Versailles

by Yannick Hill

  The elevator had arrived. Deep Sky. Missy put a hand to her sword as the door slid open.

  60

  The monitor lizard makes his way along another empty corridor in Versailles. His teeth are bared but he is not angry. His yellow eyes look mean but he is not mean, he is a monitor lizard who has not eaten in over a week. Just then he passes a white door. According to Versailles’ schematics, this is Room 1, Casey’s office. The lighting is bright, strikingly so. Utilitarian. All this stuff. It’s like stepping behind the scenes on a television set, a nightmare of technology beyond the patterned wallpaper, doors leading nowhere, doors leading everywhere. The smell of hot plastic, all these cables feeding an alternate reality, tiny red lights, tiny blue lights, all these switches, dials, sliders, slots and drives. Dirty keyboards. Greasy trackpads. All this plastic, all this grime and dust, old computers, new computers still in their packaging, plastic within plastic within plastic within plastic within cardboard within cardboard. Everything in this room is there to serve a purpose, nothing more. There is no atmosphere in this room, no shadows, nowhere to hide. At the same time, it’s like looking into a lizard enclosure at the zoo and waiting for movement . . . There. A doorway slides across and in steps – Missy.

  She draws her sword. It’s all she can do to stop herself blacking out. This can’t be. Her breath knocked out. Versailles in the rear mirror. The looming mountains. The northbound highway. The idea of north. Deep Sky . . . She draws her sword and it gleams in the white neon light. This can’t be. Like Disney World, but no Mickey Mouse. This can’t be happening. Casey. Casey. She is ready to kill, her musculature reorganized into that of a wild animal, this sword her dark talon, this sword is who she is now, the betrayal complete, the blood rushing to her hands and feet, replete with new hate. Casey Baer. She is ready to strike. Wide-eyed and ready to scream, but she cannot scream. This is like a dream, more like a nightmare.

  She moves in slow motion toward his desk, the main terminal, around his desk, the curtains of code on every wall, progressing downwards and across the floor like a trillion ants in her peripheral vision. Teeming. They crawl towards her feet from every direction but she continues moving, around his desk, a 23" LCD monitor in gray plastic and all the folders on his screen, hundreds upon hundreds of little icons on his desktop, all layered on top of each other like spilled coins. For a moment she is spellbound. So this is how her father really works, this is what his mind looks like, a view deep inside, deep underground, where buried treasure lies on top of buried shit, a mass of dirty gold, but something glints at her, one coin among the others winks up at her like a sun disappearing in a black hole. One little folder and two words underneath: Free Missy.

  She doesn’t need to touch a thing, she knows what she will find inside. Deep Sky. The adrenaline coursing through her body, she’s thinking fast. It all makes sense. Deep Sky is real, but she was never headed there. Silas, the boy with no name. Silas could be anybody, a Deep Sky agent, a gun for hire, it doesn’t matter. He’d talked the talk, said all the right things, things Missy wanted to hear. True dark. The idea of north – Deep Sky as lure, as carrot. The antithesis of every-thing her father stood for. Deep Sky as escape from modern life, her father’s cameras. His control. A manufactured rite of passage. A roller coaster rebellion. Full circle. Running, but not away. The emails, the video, the sword, the Molotov, everything. Placed there. Hidden in plain sight like an Easter egg hunt. But why? So she could get it all out of her system? So she will love him again? After what he did to her mother? Did he really think he could make her forget, make her feel better by taking her to the goddamned fun fair? Here, take this, Missy, buy yourself some fucking candy floss? What Casey doesn’t know about his daughter. The sum total of what Casey doesn’t understand. It would break the internet.

  A roller coaster rebellion and here she is, back where she began. Versailles. Versailles as mission control. Mission Missy now. She shifts her weight and wields her sword, a swing so true she rends the monitor in two, a perfect fountain of sparks and tiny flames to celebrate the act. Casey. She is ready to kill, tears streaming down her cheeks, her musculature reorganized into that of a wild animal, this sword her dark talon, this sword is who she is now, the blood rushing to her hands and feet, replete with hate. She wants to cry bitter, but revenge is sweet. She sees the candy. A trail of brightly colored candy leading from the elevator to the other door in this room. Some of it is crushed. Some of the candy she crushed underfoot as she entered Versailles from the elevator. Some of the candy is crushed, but the rest is intact.

  She bends to pick up a piece of candy. This one has a blue wrapper. She twists the twisted ends and it squeaks, like a tiny creature it squeaks as she twists. Missy feels spaced out. This is new candy. Not old candy. New candy. Newly placed. Her father was just here. She can feel it in her bones. She follows the trail of candy to the white door and opens it. There is no hesitation, only in the telling. Missy steps into the corridor, into Versailles.

  There is more candy in the corridor, a trail of brightly colored candy leading her around the corner. All this time. A trail of candy at her feet, she just couldn’t see it. She follows her sword, the blade reading the overhead lighting like it’s musical notation, she follows the sword, her musculature that of a wild animal, her body ready to kill, her mind on the trail of candy, the idea of candy, she never liked it much, even as a kid. Missy was never a candy kind of girl, but there’s no denying this trail, this pretty trail of brightly colored candy leading somewhere. There’s no denying the story so far. The looming mountains. The northbound high-way. The idea of north. Her adventure into the unknown. What her father doesn’t know.

  Her clothes smell of woodsmoke, her hands are dirty from collecting wood for a fire. Her heart is full, her mind is full of ideas, images, new memories, feelings she might never have again, but she must, she must. She is human, so in love with being. But she is also a leopard cat, her musculature reorganized into that of a wild animal. Human, so full of love, her mind on the trail of candy, the idea of candy. A tiny squeaking creature and she the leopard cat. This isn’t a hunt, this is pursuit. Missy following the trail of candy deeper and deeper into Versailles, the unknown.

  61

  unknown_user, ruhin, InnerFame, Casey Baer, whatever he was calling himself just now, he was inside these walls, breathing the same air, blood pumping round his body underneath his brand new casual wear. Versailles. One hundred rooms. Another white door. River reached out for the handle and thought again. No. This time he was going in hard. He took a step back and kicked out with all his strength, the door giving way like in the movies.

  Wow . . . A mountain of toys. Thousands upon thousands of toys piled high, all the way to the ceiling of this cavernous space. A dragon’s lair of plastic toys and stuffed animals, metal cars and broken consoles, tangled cables, action figures, naked dolls and neon water rifles. River took a step closer, breathed in deep through his nose. All these things, he recognized every one of them. He’d played with every . . . These were his toys, Missy’s toys, every Christmas, every birthday, every birthday in this house, all the rejects, all the things bought twice, far too many, way too many, all in one place for him to see. It brought tears and he didn’t know why. All this colored plastic, a million grooves and screws, every surface, gleaming, shining, glowing in the ­artificial light of this room. Nothing ever thrown away. Two billionaire kids and all they ever wanted, when all they ever wanted was to play, to swim all day in the bright sunshine. The light catching every surface, a glittering present tense, the stillness of this room, a deathly silence. A toy cupboard. That’s what this was. A toy cupboard of horrendous proportions. Another archive, another warning, another bad dream of life. Reality turned in on itself, reflected back again and again and again. Versailles as witness. Versailles as witness to itself. And Casey behind it all, a regular Wizard of Oz, playing God behind a heavy black curtain.

  River’s gaze cut a switchback trail of memory and association fr
om the bottom to the top of the mountain of toys, and at the very top, perched there all alone like a special prize, he saw something that filled his heart with pure joy and delight, it brought a smile – Croc – his pea-green dinosaur friend with the purple tail spikes. Without a second thought River made toward the mountain, wading forward through the sea of part-deflated balloon animals and swimming pool inflatables that made up the foothills. And then he was climbing, actually climbing up the face of this intricate monstrosity, this dune of high indulgence. A tricky climb because this mountain was unstable, a mass of fragile objects, all different shapes and sizes and textures. But River was an excellent climber, lithe, with a natural instinct for footholds and where to put his hands next, his center of gravity that of a monkey accustomed to navigating the thinner branches of the jungle’s upper canopy.

  The mountain creaked with his ascent, but he was mak-ing steady progress. And as he climbed he thought of Synthea. All these hundreds of toys, massed together like this, it made him think of her. Every birthday, every Christmas. Every trip to the toy store. The buying, the endless buying, her baskets filled but never full. Every wish fulfilled, every need, every want. As he climbed he felt sick. He thought of her role all these years. Making sure they were happy. Making up for all their lost hours in the mansion. Their whole childhood had been Versailles, no contact with the outside world, and this was her way of making it all okay. All the colored plastic, shoring up this island existence. It was all for them, her kids. Her own life, her life’s work, drowned out, muted, buried somewhere deep inside this haunted mountain. Her soul flickering, flickering out. No magic now. Her non-existence reflected back again and again. The mountain creaked but he was almost there, one more thrust with his left leg and he would get there, and then he was, grabbing hold of Croc with his right hand and that was it, he felt something give under his weight, one toy balancing on two, two on four and then – cause and effect – the mountain gave, swallowing River like a volcano, the sound of a hundred thousand toys crashing to the hard floor beneath, a crash so great you could hear it from across Versailles.

  It hurt. It really, really hurt, but he wasn’t dead. Darkness all around but these pin-pricks of light. He knew there would be blood before he felt it trickle down his cheek and neck, the white-blue sting that says your skin is open. He felt the softness in his right hand and squeezed.

  ‘Happy Birthday, River!’ Croc said. River twisted violently where he lay, breaking free of the toys so that he could get a better look at his old friend. He squeezed again. Happy Birthday, River!’ He never said that before, not part of his repertoire. And his voice wasn’t quite right. This was Casey saying these things. His father all along. He looked about him. This mess of toys. He was four years old again, surrounded by everything he’d ever wanted. River burst into tears, a deep, breath-taking sob that took over his body. When all he ever wanted was to play, to swim all day in the bright sunshine. He missed his sister, his mother, had for a long time. His father elsewhere, the white-blue sting that says your skin is open. He felt the softness in his right hand and squeezed again.

  ‘Go find her!’ Croc said, and that made River lose his temper. He threw Croc hard across the room, Croc still talking as he flew through the air: ‘Go find your sistuuuuuuuur.’

  When Leticia told her about the phone call with Casey, Synthea knew. Her daughter was coming back. She could just feel it. Missy was somewhere nearby, perhaps even inside the compound. Before Leticia could finish her sentence Synthea was running up Versailles’ beach, between the tall palms, across the lawn, past the swimming pool and up the marble stairs into the mansion. By the time Leticia caught up with her in the master bedroom, Synthea was frantic. She was pulling clothes from the wardrobe, tears rolling down her cheeks.

  ‘I can’t let her see me like this,’ Synthea said. ‘I’m a mess, I can’t, I have to find my dress, I want my dress, I want to find my dress, the one she likes, I always wear it on her birthday. I can’t let her see me like this, Leticia, my hair all wet, my make-up all down my face and I can’t find this dress anywhere, she’ll be here any minute and I can’t, I just can’t . . . I can hear them downstairs, she may already be here . . . but my dress, I have to find it, it’s the one she said makes me look . . . it’s the one she said . . . but I just can’t, I just can’t—’

  ‘Sit down on the bed, Mrs Synthea, and I will find your dress,’ Leticia said.

  Missy walks along another empty corridor. Just then she passes a white door. On the other side of that white door is her brother, shoulder deep in toys, but there is no way Missy could know that. She follows her sword, the blade reading the overhead lighting like it’s musical notation. A landing. A flight of stairs. The entrance hall. Back where she began. Missy realizes she is barefoot, she does not know how long. Her bare feet on the cold marble as she descends the stairs. The trail of candy, one on each step, placed there by her father, Casey Baer, by someone Missy doesn’t really know. Her every step. He watched her every move, controlled her every move like a video game. Her every step, but now she is out of step, side-stepping, hot-stepper, sword in her right hand and this is all her. Her hands, her heart, her blood, her anger. The fullness of her anger. What Casey doesn’t know about his daughter. It was her stole the Twinkies. Flying crocodile. Her impulse, her pulse. Her sword, her self given new shape, black baseball cap pulled low like she’s feeling the future. What Casey doesn’t know. This fairy trail, each candy being crushed underfoot, a storm of candy could not stop her now. This is all her. The man who placed this candy thinks he knows. That she is coming – everything that’s happened – what she is feeling, right at this moment – but he doesn’t, this is all her, and the thought makes her tighten her grip on the hilt of the sword. The thought nearly makes her lose her balance on the marble staircase. She doesn’t know what she’ll do when she sees him, this sword her dark talon, this sword is who she is now, the betrayal complete, the blood rushing to her hands and feet, replete with hate. What Casey is. Their lives a game.

  The candy trail ends at the double doors. On the other side is the dining room and Missy can hear movement. There are others. She can hear movement. The candy trail has led her here. Whoever placed the candy is on the other side. Whoever placed this candy knows everything. The leopard make-up faded. But she looks scary. Wide-eyed and full of hate, this sword is who she is now. Missy kicks away the last gold candy and throws open the double doors.

  62

  Versailles as seen from a hot air balloon, its ramparts glowing white in the late afternoon sun. The God angle. Versailles. A great ship ready to cast off across an alien ocean, its towering A/C stacks breathing out, only out into the vanishing world. Versailles, USA. Palace for an American King, a thousand cameras pointed out. The miles of cable and the level of control. Versailles, a fortress for his family, a lock is not a lock when it is sprung. Versailles. His box of tricks, his apparatus, his grand machine.

  Yet Casey is no different, no different from the rest. All the people on his network, all their devices. They frame, perceive, the landscape playing like a movie outside their windows. Inside their screens. They frame, record, review the tape, the infinite tape, infinite so long as they are there to eat the world, the vanishing world. They frame, record, review the tape, they view the tape. They view, they watch, they see. Each other on film, playing, sleeping, eating, fight-ing, their children eating what they give them. Yet they are older than these pictures have them, much older than these pictures, still pictures, moving. They frame, they frame, forget to breathe, to look above the camera at the world before them, outside the screen and then beyond, past the distant horizon to the emptiness beyond, the empty universe that waits patiently, they frame impatiently, review the tape, delete the images that make them old and only keep the ones that make them young, forever young.

  Versailles. An American dream, a dream of life. Home to the four Baers. Missy. Her generation witnessed like no other, their every action reflected on the social ne
tworks, the internet as molten mirror, a primordial balm. Yes you are, yes you can. You are, you are, I am, I am. The sheer deter-mination of this youth. To be somebody. Liked and unlike. And liked again, no time, no pause, no time to breathe, this generation witnessed like no other, this anxiety beneath the surface, the surface glittering like an open ocean. These pharma companies, these pharma companies conjuring their sick magic. White horses, white horses out there. This genera-tion, her generation, the children of the internet, their lives mapped out on the shimmering social networks, Casey’s network. When Casey was their age. When Casey was their age he wanted more. His generation. They are no different. They built the internet, this summer palace, they wove the social networks for themselves. They equip themselves. They frame, perceive, the world rushing by outside their forward windshield as they take the kids to school, a windowless building at the edge of the city, some inland city. His genera-tion, and every one that came before. The sheer determination of this race, the human race across a vast lawn of gleaming grass, the coolness of the water as we dive.

  Versailles. An American dream, a dream of life. Home to the four Baers. River. Intrepid explorer without a compass. His looking glass is one-way. Through the looking glass and then another. And never looking back, pressing forward toward the distant horizon, toward the emptiness beyond, an emptiness that he will flood with meaning, his very own big bang, an explosion so great that it might catch the attention of the boy across the classroom, the girl across the way. River. An old soul seeking older souls. Light to dark. When all he ever wanted. When all he ever wanted was to be told. That he was a good boy. You are a good boy, River Baer. When all he ever wanted was to play, to swim all day in the bright sunshine over Versailles.