Veneer (16 page)

“Well, then it’s a regular fucking mystery isn’t it?” asked Russo, waving his hands in the air. He felt the urge to punch the portal, but there was no glass to shatter into a million satisfying pieces.

“Oh, I love a mystery, though I admit it takes me longer to figure them out these days. Maybe I could help you?”

“Whatever,” said Russo. He reconciled a portal next to the directory and did some basic math. Thirty floors with six apartments each. How much time would it take to knock on all those doors? And that was assuming the agent even lived in one of them. He could have given Russo the slip out the back.

“Let’s see. A man goes into a room. A boy follows him. When the boy gets there, the man is gone.”

Russo sneered at being referred to as a boy.

“If you follow a man into a room and the man is no longer in the room, logic suggests that the man has left the room. Now, the man could have exited through one of the four elevators, which all go to the same floors, so there’s no real difference between them. Or he could have gone out the back door towards the gym. Except that the gym is closed.”

“Will you shut the hell up?”

“The real mystery comes from the addition of a third party, namely myself, who has been seated at this couch for the better part of an hour and has witnessed the comings and goings of six individuals, but none within the last half hour.”

Russo wondered why the directory wasn’t like the faculty directory at school that had pictures accompanying the names.

“The problem with logic puzzles is that to properly deduce a solution, you must be in full possession of the facts. If no solution can be derived, you should go back and examine your theorems and see if any of them can be challenged.”

Behind him, Russo heard the rustling of a paper bag. He turned slowly to see the old man pull a sandwich from it.

“You cannot trust what you see,” he said, preaching. “In fact, you should not trust any of your senses at all. You followed a man into a room. When you entered, there was a man, but not the man you were following. You assumed this because when you looked at the man, he appeared differently. But even someone of your age knows how easily veneers can be applied.” The white film slipped from his eyes. “And removed.”

The whole veneer dropped and then it was Agent Eric Tavarez sitting on the couch enjoying a sandwich, his eyes delighting in the lesson he was teaching Russo.

“Why are you following me, Russo Rivera?”

Russo hesitated, crossed his arms reflexively to build his defenses. He was once again staring into those piercing eyes, feeling like he was being torn open. “How do you know my name?”

“I remember your case. Trespassing, right?”

“Something like that.”

“I was expecting to see you again now that Deron Bishop has recovered, though admittedly, not at my residence.”

Russo swallowed hard.

“Oh,” said Eric, smiling, “news to you? Well, you can take solace in the rote procedure of the Easton bureaucracy. They won’t bring charges against you on rumor alone.”

“I...”

“Of course you didn’t. Stick to that until your trial. Now, I would say that you’ve come to exact revenge for me identifying you, except if I recall, you got off light for your misdemeanor. So, that said, why are you here?”

Although Eric’s attitude grated on him, Russo understood exactly where it was coming from. The agent operated from a position of power, a position he gained by having knowledge that Russo didn’t. Where he had learned the power was irrelevant; taking it from Eric would be Russo’s shortest path.

“I want to see like you.”

“I’m not sure I follow,” said the agent, his voice full of deceit.

“You can see me, can’t you? It doesn’t matter what I reconcile, you can see the real me.”

“That would be a useful magic to have,” admitted Eric. He stood abruptly. “I can
see
why you’d be so anxious. If I were in your shoes, I would be curious too.”

“I want you to teach it to me.”

Eric laughed, approached the elevator, and hit the call button. “Even if there were anything to teach, I doubt you would have the discipline to learn it. You tracked me through a crowd, which I admit is impressive. But your soul,” he said, motioning to Russo’s chest, “is just not evolved enough for that kind of power. And I don’t need any magic to see that.”

“Just tell me how!”

From within the elevator, Eric shrugged. “Apply yourself. Graduate high school and college. Stop trespassing and assaulting people. In short, be exactly like you aren’t. Maybe in ten years or so, after you prove yourself a good beat cop, I’ll consider taking you on my team.” He raised a warning finger as the doors closed. “But you need to be spotless from here on out.”

Ten years, thought Russo.

Fuck that.

Above the elevator doors, a dormant portal began displaying numbers, incrementing before finally stopping on twelve.

Big condos in a small footprint, only six apartments per floor.

Russo smirked, waited the requisite five minutes, and pressed the call button.

19 - Sebo

It was only a few minutes before the cold drove Sebo and Deron back to Paramel Terminus. The flashy graphics of the Chinese eateries on the south end of town would just have to wait until next time. It wasn’t such a terrible fate; the transit station was home to many convenience shops and food kiosks that could whip up an eighty percent approximation of whatever meal they desired. The concessions comprised a neat row on one side of the holding pen where Sebo sat with one leg crossed over the other and arms folded in an attempt to warm his body. His eyes were on the large portal above the security gates showing the arrival and departure of various trains and busses. One line was for Easton, with a departure time of eleven-thirty.

On one side of the veneer, Sebo was happy to be out of a cold that had turned frigid while they were playing Swarm Survivor. On the other, it felt like a waste to come all the way to Paramel and not spend every moment of it in a sim parlor or at one of the many adult-themed sensory shops. There was one store in particular that he enjoyed, a place called Natural Designs that sold full-wall veneers that at the right angle looked three-dimensional. The illusion made the viewer think that the room extended further into the wall and the extra area just so happened to contain a young woman suffering from Agora- and Vestiphobia. She would sit at her desk or watch television or sometimes even just stand in front of the wall as if there were an invisible mirror between her and the viewer. But like all great advances in pornography, it cost over four grand, leaving Sebo with no option but to wait until it went on sale.

Browsing the local shops was also a great way to avoid The Shakes. It kept the body moving and the eye processing data, activity that was important if he wanted to stave off the inevitable backlash against the drop in sensory input. Whether it was blended reality or full immersion, simulations had a way of over-stimulating the brain, feeding it so much data so quickly that when it stopped, it caused an involuntary panic in the player. Sebo could already feel his fingers twitching under his arms and the more they shook, the harder he pressed down on them. Food would have helped, but a quick glance showed the lines were already too long. The discomfort would have passed by the time he got back to his seat.

Deron didn’t seem to have any problems with sensory withdrawal, though he had lapsed into a pensive mood again. He was holding a slice of pizza and studying it as if it were a work of art instead of a greasy amalgamation of dough and synthetic cheese. Or maybe that was how Deron dealt with the aftereffects, by withdrawing from the world, closing up shop for a short time while he mourned the loss of data. Sebo watched him for a few minutes until the spell finally broke and Deron took a bite of his slice. He chewed thoughtfully.

“Is it good?” asked Sebo.

“It’s not Kung Pao chicken,” said Deron, taking another bite. He used his napkin to wipe the sides of his mouth. “But what is?” he mused.

“I suppose it would be the intersection of two sets: chicken and the Kung Pao preparation style. Just like how pizza is the intersection of pepperoni, cheese, tomato—”

“And ovens.”

Sebo nodded. “And ovens, yeah.” He pulled his hand out and examined it; the tips still trembled, so he shoved it under his armpit again. “It makes me wonder if simulations are ultimately bad for the human brain.”

“Huh?”

“The Shakes,” said Sebo, squeezing his arm. “What is it that makes simulations more intense than the video games we play on our portals? And why don’t we play those anymore? Do you remember Carnage?”

Deron scrunched his eyes in recollection. “Is that the one where you run over people for points?”

“That was one option. But what was so engaging about the game was that its race track was in an open world. You could race, you could run over pedestrians, or you could spend the whole time knocking out your opponents.” Cartoony explosions of rocket-propelled grenades striking other drivers flashed in his head.

“Which did you do?”

“Neither,” replied Sebo, thinking of the time he had spent in that virtual world and the lack of any meaningful progress. “What I enjoyed most was putting on some music and just driving for hours, you know, exploring.”

“Sounds boring.” Deron took another bite, again chewing it with gusto.

“You would think so, but I liked it. I’m not sure how to describe it, but it was just me, sitting at my desk, driving a little car around in my portal. There was a whole world for me to explore and that’s all.” He paused, remembered the nights, the music, and the empty energy drinks piling up on his desk. Touring the unknown land made him feel like an explorer, a pioneer, but it came with loneliness, a suffocating isolation. He shuddered involuntarily.

“I used to play Arms Race,” said Deron, looking up.

Sebo followed his gaze, examined the shifting veneer on the ceiling of the station. It had three sections, each with a vaulted inner rectangle that held the dizzying array of reconciled images. Above the entrance and kiosks, flashy advertisements exalted the latest advances in fast food technology and directed tourists to the sim parlors and boutiques within walking distance. Directly overhead, a serene collection of borderless portals showed clips from movies and television shows and even bits of gameplay, anything to distract the waiting crowd below. Above the gate to Easton, Sebo could just make out the almost full moon icon and a temperature that read somewhere in the fifties.

“I liked how at the beginning, you started off weak,” continued Deron, reminiscing. “You had to gather resources to build up an army and research new weapons. But the enemy kept attacking and it felt like you’d just keep doing it over and over.” He swallowed, cleared his throat. “But then you reach critical mass. You have enough resources to build an army and suddenly you don’t care how much is coming in, because no matter how much you spend, you can’t spend it all. Then the tables turn. You invade and conquer the map. And that’s the way it always goes. At some point, you just overwhelm your enemy.”

Sebo smiled to himself. “Are you building an arsenal of resources?”

“I’m amassing wealth.”

“To what end?”

“Annihilation?”

“Of what enemy?”

Deron turned his head and grinned. “All of them.”

A polite nod was all that Sebo could muster. One of the public service announcements that ran in homeroom replayed in his head, the one about troubled teens and their potential for mass murder. Deron didn’t seem capable of killing though. It was only in video games that he unleashed his violent side and even then, his ferocity paled in comparison to what Sebo could summon. For that matter, Deron didn’t have any enemies save one and any kind of retaliatory strike against Russo would be well-warranted.

“It’s dark in here,” said Deron, after a while. He put the grease-stained pizza box on the seat next to him and wiped his mouth.

“No it’s not,” replied Sebo, acutely aware of the ubiquity of veneers, how their light stung from every angle. If anything, it was too much, too overpowering for a night that was winding down. He glanced at the portal over the gates. The departure time for Easton had begun to flash. “Come on,” he said, standing up. “Or you won’t get a window seat.”

Security in Paramel was as stringent as that in Easton, but at least they had the good sense to pat them down before they got on the bus. Once Sebo and Deron had made it through the gauntlet of metal detectors and beeping wands, they found two seats near the back of the bus and sat down, Deron next to the window. The veneered glass showed an advertisement for a new condo development just off the main thoroughfare. Sebo shook his head and reached for the window, reconciling the ad into a dull gray that was comforting in its simplicity.

“Advertisements are the bane of my existence,” Sebo said, growling. “When I become mayor of Easton, the first thing I’m going to do is outlaw most advertising. Everything will have to be static text, one or two photos of whatever you’re shilling, but that’s it. No voiceovers, no ambient aromas, nothing. It’s assault is what it is.”

“She’s kind of cute,” said Deron, stubbing his finger on the window.

Sebo’s response got stuck in his throat as the bus started to hum. He tried to look where Deron was pointing, but only saw the gray anti-veneer. As the bus rolled forward, he watched his friend’s head turn to the left. “What are you looking at?”

“The girl on the other bus. She reminds me of Rosalia, except her chin was bigger.” He touched his own face. “Is that right?”

“Is
what
right?”

“Is that the right way to describe her?”

“Who are we talking about?”

Deron didn’t seem to register the frustration in Sebo’s voice. “I’ve heard people say that chins are sharper.”

Sebo sighed and sat back in his chair. The button on his armrest let him recline, but not enough to get comfortable. He closed his eyes and tried to ignore the ramblings coming from the seat next to him. Deron never knew when to quit, but that was what made him interesting. There was not just wonder in the world, but in people as well. Sebo didn’t know which he would come to understand first, or if such breakthroughs were even possible.