by Tara Tyler
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© 2015 Tara Tyler
http://taratylertalks.blogspot.com
Cover by Eugene Teplitsky
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ISBN 978-1-62007-949-2 (ebook)
ISBN 978-1-62007-950-8 (paperback)
ISBN 978-1-62007-951-5 (hardcover)
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To Christopher,
my inspirational nephew who requested a sequel.
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 b
allroom’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 appeared 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.
Crews sneered at the nasty little thing and shivered as he readied himself for the intense hangover that would slam into his brain like a sledgehammer. The sober pill didn’t erase the effects of alcohol; it just sped up the process, eradicating the foul liquid and its ramifications in ten minutes or so, depending on consumption. He held his nose and swallowed it down.
Anticipating the onslaught of agony, Crews diverted himself by continuing his previous thoughts on upgrades.
“Well now, Echo, listen and listen good.”
“Yes, sir.”
He leaned on the droid, who guided him toward the rear of the ballroom while the cleanup crew herded the remaining live-animated guests out the front doors. The Colonel and Echo exited through a back door into a long, empty hallway. While they walked, Crews pointed at the ceiling and blurted out his revelation.
“I’m going to live forever.”
Echo gave no reaction. The android was more concerned with his master’s well-being, as he should be. Focusing on keeping the Colonel upright, Echo guided him along as the effects of the sober pill started to take hold of the elder man’s faculties. Crews’ head pulsed and throbbed with increasing intensity. He opened and closed his mouth, running his tongue across the roof of it to keep from sticking as his saliva turned into paste.
“Would you like some water, sir?” Echo offered the Colonel a bottle, always prepared.
Crews didn’t bother to thank him. He snatched the bottle and drank it down as if he’d been in the desert for weeks. He breathed a little easier, then elaborated on his intentions.
“Now I know people pontificate putting off the inevitability of death as the years progress, doing drastic things to their frail bodies, which always decay and die in the end anyway. What I need is a new, young body to put my virile mind into. Then I could be my own political prospect.”
The chuckle at his witticism turned into a cringe as a wave of pain crashed above his right ear. He squinted at the blurry exit door a few feet ahead. But the first strike was followed by more as the sharpness returned like blows from a hammer. The lights burned brighter, hurting his eyes, and each shuffle of his feet, each brush of fabric from the tiniest movement blasted in his ears. He also had an urgent need to see a man about a horse. But he fought it all back. He plowed ahead, as all the discomfort reminded him he still had a foul meeting to sit through. He could not show weakness.
Pausing at a side table in the hallway, he steadied himself to let the sharpest stabs pass. As his head cleared and the pounding receded, his thoughts became more logical. He remembered the insane drivel he had just uttered to his recording device companion about planning to live forever. If that absurdity got out, Crews would be a laughing stock. He grabbed Echo’s tie to stop the droid from opening the door.
It paused and looked at him. “Sir?”
“Scan the area for webcams and recording devices.”
“Yes, sir.” It took the android less than a moment. “There is one security camera at the door above. It is internal-only and has no audio, sir.”
Crews released his desperate grip. Darn the vile, mind-altering alcohol. “Good. Put that conversation into a secure data file at the house with the others. Then erase it from your short-term memory, understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
Though he wasn’t fully recovered, Crews needed closure. He pushed through the exit door and saw Jonas’ black Plexiglas limo parked just outside with the driver standing by, waiting to let the Colonel in.
To appear intoxicated, Crews shouted at Echo over his shoulder and stumbled on purpose as he walked away from the hotel door, straightening his jacket, “I don’t need any help. I’m perfectly fine. And don’t ever try to help me again!” Crews winked back at Echo, negating his last statement.
“Yes, sir.”
The driver shook his head at Crews and opened the passenger door. He was definitely human.
Keeping up his façade, Crews smiled like an idiot and peeked inside before getting in.
“There’s my favorite son.”
But his efforts flew away on the breeze, wasted. Jonas sat focused on his Qnet Viewer, whispering dirty nothings to the hologram of a shapely female bust hovering over his wrist.
Of course. Crews’ smile turned into a scowl.
Jonas held up his finger for Crews to wait a minute. That audacious fool thought himself a big shot making Crews stand in line for an audience with him.
Taking a seat across from Jonas, Crews wondered if he would survive the ride home without puking on the little punk. His mind felt completely sober now. The pain and cloudiness ebbed substantially. The time had come to conclude their business.
“Shut your QV and let’s talk.”
As the car pulled away, Jonas blinked at the Colonel’s sudden commanding and fluent bark. “I’ll have to call you back,” he said to the image and disconnected, shutting his QV with a light tap. Leaning back, he raised an eyebrow and judged the Colonel’s condition. He grinned his annoying grin.
“Right. Business. You never were one to waste time.”
“I’m still not.” Ingrate.
Waiting for Jonas to find the pluck to begin his speech, Crews considered all the events in his life that led him to this point, sitting in a plastic limo with a snot-nosed bureaucrat he produced. Flashes of Crews’ decorated military career and celebrated political achievements streamed th
rough his consciousness in the moments before his unjust crucifixion.
Jonas leaned forward and clasped his hands together, reminding Crews of a team manager sending a lame duck back to the minors. After a deep breath, the boy began.
“Colonel. Crews. You’ve been a valuable leader throughout my campaign…”
And there it was. Tuning out Jonas’ words, Crews stared into those narrow-minded blue eyes. The Colonel taught Jonas how to intimidate with a cold stare, and he felt its power. But Crews would not succumb nor cower to Jonas. He still held a few aces he hadn’t shared with his pupil.
As Jonas rambled, the Colonel’s thoughts wandered again to what he might do next. He would easily outlive this naïve novice’s career, but thinking of future prospects prickled his spine. He’d predicted this scenario. And though he’d seen it coming for weeks, this time he’d done nothing about it. He was tired of rummaging through the ignorant, impudent political hopefuls.
Retirement was not an option either. The world still needed his influence and guidance. If only he could find a young soul with an ounce of respect and a pound of sense. Crews didn’t have the stomach to play out another scene like this one.
“… and so, I’m afraid you won’t fit into our new direction.” As Jonas finished his speech, he wore a pitiful, patronizing pout. The sympathetic expression drove him mad, worse than the boy’s overconfident smile.
Crews wanted an electrogun to zap the boy’s head off.
“Pull over.”
“But Crews…”
“Pull. Over.” The Colonel’s glare, the original intimidator, beat Jonas’ ten to one and took no arguments.
“Are you sure? We’re still downtown.”
The Colonel responded in a low, guttural voice, growling from his clenched teeth like a mean junkyard dog, “I know where we are and I know where I’m going. Pull over the confounded car, right now.”
The fear that jumped into the young man’s eyes comforted Crews. Jonas had crossed the wrong old man.
The boy touched his armrest. “Stop the car.”
Before the driver could reach the door, Crews stumbled out. Apparently, his body hadn’t quite caught up to his brain for sober yet. No matter.
