[ID]entity

by PJ Manney

  Veronika volunteered to escort Tom’s human body to Venice, California, to find Essensse Labs. They advertised hormonal dampers for just the problems Tom was encountering with his teenaged hormones, and he wanted to test-drive the product. Essensse also made the v10 brain-jack system that Veronika wouldn’t use yet, but she was still curious to meet them and see the goods. Unfortunately, Essensse suffered collateral damage when Peter Bernhardt and Thomas Paine’s message went wide. The public didn’t realize that Essensse’s products underwent strict and lengthy experimentation, unlike Paine’s brain-computer interfaces used prematurely to defeat his enemies.

  Essensse wasn’t the only one flying under Silicon Beach’s tech radar. The entire industry was in shambles. With currencies fluctuating and people distrustful of both technology and money, the economy wound down, and many couldn’t afford the new toys that the tech companies had to offer.

  Tom wanted to test his body in a real-world setting, so with apprehension, he dove into the freaky maelstrom of a warm-weather Sunday on the Venice Ocean Front Walk, a.k.a. the Boardwalk. Veronika joked that it would be the ultimate test of sensory coordination. And she was right. In a world with little money, the real-life sideshow was free for locals and tourists alike.

  Thousands of people darted in all directions on the concrete walkway, stopping short right in front of him, almost running him over on flyboards, stilts, and cycles with any number of wheels. Vendors hawked body modification, costumes, psychic readings, fine art of every type, religious conversion, found-object sculptures, spiritual jewelry, wind chimes, mind-altering substances. Sartorial/cosplay/body-mod eccentrics posed for photos. Musicians played every instrument under the sun. The largest homeless population in North America asked for money no one had. Above their heads flew LEO drones and homemade flying machines that looked like hot-air balloons, bats, or angels, designed by artists that merged tech and aesthetic genius.

  Tom looked up. Squatters crowded in bivouacs hanging from the sides of taller buildings. Tent cities lined the roofs. Out past the waterline, near-to-shore seasteads offered housing, 24/7/365 parties, and quasi-legal substances. With no more Feds, California had passed drug decriminalization. And as it had in Portugal and the Netherlands, so far, it was working here.

  Tom had to navigate both the gripping feel of sneakers on pavement and the shifting sand. He gauged his body’s temperature control. He assessed potential friends and foes around him, including numerous drones: law enforcement drones, kiddie-starter drones, hobby drones, advert-drones. Negotiating the world as a fully functioning human body was more complex than the throngs of people around him gave themselves credit for. How automatic a human could be when he wasn’t a big, buff, nineteen-year-old who had just learned to walk.

  They passed a panhandler with a ratty cardboard sign. In faded marker, it read: Fuck Thomas Paine—Give me a dollar. Tom shook his head.

  “Whaddaya think?” asked Veronika, gesturing to the crowd.

  “Weird. When I was living in Malibu and fighting the club, I only passed through Venice on my way. But this feels really familiar.”

  Veronika’s lips curled knowingly.

  The side of a building at the corner of Windward Avenue and Ocean Park Walk caught his attention. Painted by Rip Cronk, its mural was called Venus Kinesis. Modeled after Sandro Botticelli’s The Birth of Venus, it depicted the longhaired goddess of love, roller-skating along the Boardwalk in a teeny camisole, short-shorts, and leg warmers. She was surrounded by the winds, angels, flying skateboards, gondoliers, chainsaws, dumbbells, artworks, as well as full-length portraits of real locals recorded for posterity. Its sun-soaked Venetian paradise seemed oddly familiar, yet things had changed, time had passed, and a new Venice had transformed under her skates. In the background of the mural, a self-referential and recursive image of the same mural was painted on the same building, with the same Venus skating behind her. Big and little Venus blithely cruised on. In a cartoon thought bubble above Big Venus’s head, she concluded, History is Myth.

  Tom studied the mural. Here was Venus telling him that history wasn’t reality. Rather, it was the stories you told, repeated, changed, and came to believe at the heart of a culture, true or not. History copied recursively, like parallel mirrors, or a computer copying data. Like his digital self. Stories were the small version of history. The big version was cyclical, with seismic changes that civilizations rode like monster waves in the Pacific.

  “What do you see up there?” he asked Veronika.

  “That’s the Essensse building,” she said.

  “What else?” he asked.

  She glanced at the wall. “What? Like, Venus on the half-pipe?”

  “That’s all? You don’t see the threat we’re facing? You don’t see how much the world has changed?” he asked.

  “Dude, what do you want me to say? It’s cute. Not that clever, and the paint could use some restoration, but cute.” She sounded placating. Not like Veronika at all. There was more here, but she wasn’t telling.

  He let it lie. The physical practice had sharpened his appetite, and he needed to eat. An overpowering craving hit him. “Where can I get a sandwich near here?”

  Veronika looked at him strangely. “What kind?”

  He smelled food from the eateries around him. His body quivered with longing. “I don’t even get where this is coming from . . . I’ve never had it in my life. It’s creamy, supple, mild, and sweet, and tastes like love in your mouth. Like white bread . . . toasted. And grape jelly. And that soft cheese. You know the kind they put on top of beans and rice?”

  “You are so weird, dude,” she said.

  “But what’s the cheese?” he insisted.

  “You mean queso fresco?”

  “Yes!”

  Checking her GO, she grabbed his hand. “One block. This way.”

  They walked up Windward, and as they passed a parking lot, Tom noticed another large mural, Jonas Never’s A Touch of Venice, this one all in blacks, grays, and whites. It was based on an image from Orson Welles’s A Touch of Evil, shot right on this block of Venice. The painting depicted a Mexican street, lit by party bulbs, with Charlton Heston and Janet Leigh, and a quotation with no source that he could locate: Like a dream that I remember from an easier time . . .

  Venice was speaking directly to him. All of this felt like a dream. He had been here. He knew those murals. He knew this street. But his body and mind didn’t agree about the where or when. He struggled to reconcile his thoughts, but his hunger kept getting in the way.

  They arrived at Windward Farms, a couple of blocks off the beach. Veronika ordered a quesadilla with shrimp and mango. Tom ordered his special sandwich at the deli counter. The cook looked at him funny and then glanced at an older man by the register.

  “Gross . . . ,” muttered Veronika.

  “Customer is sometimes right,” said owner to the cook.

  Veronika paid for the sandwiches, and they wandered outside to one of several picnic tables set up in the parking lot of an abandoned bank. When Tom 2 took the first bite, he felt like had come home. But to where?

  With a full mouth and a satisfied grin, he tried to say, “Why do I like this so much?” A gob of sandwich landed on the table.

  Veronika laughed. “Because Rosero did. I can’t believe you’re even asking.”

  He took another bite before swallowing the first.

  At the next table, Tom heard the sounds of the man eating open-mouthed. Moist, breathy inhalations. The salivated crunch of chips. The slurping of a chemical cocktail of sugar, trans fats, and food coloring. Soggy coughs from deep in his lungs. The slip ’n’ slide of ill-fitting dentures flapping against his gums. Then a burp erupted, a syncopated rhythm of groans, rumbles, and gasps.

  Unperturbed, Veronika seemed to enjoy her quesadilla. But Tom shivered. How could she not hear this? Why was he so disgusted?

  Veronika could see his distress. “What’s wrong?”

  “Being me. Being human.”
r />   “Own it, dude,” she said.

  He tried to block the revulsion by stuffing his own face. “It’s so good . . . Can I have another?”

  “Don’t move or look at it,” Veronika said out of the side of her mouth.

  A law enforcement drone—LED—hovered near their table. It was painted black and white, with the blue emblem of the LAPD. It appeared to take in the scene with equanimity, then flew away after four seconds.

  “If I hack into it here, they’ll see me do it,” said Veronika. “Assume the worst.”

  “Then let’s get to Essensse,” said Tom.

  They walked back toward the Boardwalk.

  “Eddie?” A shocked voice was directed at Tom. He slowed under a covered portico of large plastered pillars and archways, but he didn’t turn toward the voice. Neither did Veronika.

  “Yo, Eddie! You’re fuckin’ alive!” A well-muscled young man in running gear made a dash for Tom, grabbed his shoulder, and spun him around. “Man, I thought I saw a ghost!” He gave Tom a bear hug. Tom felt familiarity and emotion down to his cellular structure. He knew this man was a friend. A very good one. This body felt like “brother.” Tom hugged him back, running a facial-recognition search against every image database he could find.

  “Hey, man. Yeah. I’m cool. How are you?” said Tom.

  “Awesome now!” They released. “Who’s this?” He nodded at Veronika. “We heard you were dying, man. What happened?” He gave Veronika the up-down, waiting for an introduction.

  “I’m Denise,” said Veronika. “His home healthcare provider.”

  The man looked at Tom quizzically.

  “Yeah. Got better. Don’t know how. Just woke up. She’s helping me . . . figure out if I can live on my own.”

  It never dawned on Tom to double-check Edwin’s previous address. Ruth and Veronika had overseen body procurement, and he had had enough on his plate. He ran a quick search, and there it was: Edwin had lived in nearby East Venice. Tom was furious at himself, but even more angry at Veronika.

  She had helped steal the body. She must have known these were Rosero’s stomping grounds.

  A hit came back on the identity search: Oscar Morales. Employed at the same athletic facility—Gold’s Gym—as Edwin.

  “That’s good,” Oscar said. “Does Tina know?” Was Tina the hand and arm Tom saw in his brain flashback on the Zumwalt? “Tina will be so stoked, but not about the hot nurse . . . ” He jerked his head toward Veronika, winked, then whipped out his GO.

  Tom stayed his hand. “Hey, Oscar. Don’t. I need to fly low for a while.”

  “Who you running from?” asked Oscar.

  Taking a calculated risk, Tom said, “My accident wasn’t an accident.”

  Oscar nodded. “We figured that.”

  Tom had no idea who Oscar might have thought guilty. “And it’s not who anyone thinks.”

  “Need help?” asked Oscar.

  “Yeah. But I got no GO. Need to rebuild contacts without them knowing,” said Tom.

  “Done,” said Oscar.

  Tom took Oscar’s GO and dictated a number into it. “Here’s how to reach me for now.” The number would connect directly to his digital brain.

  “Here’s mine,” Oscar said, sending a message to the number. “We’ll get you goin’, bro. Whatever you need.”

  A dark-blue Lexus sedan, old enough to rely solely on fossil fuels, slowed down on Windward. The two occupants, one with a shaved head and one with a goatee, watched Tom and Oscar through dark sunglasses before speeding away.

  “Fuck,” said Oscar. “Zeros. What are they doing? Get outta here.” He slapped Tom on the back and took off at a run.

  As they walked away from Oscar, Tom struggled to stay calm. “Why didn’t you tell me Edwin’s from Venice?”

  “Dude, it’s no big deal. I wanted to see if you recognized things. Interesting what still remains in, like, the biological brain.”

  Tom tried to contain his rage, but it was seeping out of his pores, flushing his skin. He could feel the hairs on his arms get prickly with heat. Shoulder muscles twitched, and his hands shook. He dragged her onto Speedway, to hide near some alley dumpsters. “I’m supposed to be on life support. It didn’t occur to you I’d be made wandering around here?”

  “We’re not sticking around! You’ll be a ghost again.”

  He shoved her hard against the steel dumpster. She yelped in pain as her bony shoulder blades took the brunt of the impact.

  “What did I just land in?” he yelled.

  Veronika was stunned. So was Tom. He hadn’t meant to touch her. Or scream. It had simply happened. One brain overrode the other.

  “Stop it!” She backed away from him and assumed a defensive crouch. Reaching reflexively into her Doc Martens, she yanked out a switchblade and flipped it open. “Just stop now!”

  He wasn’t sure how effective her blade technique would be given her inexperience with Winter and the butcher knife. But she had made her point.

  Major Tom’s and Rosero’s brains fought each other. Tom grabbed on to the dumpster for balance. “I’m sorry . . . I’m . . . I don’t . . . know what happened. Just snapped. Really. I’m sorry.” He hadn’t had a violent impulse for two years. Since before he had died. Goddamn this new amygdala, hijacking his brain and pumping fight-or-flight cortisol and adrenaline throughout his teenage body.

  As a human, he was unpredictable. Even to himself.

  David Bowie sang “Ashes to Ashes,” warning him of his new dilemma. Like his namesake, Major Tom had never done anything out of the blue. But once-Edwin-now-Tom had. And probably would again.

  Behind Veronika, the old blue Lexus turned the corner onto Speedway and accelerated straight toward them.

  Tom leapt at Veronika and grabbed her by both shoulders. She slashed at him and missed, but he spun her so she could see the car barreling toward them. They ran.

  He accessed a satellite map, looking for escape routes. Hiding places. But his body ran for the water. Like it knew what to do.

  He didn’t know why. He was a remote brain, captive to a body. Tom thought it was a stupid idea. He tried to stop his muscles. His body sputtered like a broken puppet operated by a rogue puppet master. With the Lexus barreling toward them, they rounded the corner back onto Windward and the carnival of the Boardwalk. Tom tripped into a biker and only missed faceplanting when a bystander caught him and brought him to his feet.

  “Hey! Slow down, man!”

  “Thanks!” said Veronika, grabbing Tom’s arm and pulling him away.

  The Lexus barreled through barriers, which had a narrow access to allow cops and ambulances onto the Boardwalk and the beach. People leapt out of the way. Pedestrians banged on the car’s hood in defiance, slowing it enough to give Tom and Veronika a tiny lead.

  There was a police substation on the beach two hundred feet away. But Tom couldn’t go to the police, couldn’t get caught, and certainly couldn’t get killed by whoever these gangsters were.

  The two-wheel-drive Lexus would get stranded on the beach. Tom ran to the closest sand.

  The Lexus swerved, barely missing a mother and child on two bikes, and skidded to a stop at the sand’s edge. Shaved Head jumped out first, sporting a tight T-shirt and serious guns—both his arms and the weapons badly concealed in his pants. He stumbled in the sand but kept coming. His partner, with cheekbones that rivaled a Russian supermodel’s, ran behind.

  Running was a revelation for Tom. He didn’t trip. His arms and legs pumped, and he could feel the shock of adrenaline. The respirocytes did their job, filling his red blood cells with oxygen. This body knew how to run and liked the exertion. A lot. He was surprised at how fast he went. Veronika fell behind, struggling with her long skirt and Docs. He slowed to help, but she screamed, “Go!”

  On the sand, a group of police SUVs sat at a distance from a large group of people gathered at the water’s edge. Dozens of drums beat, and hundreds of people chanted—the famous Venice Beach Drum Circle. A few stood t
aller than the others and danced with ecstatic delight on hovering flyboards. A couple of young men in G-strings hung from trapeze suspended underneath large drones, performing a circus act. Robodirigibles floated above, filming the exploits for social media. Drugs, love, good vibes, and bad rainbow clothing reigned. Neohippies clearly enjoyed their tech toys, too, if they could afford them.

  Shaved Head and Cheekbones stopped when they saw Tom running directly toward a police car near the crowd. He could read their thoughts like ticker tape. Was Rosero an idiot? An informer? A stooge? What? Their driving stunt had attracted the attention of a phalanx of cops approaching from the giant drum circle on flyboards. Shaved Head and Cheekbones turned and walked slowly back, but they kept looking over their shoulders to watch Tom.

  Veronika caught up to Tom. Panting, she said, “How d’ya . . . know? I never . . . told you!”

  “Know what?” asked Tom.

  “Go to the police!” said Veronika. “Your chip will work with them!”

  “What?”

  “You’re an undercover cop, dude! Any agency you approach. You’re one of them.”

  “Now you tell me?” said Tom.

  “Didn’t think you’d need it yet,” said Veronika. “But now you do. Better I’m not with you. I’m full ghost, so I’m outta here. See you at the ship!”

  She peeled off, effortlessly blending in with the neohippies, stoners, junkies, party dudes, Rastafarians, and tourists. She even danced, in her angular scarecrow way. He knew where she was and hoped Shaved Head and Cheekbones would be too occupied with the police to care.

  The closer he got to the cop cars, the slower his pursuers walked away. They didn’t want to miss whatever was coming. There was someone above them they’d have to report to.

  Veronika text messaged him, Wand ID. That’s all they need.

  It would help to know who I am! messaged Tom.

  Here’s access link for West Los Angeles PD.

  He scanned it. Gang and narcotics, previous work in homicide.

  Tom slowed down about twenty feet before the first black-and-white. He approached the cops with a respectful and nonthreatening attitude: hands up, eye contact, slow movements.