Versim (12 page)

Binda looked away from Krista, unsure where this was headed. She wanted a moment to think. She threaded her way across the room, deftly stepping between Frankie’s legs. He now lay catatonic, smiling like a man in some delicious heaven. Hark groaned once on the bed. And there was a strange bleedover inspector talking about what was supposed to have been a private part of her application.

Krista moved to a table in the corner and poured herself a glass of water. “Unknown Binda Avey applies for Rend-V immersion employment. You’ve already registered as a paying customer, if nothing comes your way. But you try. Your credentials are in order. Your genoscript is captured. You’re ready for full immersion and a biovat. Your big day arrives, and what happens?”

Binda remembered the brief scenario as if it happened yesterday. She stood on a ledge, high atop a skyscraper hive tower. This was in a real-world contemporary setting. She stood in a high wind, at the top of an arcology wing that connected to major portions of the superstructure. The day was overcast, gray mist blocking her view to the bottom. The drop had to be a thousand feet. A catwalk crossed the space. On the other side an old woman huddled. She guessed the woman was a construct, but that didn’t matter. They wanted to see her cross. And she did.
 

“You didn’t get a principal role, but you were impressive,” Krista said. “Showed real heart. I’m not sure I could have.”

“You gave me this chance because I took those steps?”

Krista grinned. “Pretty much. That showed you’re willing to perform, which will make all this easier on you if things go the way I think.” Krista walked over to Frankie. She knelt. “Frankie here. See, he’s a constructed person. Not like you and me. He was inserted in this Rend-V a fully grown adult with false memories of his childhood. In fact, when we scooped him up to help Hark, we spent alot of money for a solid backstory. But he’s a nice guy. Isn’t he?” Krista faced Binda.

“Nice enough,” Binda replied. She watched the woman staring at her. This was about the personhood debate. Constructs took the sharp end the stick all the time. Sacrificed. “You an advocate for constructs?”

“Oh, yes, I am. But my brother tends to think a regular human being like you and me … that we have more worth.”

“I can understand that.”

“Of course, but you don’t like seeing a Rend-V end, do you?”

“All the constructs just disappear,” Binda said. “It’s sad.”

“That they do:
disappear
. And yes it is.”

“And you want me to do what?”

“I want you to do whatever is required to safeguard the integrity of this V.”

“I do that, and I get to stay in this role?”

“That’s right.”

“Deal.”

“I thought so.”

Krista stood. “And Binda. There are over sixteen million constructs in this Rend-V. Of course, most of those are cookie cutters. But, nearly two-hundred thousands have some form of lived history. They live and laugh. They create art and philosophy and science. They … are valuable. And this Rend-V has been running for twenty years. That’s twenty years of real lived experience.”

Binda saw a fire in the woman’s eyes and felt goosebumps ripple along her arms. She recognized the timber of a zealot. This woman was a bleedover Spinner, for sure.
 

She unconsciously moved away, the backs of her knees hitting the bed. “Are you … a—”

“—bleedover collector? You can say that.” Krista moved in close. “I’m more than that, Ms. Avey. And as your patron, I need you to perform.”

Binda nodded. “I will.”

“Good.” Krista moved even closer, now almost nose-to-nose, as if she might place a kiss on Binda’s lips. “Play the part you’re intended when the time comes.” Hark groaned again and shifted his weight. “I have to go, but I’ll be back.”

“You’re illegal?”

“Of course.”

Krista disappeared as if she’d never been there. One second she was present. The next she was not.

“That is so cool: a real Rend-V jumper.” Binda reached into thin air where Krista had stood. The pleasant tangerine aroma of her perfume still lingered.

18

Hark woke up with his bottom lip stuck to the bed sheet. He wiped away the dried spit that had acted like glue. The room was dark. He heard Frankie snoring on the floor. He sensed another presence in the room, thinking it was Binda. Then he realized the person was sitting in the only chair in the room.
Who the …?

“It’s Tripp.”

“Oh, hey,” Hark said, trying to focus. “When’d you get here?”

“Been waiting an hour or so. Krista’s been, and already left. She’s running, Binda, as you know. Said it was okay to tell you at this point. Binda’s game. I can see Frankie’s game. Looks like you woke him up already. He taking it hard?”

“What time is it?”

“Late. The ladies are already asleep.”

“You jumped in?”

“Smack dab in the room. Our host is good.”

“Obviously.”

“You still hurt?” Tripp asked.

“Everything’s down. Repairing me bit by bit.”

“I saw the fight. You were about to get a whooping.”

“All part of the plan. He came at me with ninety five percent in that twined attack. Punched right through my carapace and my armor—”

“—and depleted his own reserves.”

“I tied him up … and …”

“I saw. He sneaked an exit, Hark. Ran with his tail between his legs.”

“Smart move. I can notch that up as a win. He’ll have to swallow it. What’s the news?”

“Krista said you were still out when she got here. Was wondering if the full memory dump had happened. Asked me to check on you in person. What do you know, so far?”

Hark tried to clear his head. It pounded as he sat up straight. He felt his chest expand as if barbs had been sown into his skin, tearing soft tissue as he moved. “I got the written message to protect Celia when I first arrived. That was you guys, right?”

“Yep. We believed they were going to kidnap the host. They sent those three thugs. We got you in just in time. Maybe a ritual execution, or something big like that. Not sure why, other than to draw you in. But you knew that and went anyway.”

“Let me work it out. I’ve been waiting for more. Got a few clues. Serial killer. Voxyprog.”

“Again, us. Letting you know what to expect.”

“Shut the heck up for a second, little brother. I hacked in and learned a few things.”

“Stupid move.”

“My head’s good. Nothing too big. But that’s all.”

As if he had never forgotten, Hark remembered the Sersavant woman asking him to awaken her mother. He remembered it happening in a restaurant. She’d cried. She was so eager, as if she knew he would have to help her, but she couldn’t have known. And on the very day he couldn’t say no.
 

“She asked me to …”

“Yeah?”

“To … heck, I have to wake Celia Preston … one way or another.”

“The host of this Rend-V.”

“The host.”

The rest of it was there. He remembered hiring their own illegal tunneler host, Garce, all the preparation for entering, his brother and sister’s intermittent jumps, the use of Frankie and Binda. Operation Hark’s A Screw Up.
 

“How do I get myself into these scrapes?”

He saw the white of Tripp’s teeth flash off the light from a digital clock glowing crimson in the corner.

“There’s more,” Tripp said. “We figured out who the daughter of our celebrity host is.”
 

Hark breathed deep, feeling his shoulders unwind. He was much better than he’d been only hours before. “Give it to me.”

“Miesha Preston.”

“The bleedover director?”

“The one and only. She snagged you, bro. She’s a certified aural psychic who got past your defenses.”

“I don’t use them, especially on that day.”

“Then you’re stupider than you look.”

“EA would know. They’re capturing all this … drama. Ten years they’ve been doing it. This is my last one until Saul is eleven and can get out of
The Borderlands
a living, human being. Just like you and me.”

“I hear you. I got no beef with him.”

“And the mother’s coming too.”

“She’s a construct, Hark. They won’t let her.”

“They said they would.”

Tripp shook his head, and even in the dark and with his night vision off, Hark could see his brother’s adamant confidence that no constructed person would be allowed to live in reality. Tripp’s job was to hunt them down and remand them back to their Rend-V worlds—which meant executing them in reality. EA would then decide to reconstitute them or not.
 

“Doesn’t matter, though,” Tripp said, “because you told your good buddy you’d keep his son safe, no matter what.”

“No matter what.”

“Here we are, then. So go start the process to ‘wake her up.’ She’s in the other room, asleep. Or why not take the other route: snap of the neck, and it’s done. Poetic, right. Either way, you wake her up in this world, only to wake her up in another.”

“Let’s go over this one more time: Krista sent me the message to protect her?”

“Of course, she wants to protect the integrity of the V. She knew the host was a target.”

“Then it’s true someone’s trying to kill Celia.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. What we know is Miesha Preston’s using you for her own reasons.”

“You need to get out of here, Tripp. It’s dangerous. If I have to kill her in-V ... ”

Tripp ignored the suggestion with a sneer. “You’ll do it, right? You’ll wake her.”

“I’ve got no choice.”

“One way or the other.”

Silence followed. His brother said nothing, but Hark could tell he was watching him. If a host was murdered in-V—if she had a real death experience—every living person riding and viewing could be irreparably damaged. Every valuable construct would be lost, as well as the other constructs who’d lived their lives as rendered persons. It would be an atrocity on an unimaginable scale.
 

But any time a Rend-V was to be terminated, a specialist was sent in for a ritual awakening of the host. It would be controlled and slow so that all principals, secondaries, riders, viewers, etc.—all paying customers who had real bodies in the real world and who had paid money for the experience, expecting to return to their original bodies one day—all of them would be safe. But, only the most valuable constructed persons would be saved, those who might have use in other Rend-Vs because of popularity or because they were just so useful. The rest of the constructs would be wiped out of existence in an instant.

Like Frankie. Like so many others made for this temporary world.

Hark could feel his hands shaking. He grabbed his knees to steady them. “If I don’t fulfill the promise I made to wake Miesha’s mother, to wake Celia, EA will shut down
The Borderlands
, and Paul’s son will die, Saul will die, even though he’s a legal person. Tripp, I got no choice.”

“I hear you, brother. No choice.” Tripp placed a package on the table. “Open it after I’m gone. Tells you who’s coming after her. It’ll be a good show. But you can handle it.” He stood. “It’s time me for me to jump out. Hark, find her triggers to wake her up the slow way, if you have to. You fulfill your promise to Miesha and your contract with EA and your duty to Paul. And everyone with a real body wakes up whole. That’s the best way. But do it fast.”

“I know. The best way,” Hark said and watched Tripp disappear as if he’d never been there. “But not the only way.”

Hark stumbled over to the light switch and flicked it on.

A simple package like they one he’d gotten when he’d immersed sat on the table. Frankie still snored on the floor, a pillow still under his head.
 

Just a constructed person, Hark thought. But he’s real enough. And I may wink out his existence.
 

Hark ripped open the package. Inside the box was a glossy black and white EA principal-character photo of Ervé Wrighter: it showed him lurking in a dark corridor, obvious menace in mind. Hark had arrested him in that role before sending him to a prison Rend-V. Ratings had soared but his cult fan base had gone ballistic their hero was placed in solitary ten miles under the surface of a fire world. Ervé seems to be smiling in the photo, as if he knew someone was taking a still shot of him.

19

Ervé Wrighter emerged in Washington Square Park underneath the Memorial Arch. He glanced at the moon, a large glowing saucer in the sky. He felt the cool night breeze and even imagined he smelled the water off the Hudson. Something about these retro Rend-Vs invigorated him. Made him feel alive, especially after the years away from the action.
 

Thank you, Miesha, for making this happen
.

He strode forward into the park. It was deserted at this late hour. He saw a couple of homeless persons curled up in the shadows beneath a row of hip-high shrubbery, one man wrapped in a dirty sleeping bag, another in black plastic. He passed them on a concrete path toward the central area dominated by a dry fountain, reminding himself to return for them later. He scanned, looking for more recruits. He would build his army here. He needed …

He saw three men not far away under a burnt-out street lamp.

Two wore hoodies. The other wore a bubble jacket, even though it wasn’t cold. This one scratched at his neck vigorously, obviously in need of a fix.
 

Ervé approached. The junkie shimmied aside, but defiantly stood his ground.

The other two sized Ervé up in an instant. One was short, skinny, with thin lines of clean facial hair that framed his jaw, looked like a Puerto Rican with an attitude. His buddy in crime could have been dirty white from south Boston, or just some kid up from the suburbs.

“Sup,” Shorty said.

“You guys want to make some money?” Ervé asked calmly.

Dirty White grinned, crossed his arms like a thug. “What you think, we drug dealers?”

“I think you look like men of potential.”

“Son,” Shorty said, stepping forward. “You want to get movin’, ‘for it gets real.”

Ervé grinned at these two insignificant sociopath constructs who had no idea who was standing in front of them. The junkie kept eyeing Ervé as if he knew his night was about to get interesting.