Veneer (21 page)

“There shouldn’t be anything in your neck except your Guardian chip,” said Nurse Hendricks. She walked around the table and put her fingers on Rosalia’s neck. “And I doubt you would have both suffered a hemorrhage at the same time.”

“A what chip?”

Ignoring the question, she followed up with, “Why didn’t you just ask your parents about this?”

“I don’t know,” replied Rosalia, thinking of how Lynn would have simply dismissed her.

“Well, I don’t blame you for being curious. I’ve always thought they should teach this stuff before senior year.”

“What is it?”

The nurse must have detected the trepidation in her voice. “Don’t worry, it’s perfectly harmless. Actually, the name pretty much says it all. Guardians are what monitor our internal systems and keep us healthy. Think of it like an around-the-clock physician that lives in your neck. Twenty-four hours a day, she’s checking your blood pressure and examining your neuro-electrical responses for any kind of anomaly. That’s how we got your vitals on the wall, by querying your chip.” She dropped her hands and walked around the exam table again. “Do you want to see it?”

“The chip?”

“I have an imager here,” she replied, motioning to the cabinets with her head. “I can take a picture and show you what it looks like.” Her face grew serious. “It’s the only way to make sure there hasn’t been any damage.” Without waiting for a response, she crossed the room and pulled a small box from the cabinet. From inside, she withdrew a thin sheet of what looked like plastic. After removing the paper tabs, she brought it to Rosalia. “Turn a little for me, okay?”

Rosalia felt the cool film on her neck and the warmer fingers of the nurse smoothing it out. A fuzzy picture appeared on the wall, but the colors were a little off, as if someone had simply guessed what each value should be.

“Just needs a little adjusting, I think,” said Nurse Hendricks. She placed her hand on the wall and made the image sharper.

It looked like a small square, though Rosalia had trouble picking out the surrounding tissue, couldn’t find a reference point to judge its scale. It was devoid of all markings and only after the nurse pushed through the image was Rosalia able to see the pins on the opposite side. Her stomach heaved involuntarily; the idea of a piece of metal tearing into her spinal cord didn’t sit right with her.

“Quite beautiful, isn’t it? And just about the size of your pinky nail. This is the most important piece of technology that you will ever own. Things your grandparents had to worry about—heart attacks, stroke, even asthma—will never concern you. It protects you—”

“Like a guardian angel,” said Rosalia, scooting off the exam table. She moved closer at the wall, still amazed and disgusted to be looking inside herself.

“So now you know. And you can go tell your
friend
.”

“I thought it was supposed to be a secret.”

Nurse Hendricks shook her head. “Just because things aren’t common knowledge doesn’t mean they’re a secret. This is just part of growing up. There are things that are mysteries until the day they’re revealed. That’s life.” She moved closer and put her hand on Rosalia’s shoulder.

Nodding, Rosalia returned her attention to the wall. She wanted to thank the nurse for her time, but a strange pattern on the image caught her eye. It looked like little letters on the edge of the chip.

“We can zoom in if you’d like,” offered Nurse Hendricks.

“Please.”

The picture grew on the wall, but whatever occupied the corner remained illegible.

Stubbing her finger against the portal, Rosalia asked, “Can you make this clearer?”

“Huh,” said the nurse. “I never noticed that before. Yeah, I think I can do something.” Her eyebrows furrowed in concentration. “You know, most people think that nurses only have to know bio stuff, but there’s more to it. You also have to be an expert in reconciliation. Manipulating scans and x-rays and real-time imagers; that’s where the real work is. There, that’s the best I can do.”

They stared at the picture for a moment, each trying to sound out the barely legible word.

Finally, as if sensing competition, the nurse blurted out, “Vinestead!”

“Vinestead,” repeated Rosalia, picking the copyright symbol out of the jumble. “Never heard of them.”

26 - Russo

So much blood.

Just the sight of it pooling in the bathroom sink was enough to make Russo’s stomach turn. He’d seen blood before—there was more than enough flying around when he kicked the shit out of Deron—but this was different. This was
his
blood collecting around the drain.

Above the sink, a portal reflected Russo’s image back to him, providing no indication that he was even injured. His veneer still sported the all-back camouflage, making him blend in with the shadows. He could see his features, but none of the wounds that he knew to be there were visible. Little red drops fell from his chin, appearing suddenly just beyond his skin.

There was the issue of seeing the truth beneath the veneer, something he assumed doctors could do since they were the ones treating reconciled bodies on a daily basis. Or is it something else, he wondered, bringing his fingers to his face. He moved them gingerly over his lips, over his wet nose, and to his left side where an impressive mound had formed next to his eye. It felt like a large blister that had cracked at the top, the skin stretched so tightly that it had no choice but to bleed. Russo couldn’t see under his own veneer, but he could bring the cuts and bruises to the next level. With another pass, he traced along his face and as his fingers moved, they left behind color: reds, purples, and blacks. Within seconds, the consequences of his violent nature became apparent.

Russo found a box of assorted bandages in the cabinet beneath the sink and dumped them out on the counter. His left arm was trashed; the only skill it retained was the ability to feel pain, crying out every time he tried to move it. Doing everything one-handed was a challenge, but he managed to fill the sink with paper pull-tabs.

Looking at himself in the portal, he laughed at how ridiculous he looked with all the white strips on his face. The mild convulsions sent a spasm down his back, crumbling his entire body in place. It was as if an invisible hand had closed its fingers around his spine and squeezed in anger. Just when he thought he would lose it completely, the sensation subsided and he found he had only fallen a few inches, saved by his good hand on the counter. It would be days before he would be able to move freely, a fate he accepted willingly. After all, he wasn’t Deron; a little fight with a bigger opponent wasn’t enough to send him to the hospital.

Satisfied with his work, Russo returned to the living room where he sat down on the cushy couch and crossed one leg over the other. His palette glowed on a throw pillow next to him, flashing text and images as it scoured the network for information about Seers. The term itself appeared several times, but not in the context he needed. A lack of results made him nervous; it meant either he was crazy or the conspiracy went deeper than he realized. Eric could have been withholding the truth, not just to be a dick, but because his life depended on it. That kind of information couldn’t get out into the world. If people knew...

A short trill got his attention, made him pull the palette into his lap to investigate. Someone had sent him an archive of images with a note that read
thought you should see these
. Examining them one by one, Russo felt the numbness of his arm spread to his entire body. Someone had rewritten history in the form of obviously fabricated veneers. The idea that anyone had seen him settle his score with Deron was laughable, yet there it was, with a crappy grain filter to make it seem more authentic.

“Fucking Rosalia.” He tossed the palette aside and stood up. At the window, he looked out over Easton, at all of the veneers that were no more real than the bullshit on his palette. The propaganda would work, of course. People had given up their right to question what they saw. Believing was seeing, but it worked just as well the other way around. So maybe it wasn’t enough to get the uniforms to do anything about it, but it would get people talking. He punched the wall next to the window and received a painful reminder about the state of his injuries.

When was Rosalia going to learn not to mess with him, that any attempt to hurt him would be met with such a disproportional response that even Russo would have trouble explaining it? Deron had learned that lesson well; now it was time to teach Rosalia. Maybe a few weeks in a coma would do her some good. At that, he laughed, again felt the pain, again scowled in discomfort. He hung his head in frustration. The truth of it was that he needed to put his old life behind him. Focus on the goal, he told himself.

“Something bothering you?” slurred a voice from the corner of the room.

Russo pointed angrily without looking up. “I don’t want to hear a fucking word from you unless it’s about veneers.”

“Veneers are the byproduct of reconciliation, a decorative façade that can be applied to any surface that can be accessed physically.”

He had broken his nose, Russo reminded himself. That’s why he couldn’t gag him, since every time he tried to breathe through his nose he either started choking or blew out a bloody snot bubble.

It was a shame; silence would have helped him think.

“I remember when I was your age, Russo. I wrecked my dad’s car. So he—”

Crossing the room quickly, Russo jumped into the man’s lap, leading with his knee. Ignoring the spray of blood, he grabbed his captive with one hand and pulled his head forward.

“Listen to me,” he growled. “The more you talk, the closer you get to bleeding out. Is that what you want? Should I just do you now? Are you too fucking stupid to save your own life?”

He broke off, crossed the room to the serving bar that separated the living room from the kitchen. An assortment of knives had been laid out, all part of an intimidation attempt that hadn’t produced any results. The whole night had been like that, Russo realized. Beating Agent Tavarez to a pulp had only made it possible to subdue him. Getting information out of him remained a challenge.

Russo took a deep breath. “Maybe I’ve made a mistake,” he said, using his good arm to lift the other onto the counter. He fingered the handle of a carving knife.

“You think?”

“We all make mistakes,” Russo continued. “That uniform made a mistake taking me in just for hanging around a building no one was using. You made a mistake by identifying me without pretending to use some kind of device. Do you realize all of this could have been avoided with a camera and a slick veneer? Just hold it up when you do whatever you do and people won’t suspect. Then, you let me leave with that information. You let me follow you home. Which leads us to now.”

Russo turned with a flourish and tried to spread his arms. In his right hand, the carving knife dangled menacingly.

“And what was
your
mistake?” asked the agent. “Stalking? Assault? Attempted murder?”

“I haven’t
attempted
anything yet,” interrupted Russo. He was tired of hearing his crimes read back to him. The list was far longer than Eric knew and nothing he had done in the last twenty-four hours even made it into the top ten of his evil deeds. Killing would be a first, but the agent didn’t need to know that. Russo let the tension build before saying, “This is where you beg for your life.”

The fucker actually laughed. “I’m not begging shit from you.”

Behind his veneer, Russo smiled. From the moment he first met Agent Eric Tavarez, to the conversation in the lobby, to the violent struggle in his doorway, he had never heard the man curse. It was part of his programming, that politically correct way of talking, trying to make himself seem impartial and above emotion. But now he was breaking down, becoming sloppy and desperate. The smile bubbled up. He was becoming human.

“Hello, Eric,” said Russo. There was recognition in the man’s face; he knew he was slipping. “I don’t know if you’ve been following along, but I’m trying to get some information out of you. You can see through veneers. I want you to teach me that magic.”

“Magic,” repeated Eric, chuckling again. “You fucking idiot.”

Russo approached his victim and spoke in a child’s voice. “Oh yes, I’m the idiot. Just a dumb motherfucker with a knife in my hand. And you’re just a glorified uniform with a death wish. I guess that’s why I’m giving you one last chance to tell me your secrets. But I’m so stupid that the only thing I can think now is that the magic isn’t with
you
. I think it’s in your eyes.” He leaned over, his face near Eric’s. “Are those special eyes?”

“Only to me,” said Eric, his voice shaky. Finally, he was afraid.

“Only to you? Well, you know what’s special to me? Magic. So how about you give me the magic and I let you keep your eyes?”

“If you kill me, you’ll never find out.”

Retreating, Russo raised an eyebrow. “Is that so? So I won’t find your contact list on your phone? Your portal won’t have any info about who you work with? Their names? Where they live?”

“I should have put you down.”

“Yes, you should have.” He pointed the knife at Eric’s face. “Last chance.”

Eric’s head dipped and he spoke into his chest. “You’re headed somewhere that you’re not gonna like, Russo. And it’s not gonna be anyone’s fault but your own. You will have cheated your way to a place that you can’t come back from.” Looking up, his eyes barely open, he added, “If you make it there, don’t forget I tried to save you.”

“I don’t want salvation!” yelled Russo, switching his grip on the knife. “I want your fucking sight!”

The veneer over Eric’s eyes held only for a moment; there was simply too much blood to contain.

27 - Deron

Fifth and Navasota met at the southeast corner of One-Zero plaza, an expansive memorial site comprised of decorative gardens and a single, dominating spire in the center. Its silver veneer simulated the reflected light of the sun at any angle. Flanking it were two conic sails that appeared to billow even when the wind was calm. It was along the base of the memorial that Deron found the next set of markings, another in a series of addresses for him to pursue. Some were within walking distance; others required the use of the trams, like the one that had brought him all the way south to Vargas and Freight Lane, just a mile away from the outer wall of Easton.