The Last Tourist
Maya pressed her palm against the reinforced glass of her apartment window, watching the city sprawl endlessly below. At thirty-seven, she had never crossed a border. Like ninety-seven percent of the global population, her world existed within the confines of her designated zone—a realm bounded not by natural barriers, but by algorithms that calculated her worth down to the last decimal point.
In the museum district, behind layers of security that rivaled ancient treasures, sat the Travel Memorial. Maya had visited it once as a child, staring in wonder at the artifacts of a bygone era: faded boarding passes, worn passports with colorful stamps, and photographs of ordinary people standing before monuments that now existed only in restricted archives. The museum's centerpiece was a life-sized hologram of what they called "The Last Tourist"—a middle-aged teacher from 2034 who had used her life savings for one final trip to Paris before the Great Closing.
That was forty years ago, when the Global Security Directive transformed travel from a human right into the ultimate luxury. The official narrative spoke of resource conservation, population management, and security protocols. But everyone understood the truth: mobility had become the final frontier of inequality.
The VIP passes were legendary, whispered about in coffee shops and shared housing blocks like myths from another world. Crafted from quantum-encrypted biometric technology, each pass cost more than most people earned in a lifetime. They weren't sold—they were inherited, gifted between the dynasties that ruled from their climate-controlled towers above the clouds.
Brandon worked in data processing for the Global Movement Authority, his days spent cataloging applications that would never be approved. He knew the statistics by heart: 847 VIP passes existed worldwide. Their holders were the descendants of tech moguls, oil barons, and political dynasties—bloodlines that had consolidated power long before the borders became digital cages.
Sometimes, late at night, he would access the restricted travel feeds. Through state-sanctioned broadcasts, he watched the Chosen Ones as they called themselves, gliding through Venice in private gondolas or dining in Tokyo's last authentic restaurants. Their faces held an expression he struggled to understand—a casual indifference to wonders that billions could only dream about.
The cruel irony wasn't lost on him. Technology had made virtual travel possible for everyone; neural interfaces could simulate the sensation of sand between your toes or the scent of foreign spices. But the human soul, it seemed, still yearned for the authentic—for the unpredictable encounter with otherness that only physical presence could provide.
In his apartment, Brandon kept a contraband collection: a seashell his grandmother claimed came from a distant shore, a pressed flower allegedly from the Swiss Alps, and a small vial of sand that might once have been Egyptian. These relics, if discovered, would cost him everything. But they were his rebellion against a world that had monetized wonder itself.
He often wondered what would happen if the borders fell, if the barriers dissolved overnight. Would humanity remember how to wander? Or had they forgotten that travel was never about the destination—it was about the journey that transforms the traveler?
Outside his window, a drone marked with the VIP courier insignia glided toward the executive towers. Somewhere above the clouds, another member of the elite was preparing for their next excursion to corners of the earth that existed now only in memory and privilege.
Brandon closed his eyes and tried to imagine what it felt like to be free.
NEAL LLOYD
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Galleries of Neal Lloyd - Chimp Magnet Trillionaire Club
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