New York Nights [Virex 01]

by Eric Brown

  He stepped out into the bright winter sunlight, ignoring the crowds on the sidewalk and the cries of the stall-holders. He hailed a cab, then sat back as it carried him towards his appointment with the tech-heads at Mantoni Entertainments.

  He recalled what he’d told Hal about VR last night, and the story he’d spun him these past few weeks about needing to be up in the latest technology, to keep abreast of the times. Hal was no mug, and he must’ve been wondering where all these supposed VR courses were leading. In a way, Barney felt guilty for stringing Hal along. But he couldn’t bring himself to tell him the truth. As the cab pulled onto Broadway, easing through the crowds of refugees spilling onto the street, he wondered what he feared by telling Hal what was going on with Mantoni Entertainments; it wasn’t Hal’s ridicule, because he wasn’t that sort of guy. Perhaps he was reluctant to confide in his partner because something within him, deep down, didn’t think what he was doing was quite right.

  The headquarters of Mantoni Entertainments occupied every floor of a fifty-storey skyscraper whose sheer windowed façade reflected the blue sky like some flawless virtual reality interface.

  Sergio Mantoni, the millionaire chairman of Mantoni Entertainments, had begun as a producer of popular holo-dramas and over the course of a decade had built a world-wide empire spanning every facet of the entertainment industry. Now, not to be left behind, his company was at the scientific forefront of VR research and development. Barney, in his own way - and for a certain consideration - was doing his little bit to help the company. It was this consideration, the means of his payment, that niggled at his conscience.

  He climbed from the cab and crossed the sidewalk. He was taking the first of the dozen steps to the sliding glass doors when someone, emerging from the building, called his name.

  ‘Barney? Barney Kluger?’

  He looked up. A vision of all that was perfect in the female sex posed on the top step, one hand stylishly holding a large white hat to her head. She wore a fitted sable dress like midnight made in Paris and her legs, as ever, were sensational.

  ‘Barney, it is you!’ She walked down the steps towards him.

  Barney was aware of the gawpers on the sidewalk, staring as if they’d seen an angel descend.

  Vanessa Artois was among the greatest holo-drama actresses of all time and certainly, in Barney’s humble opinion, the best-looking. He had worked as her bodyguard for a few months seven or eight years ago, in which time he’d come to know the star pretty well - realised that, behind the glamour, life at the top was not all St Tropez and champagne.

  ‘Vanessa . . . Well, if this isn’t a turn up. Must be what, seven years? You’re still as beautiful as ever.’

  She stepped onto the sidewalk before him, and he had to crane his neck to look up into the sophisticated angles of her face, wrapped about in a raven fall of hair.

  ‘You’re looking well yourself, Barney.’

  ‘Give me a break. I’m feeling my age.’ He climbed three steps and faced her, eye to eye. ‘So how’s it going, kid? Still in the holo-dramas?’

  ‘You don’t keep up?’ Artois gave an affected pout of disappointment.

  ‘You know me, no time to enjoy myself with the dramas.’

  ‘Actually,’ Artois said, ‘the next big thing is virtual reality. I’m angling for a career shift, trying to make it big in VR.’

  ‘You still with Mantoni?’

  ‘If you mean am I still under contract, why yes I am. If you mean . . .’ she spread fingers across her perfect throat, ‘. . . are we romantically attached, well, between you and me, I’m trying to get out of that deal, too.’

  ‘Piece of advice from an old man, kid - hire a good lawyer and get rid of him.’

  He’d never liked Sergio Mantoni. The man was an arrogant bastard who considered the stars in his employ as little more than pawns to be manipulated in a global game of business politics. The way he’d treated Artois in the past would have had a dog-owner imprisoned, Barney felt. He’d seen enough while working for Mantoni to make him consider the possibility of setting up an accidental exit for the millionaire tycoon. The irony was that he was now in the pay of the bastard . . .

  ‘Still in the same business, Barney?’ she asked.

  ‘Missing persons a speciality. Got myself a partner, a younger guy to do the leg work; one of the best. You ever need anyone finding, Vanessa, look me up.’

  He gave her one of his cards and she scrunched up her nose in an actressy smile. ‘You know, I might just do that, Barney,’ she said, slipping the card into a tiny purse.

  A stretch limo as long as a bus eased into the kerb. ‘’Fraid that’s for me, Barney. Say hi to Estelle for me, you hear?’

  And with a quick wave of fingers she was gone before Barney could tell her that Estelle had been dead for more than five years.

  He watched her cut a swathe through the gawping pedestrians and ease herself with estimable poise into the limo. He felt like running after her, explaining that Estelle was dead.

  He lifted a hand as the limousine coasted away from the sidewalk, Artois invisible behind the tinted glass.

  For all he’d admired Vanessa Artois, and not just her good looks but her straightforward personality, some part of him had always felt sorry for her. He remembered telling her the story of how he and Estelle had been happily married for so long, and couldn’t forget the look of sadness that had entered her eyes.

  He walked into the building and took the elevator up to the R&D suite on the twenty-fifth floor.

  Lew was standing by a flatscreen with four technicians when Barney walked in.

  ‘How goes it, bud?’ Lew said.

  ‘I’m fine, fine. Any progress?’

  Lew nodded. ‘Those parameters we were worried about last week - everything’s okay on that front. We’ve been running a mock-up for the past two days.’

  ‘You mean . . .?’

  Lew nodded. ‘We’re ready when you are.’

  ‘Christ . . . This is a surprise. I figured another two weeks, more. Didn’t think it’d be ready so soon.’

  For the past month he’d been learning about the technical aspects of virtual reality, if only secondhand by kibitzing on what the technicians were doing while he hovered in the background, and the little that Lew divulged. The business was in the throes of rapid development, and companies were paranoid about competitors gaining an advantage, no matter how small. In consequence, secrecy was the watchword.

  The team of scientists and technicians headed by Lew Kramer was working on the creation of artificial personalities within the world of virtual reality, constructs based on real-life individuals. Lew wanted to construct a site within Mantoni VR, inhabited by the great and famous from, to begin with, the history of the twenty-first century - and this was where Barney came in.

  ‘If you’d like to get ready,’ Lew said now.

  Barney nodded, his thoughts in a swirl. For so long it had been something which had always been a few weeks away, as glitch followed hitch in the system, and the delays piled up. At times, Barney had thought that VR might be nothing more than a fantasy, destined to come to nothing, in order to make his disappointment bearable. Oddly, when Lew assured him that it was ongoing, he had been beset by doubt, questioning himself as to whether what he had volunteered for was right.

  Now it was time to see if what Lew and his team had developed was as authentic as the executive had claimed it would be. He crossed the room to the booth in the corner, his heart pounding with excitement and apprehension. He undressed and hung his clothes in a locker. A technician came and assisted him with the electrodes and facemask.

  Every Friday morning for the past three weeks he’d entered virtual reality via a jellytank, a not-too-pleasant procedure resulting in an extraordinarily pleasant experience. The reality of the sites he’d entered, and the fidelity of his experiences within them, had literally left him breathless. On these occasions he had been merely a guinea-pig, reporting back to Lew and the techs on the su
ccess or otherwise of their programming. He’d met a few famous politicians in VR, a holo-drama actress or two . . .

  This time, it would be the meeting he had been anticipating for so long.

  Barney stepped into the jellytank, his skin crawling in reaction to the sensation of the viscous fluid as it sealed itself around his body. The goo, Lew had once explained to him, was an anaesthetic suspension which facilitated the process of tactile sensory deprivation.

  Barney sat down and, at a signal from the tech, lay back.

  He floated. He felt the jelly go to work on his flesh, deadening all sensation.

  For a disconcerting second, before his mind adjusted to the fact, he found himself standing upright. He was initially amazed by the sudden shift of perspective from horizontal to the vertical.

  At first he was blind, and then he could see. His vision was flooded with colour and sunlight. The reality of the world around him, the authenticity of his place in it, made him gasp in awe. He could not help but raise a hand to his face, trace its contours, and then stare about him in wonder.

  He had never before visited this site. He was standing in the garden of a sprawling villa, on a lawn surrounded by flowers. The sun shone in a perfectly blue sky and the air was filled with the fragrance of the blooms.

  He looked down, at the younger version of his own body that Lew had programmed for him.

  Then he turned around, almost in desperation, searching for her.

  He moved, his heart beating rapidly, towards a flower-entwined bower at the far end of the lawn.

  Many aspects of what he was doing here with Lew and the others had worried him. How would he cope, psychologically? Was he being true to the memory of Estelle or was he in some way being unfaithful?

  The seat on the bower was empty. He turned, disappointed . . . and then he saw her.

  His heart hammered. He felt dizzy. He reached out a hand, opened his mouth to say something, but no words came.

  She walked towards him across the lawn, smiling . . . and all he could do was stare.

  ‘There you are, Barney,’ Estelle said. ‘I’ve been looking all over for you. Isn’t it beautiful?’

  He nodded ‘It is,’ he murmured to himself. ‘It is beautiful.’

  He had never expected her to be this convincing, this lifelike, when he had supplied Lew with the videos of his wife, the tapes of her singing, the still shots of her he’d taken over the years, even the samples of her clothing and perfume he had saved since her death.

  ‘It’s so good to see you, Barney,’ she said. ‘You’re looking well.’

  The sound of her voice brought tears to his eyes. It was Estelle, as he recalled her from all those years ago. She was perhaps forty, at the height of her bloom, a slim blonde woman with a tanned, smiling face, aged with lines of experience that, if anything, enhanced her allure.

  He had been worried that the sight of her might bring back to him the fact of what he had lost, but the reality was such that, for all he knew the Estelle before him to be a complex technological ghost, he could only feel joy that she no longer existed merely in his memories.

  He asked his wife, wherever she might be, to forgive him his weakness.

  He reached out, then hesitated. Surely, he told himself, surely she cannot feel as real, as warm and alive, as the original Estelle. He was loath to touch her hand, which rose now to his, for fear of having his illusion cruelly shattered.

  And then she took his hand in hers, and he felt the warmth, the strength of her fingers, as they enclosed his and drew him to her.

  ‘Come inside, Barney,’ Estelle said. ‘I’ve so much to show you!’

  Barney put an arm around her shoulders and, buoyed with elation, walked with her towards the villa.

  * * * *

  Five

  Meeting Kia in the Scumbar rainforest . . . The fused consoles . . . The terror and disorientation he experienced in the darkened room . . . The chase along the alley, across the rooftop . . . The man with the changing face!

  Halliday lay on his back, blinking up at the bright sunlight above him.

  After a period of being unable to remember anything at all about the night before, the memories came crashing in. He went through his recollections of the events of the evening. Everything made sense - at least, a kind of sense - until his encounter with the Latino, and then he was seized with a residue of the terror that had shaken him last night.

  The last thought he could recall, before losing consciousness, was that either the cold, or the loss of blood, would surely kill him. Well, he had survived. He had not bled to death, and the garbage bags piled around him had kept the worst of the cold from his body.

  Experimentally, he moved his limbs. He lifted first his right arm, and then his left. They seemed to be functioning perfectly well, and he felt no pain. He flexed his legs, and they too seemed to be working as well as ever. He sat up, or rather tried to, and immediately regretted the attempt as a throb of pain pulsed through his head.

  He lifted a hand and touched his left temple, and his fingers came away sticky with congealing blood.

  He rolled onto his side, carefully, and then onto his stomach, and from there manoeuvred himself onto all fours. He hung his head, closing his eyes against the pain. He took a deep breath and stood slowly. The alley seemed to sway around him, but miraculously the pain had abated. It was there, nagging him like a constant headache, but no longer was it a debilitating, stabbing migraine.

  The sun was high in the clear blue sky. He looked at his watch. It was almost midday. He recalled Kim’s reminder to be back by ten. He’d be in trouble when he returned, and Kim was quite a sight when she worked on her anger.

  He wondered if his excuse would be sufficient to defuse her rage.

  His thoughts returned to the Latino with the changing face. Had the Latino assumed that the fall had killed him, and not bothered to check? Or had he, too, passed out? Halliday recalled bringing the butt of his gun down on the face. The guy had managed to get up and attack him one last time, but he had been unsteady on his feet. Perhaps, right now, he was on the rooftop, recuperating. The thought moved Halliday to set off along the alley in the direction of the square where he’d parked the Ford last night.

  As he turned the corner and passed the row of brownstones where Sissi Nigeria had her apartment, a part of him wanted to finish the job he had started last night, go through Nigeria’s personal items for any clue as to what might be responsible for the woman’s disappearance, the fused consoles, and the Latino’s pursuit and attack. But another part of him, spurred by fear, wanted nothing more than to put distance between himself and the scene of the attack. Later, he told himself, when he’d discussed the case with Barney, and maybe Jeff Simmons over at the Department. Maybe then he’d go back and investigate.

  The thought of the Latino made him reach for his automatic. His body-holster was empty. He recalled clubbing the guy in the face, and after that he had no idea what had happened to the weapon. It might still be on the rooftop, or in the alleyway . . . He was half-tempted to go back and look for it, but instinctive fear prevailed. What was a gun, compared to his safety? Barney had an armoury of the damned things.

  He crossed the street, climbed into the Ford and started the engine. He drove around the square, relieved to be getting away, and headed uptown, passing crowds of Saturday morning shoppers and the ever-present hordes of homeless men, women and children.

  Five minutes later, he passed the VR Bar on Park Avenue, the hologram advertising the wonders of the tropical beach washed to a wan pastel shade in the bright sunlight. People were still lining up around the block; if anything, the queue was longer now than it had been the night before. Halliday gripped the wheel, something very like exultation at having survived, tempered by a fading fear, sluicing through him.

  He parked outside the Chinese laundry. The aroma of cooking meat drifted from the food-stalls lining the street and reminded him that he hadn’t eaten for what seemed like ages. He cli
mbed out and crossed the busy sidewalk with his head down to avoid questions from the stall-holders about his bloody face. The ground-floor laundry was in full swing, snorting steam from the entrance and noisy with the chomp and snap of the presses, as if they had a dragon captive on the premises. He hurried up the staircase, hoping to avoid Barney until he’d showered and attended to the cuts and bruises. The office door was open, and as Halliday ducked past and climbed the first of the steps to the loft, Barney called out, ‘Hey, Hal! That you? Hal, where the hell’ve you been?’

  Halliday stopped, considered ignoring the call and continuing up the steps, but Barney would know that something was wrong and follow him up.

  He turned and stepped into the office.

  ‘Christ, but is Kim one angry . . .’ Barney looked up, and stopped when he saw Halliday.