to get ready.

  Two hours later, Cooper milled around Miki’s back yard, holding a gift. There were a dozen round tables decorated with pink flower centerpieces and children running around getting their Sunday best clothes dirty. Through the crowd, Cooper caught his brother’s eye. Dawson and Chelsea strolled over to greet him.

  “Hey, Bro. You look lost.”

  “Don’t I always?”

  “Wasn’t it a beautiful wedding?” Chelsea asked.

  “Yes, it was,” Cooper replied. He had slipped in late, but he saw most of it. “You look very nice, Chelsea. You should make Dawson take you out more often.”

  “Thank you. We should double date some time. Do you think we will ever get to see you settle down again, Cooper?” she asked.

  “I’m a bachelor for life, I’m afraid.” She wouldn’t be happy until she saw him married off.

  Chelsea shared a smirk with Dawson.

  “We’ll see,” she said.

  “I think you’re sitting with us, Bro. I’m going to get us some drinks. We’ll see you at the table.”

  “Sure. I just have to find out where to put this.” As they wandered off, Cooper searched for the gift table.

  Miki and Jared intercepted him.

  “There you are!” she said and gave him a big squeeze.

  “Hey, Miki. Here you go.” He tried to hand her the gift. “You look lovely, by the way. Congratulations, Jared.”

  “Thanks, boss. The gift table is over there.” Miki pointed. He craned his neck, and after a group of bridesmaids bustled by, there stood Geri in a simple white sundress and delicate white gloves. With her soft auburn hair cascading from
under a floppy white hat, he understood the word breathtaking, as he gulped for air. Perfection.

  “Oh. Look who’s here,” Miki said.

  But he was lost in the vision of Geri and his extremities tingled.

  “Good idea inviting her,” Jared said to Miki.

  “I know. I’m glad she came.” She gave a sigh. “Here. I’ll go ahead and take care of that.”

  Miki took the gift from Cooper’s hand and led Jared toward the gift table.

  As Geri approached, the girls exchanged winks. Cooper met Geri halfway and her luscious lips curved up into a mischievous grin. Her bright, green eyes had that devilish sparkle. She was definitely trouble.

  “Fancy meetin’ you all here,” Geri said with the thick Southern drawl Cooper missed so much. Hearing it gave him goose bumps.

  “How would you like to go talk about plantations over coffee?”

  “Why, J.L., I thought you’d nevah ask.”

  Atlanta, GA

  November 2080

  rews had created another monster.

  The young man at the podium shook his fist in the air as he soaked up the crowd’s cheers. “… Unlike most conventional politicians, I will fulfill each and every one of my campaign promises. I won’t let you down!”

  That’s what he thinks. Colonel Crews Hamilton smiled and raised his glass at the boy, basking in the echoes of his winning candidate’s oration. The blond-haired, blue-eyed Jonas Mayfield Tucker had perfected everything the Colonel taught him, right down to his playful, endearing grin. After agonizing over the boy for months, Crews drank to himself for another flawless success. All the Colonel’s efforts culminated in his protégé’s impeccable acceptance address, given in the posh ballroom of the Marriott Hotel built right outside centerfield of the refurbished Turner Stadium Plaza. Location was everything.

  Setting his glass down, Crews rubbed his jaw. His cheeks ached from all the forced smiling. It had been a long night, straining for hours to keep up his act as the proud campaign manager for the bothersome, relentless press, who filmed continuously. They lay in wait, hoping to catch someone in a weak moment. Well, let them record. They wouldn’t see the Colonel lose his composure. He was determined to show the public he still had his golden touch with another win under his weathered belt.

  But every prize had its price.

  “… I’m going to roll up my sleeves and put on my waders to clean up the mess left behind by my predecessor. We’re going to be a proud state once again.”

  More cheers.

  Crews huffed in Jonas’ direction. That boy had no idea what he was getting into. Ready for another drink, the weary older gentleman frowned at his empty glass. Then like magic, an android waiter replaced it with a full one. Over the past ten years, robots and androids had gradually infiltrated the workforce, replacing humans in menial jobs no one wanted. That suited the Colonel just fine. He appreciated them more than people anyway. Droids didn’t get their feelings hurt or file lawsuits for minor offensive comments.

  Glancing at the short, stout glass of tempting Scotch, he sighed and licked his lips, inclined to drop back a few more. But Crews reminded himself he needed to keep a clear head. He had to stay alert and watch for a knife in the back.

  At the table just below the podium, Jonas’ entourage congregated, cheering him on like pathetic, rock star groupies. Crews’ icy gray eyes bore holes into the yapping whelps. On several occasions over the last few weeks, he’d caught Jonas and his so-called advisors tittering like little school girls on the playground, sharing their private jokes at Crews’ expense. He knew they were anxious to drop the guillotine hanging over his head. And with the election won, they didn’t need their doddering old mentor anymore.

  The not-so-secret plot to dismiss Crews reminded him of the biblical account of King Rehoboam—the proud, ignorant son of King Solomon, who snubbed the sage advice of his elders, bringing the wrath of the people upon himself. Jonas, like the foolish young King, chose to listen to his inexperienced, impulsive friends and would soon know the same fate.

  After another rousing round of applause, Jonas stepped down from the podium, giving out smiles, shallow remarks, and two-handed handshakes. Weaving through the round ballroom tables, he neatly brushed past groups of gushing fans as he made his way to the Colonel.

  Crews wanted to smack the cocky smirk off the prima donna’s over-tanned, overconfident face, but threw his head back and drained his Scotch instead. Hang sobriety. He couldn’t wait for this pup to be put in his place in the D.C. pound.

  “Good evening, Colonel.” Jonas stood at attention and gave Crews a mocking salute, taking every opportunity to taunt his elder.

  “Congratulations, young Senator.” Crews spoke with an exaggerated slur and raised his empty glass to him.

  “Thank you, Colonel. Now I can make a real difference. And none of this would have been possible without your firm guidance.”

  Damn right, it wouldn’t.

  Jonas knew the right words to spew, thanks to Crews. He even tried using his honed wit to butter up Crews himself. Towering over the old dog, Jonas used every inch of his six-feet to intimidate, speaking down to the Colonel, too important to sit down with his beloved campaign manager. Crews taught him well.

  Nodding at someone across the room, Jonas held up a finger for the next admirer to wait a moment for him.

  “Don’t let me keep you, Jonas. You’re the busy host tonight.” Crews gave the boy an impatient yawn. Get to your point and stop toying with me.

  “Of course. Well, Colonel, we need to talk later tonight. Next steps, grease some squeaky wheels and all. You know.”

  No, I don’t know. But Crews played along. “Certainly, Jonas.”

  The boy constantly scanned the room, nodding or winking at his doting supporters. An honorable man focused on one person at a time, giving one the courtesy of looking him in the eye for a sincere conversation. Jonas, as so many others before him, was always searching for his next ego-boosting fix, like an addict.

  “Thank you, Colonel. When things wind down, please meet me in my limo out back. Now if you’ll excuse me.” Jonas glanced down at Crews and shook his hand. “Might want to take it easy on the sauce, old man.”

  He winked and strode off to talk to more important faces.

  So it would happen that night. No wasting time for up-and-coming Senator Tucker. As Crews watched the new shark work the shallow waters in the ballroom, he glowered, dwelling on the sarcastic emphasis Jonas put on his title. Colonel Crews Hamilton earned his rank honorably, leading his troops in the Energy Revolt skirmishes thirty years ago. And now after serving proudly for eighteen years as a Senator himself, he led promising cockerels like Jonas into office. Crews could put a monkey into office if he wanted to. And the monkey would do a better job. He might even win a second term, unlike most of the others. The whole next generation was a disgrace to a once-revered duty. Respect was a dying art.

  The ice cubes clinking in his new drink drew Crews’ attention. He frowned as he traced the lip of his glass with his finger, trying to block out the boisterous noises of the crowd grating on his nerves—the empty laughter at terrible jokes, the insincere clinking of meaningless toasts, and the annoying ringtones no one would answer. Arrogance at its finest. Times like these, he considered leaving the artificial atmosphere of politics. But then what would he do? He was the best, and still in his prime, though others begged to differ. All the insipid ilk around him were the ones who needed to reform.

  After downing two or five more drinks, Crews wanted to crawl home to bed. He may have nodded off a few times already. Looking around, he noticed the ballroom’s occupants had slowly disappeared. He checked his wrist imager and realized the time had come to meet his maker. Or rather, the maker had to meet his creation or something like that.

  When he rose from his chair, his wobbly, sixty-seven-year-old legs plunked him back down into his seat. He cursed his body for its weakness.

  A newer model servant android appear
ed at his side. “Colonel, sir, may I help you to Senator Tucker’s car?”

  He blinked at the android. “Where did you come from?”

  “I’ve been here all evening, sir.”

  The twenty-something-looking android wore a modest black suit with a glaring, but familiar red tie. The young man-droid had an Italian flair with dark, wavy hair and a strong nose. Crews wondered how they chose what androids looked like. He knew what kind of android he liked, but choices like that made people gossip.

  “Of course you have. Right where you’re supposed to be, um, Demo? Edmond?”

  “Echo, sir.”

  Crews laughed. “Echo, right. Oh, yes, Echo.” Squinting at it again, it finally dawned on the Colonel that Echo was his own personal droid. He still wasn’t used to the upgraded model. Crews wished his own body could be upgraded. Surgeries and bionic parts were merely patches and temporary fixes. Human bodies were meant to die, which was such a shame, especially in his case.

  The android brought him out of his thoughts. “Sir?”

  “Yes. Thank heaven, Echo. Where have you been?”

  “Here, against the wall behind you, sir.” Echo had the infinite patience of an emotionless droid. No eye rolls or exasperated sighs. No matter what Crews said or did, he could do no wrong in Echo’s hi-def eyes.

  “Ah, yes. Well, listen here, Echo.” Crews stood with his faithful android’s help. “Hmm. Yes. Listen here. I need to get something off my chest and you can’t repeat it… Echo.” Crews chuckled again.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Many officials had servant droids wipe their memories of certain events, especially after wild parties, so there would be no record of their unconscionable behavior. That always seemed silly to Crews. Someone else inevitably recorded their own videos, which quickly spread all over the Qnet anyway. Crews could easily accrue another million if he could develop an anti-stupid pill.

  “Speaking of stupid pill, give me a stupid sober pill, Echo.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Echo slid up his sleeve and opened a compartment in his arm, exposing a variety of pastel tablets. Choosing a mint green one, Echo handed it to the Colonel, along with a glass of water from the table, which was always full. Good droid.