Versim

by Curtis Hox

  VERSIM

  © 2012 Curtis Hox

  All characters in this compilation are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Author’s Note

  Thanks so much for purchasing Versim. As an indie author, it’s critical for me to know what my readers think. Feel free to contact me and let me know. You can even point out any mistakes, if you like, or get on my case for any reason at all. If you enjoy the book and want to post a review on Amazon, I’d appreciate it. If you do, when the second book in the series comes out, I’ll send it to you for free. Just email me and remind me you posted a review. I can be reached at curtishox@gmail.com.

  Again, thanks so much, and I hope you enjoy it.

  VERSIM

  1

  A LONE MAN LAY ON A CAST-IRON PARK BENCH painted a bright green that matched the verdant bushes around him. He sat up and scanned his environment. He was good-sized, with a wrestler’s neck and a workman’s hands. He wore a pair of crimson-striped, white sweat pants, generic tennis shoes, and a burgundy tee with a fading Fire Department of New York City logo above the heart. He appeared to be the kind of man who could run up a flight of stairs while carrying someone. He surveyed his antiquated clothing and smiled.

  Pre-Rupture Rend-V, he thought. This should be interesting.

  He squinted as his eyes adjusted to the dappled sunlight punching beams through a canopy of leafy branches above him. He noticed the logo on his shirt. He smiled again, this time a big smile, and looked around.

  “Central Park.”

  Harken Cole stretched his arms on the park bench as a woman with roller blades skated past him. She gave him a suggestive smile, but kept going. Flute-like melodies of songbirds in the trees distracted him. Not far away, he saw an open field with people playing …

  “Softball.”

  He observed the game as he waited for his mission update. He always enjoyed this part of the immersion process: waking up, no idea where you were, waiting on the inevitable memory return and instructions.

  The last month of his life was a blank. His bosses did that on purpose so that the full mission happened in stages. You were either the hero or the villain in the drama about to play. And Hark was the best. They only put him in the most popular Rendered Entertainment Adventures. His last one—a far-future science-fiction production called Mindbot—logged twelve million paying riders. Not viewers, thank you (viewer numbers were in the hundreds of millions). Twelve million people paid to jack into Mindbot to experience what the principal characters experienced. They rode along like disembodied spirits, watching, feeling, but invisible. And he’d been there to keep the narrative on track and spice things up so that they got their money’s worth.

  He grinned at the thought of that. “Come on, guys, give it to me.”

  He waited. None of his augmentations were on yet: no Head’s Up Display, no Abdominal Energy System, no enhancements whatsoever. He was as normal as that old man over there tossing seeds at pigeons. He watched as a family walked by pushing a stroller with a toddler and pulling a small Mini-Pinscher on a leash. They were dressed as he imagined people used to dress several centuries ago in twenty-first century North America. They looked happy (as well as oblivious) that they were constructed persons. More strollers began to walk by him.

  Hark stood, feeling brand new in the husked body they’d given him for this Rend-V. He saw a winding, cobblestone path leading into a thicket of brush and bedrock. He followed it. The trees and bushes were so dense that the paths barely cut through them. He kept on the lookout for a private place, maybe a grotto.

  He found a shady place in a curve in the path.

  Just in time, he thought, before doubling over as the energy wafer embedded below his stomach activated. It felt like a mule had kicked him in the belly. He went to one knee, gasping for breath. He stood, the wafer sending tendrils of fire into his body as if God himself had breathed in a spark of life. His HUD clicked on, a transparent glass window the size of a billboard appearing in his field of vision. Data ran from the top down in clear electric blue.

  “Keep it coming. Keep it coming.”

  His systems triggered one at a time. His hearing and eyesight focused. Every part of his body felt cleansed. His invisible energy carapace snapped into place, a protective barrier that could stop a bullet and whose technology was far beyond his pay-grade

  He still felt naked without his Consortium Blaster or his Skinsuit, his Assembler Kit, and the other gear he usually used.

  This was a retro narrative, so they could choose to deny those items to him. They’d given him his basic physio enhancements like two hearts, an improved nervous system, a rock-solid cardiovascular system, increased soft tissue and bone durability, skin with the tensile strength of rubber, etc., and he’d have to keep those advantages a secret. At least, that was protocol according to versim rules. And until he figured out who the players were and what the story was, he was to keep a low profile.

  He waited a moment, watching the data scroll in his HUD, hoping his AI, Magdalena, would activate.

  The final system triggered. No AI.

  “I’m half blind.”

  A bearded man out for a hike with a carved rosewood walking stick led a boy with his own little stick. The man scowled at Hark, then continued past.

  Stop talking to yourself.

  He waited a minute and then returned the way he’d come.

  Still no mission. He was in-V and ready to go. But he needed … he spotted a shoe-box-sized object wrapped in brown paper and twine on the bench he’d just left. He sat back down, lifted the box, and shook it. No sound at all. Yep, that’s it, he thought. They’re going way retro on this one. No AI, no gear. I even have to read a physical message. Cheeky fellows.

  He tore it open and found a white sheet of ruled paper with a simple, printed message:

  Corner of 72nd St and Amsterdam. Female, attractive, celebrity, wearing a white blouse, Levis blue jeans, and silver pumps. She’ll be sitting by herself drinking a Mimosa. Walk up to her and say: “I’m the guy your sister told you about. Come with me.” Your mission: keep her alive.

  He read keep her alive four times.

  “That’s it?” He scanned the message again. “For how long?” He almost crumpled the paper. Instead, he read it once more. “Keep her alive. Thanks for the help.”

  He couldn’t believe they were pulling an in medias res insertion, starting him right in the middle of the action, with such little information. After being immersed, he liked to wait until his full memory returned before entering the drama. They always blanked the details for technical reasons meant to protect the integrity of a specialist’s cognitive architecture. He had no idea what he’d learned during his pre-immersion briefings, which usually wasn’t much. But specialists always gleaned a few things about the Rend-Vs they were about to be immersed in: who the principals were, what the narrative was, what the scripted outcome should be.

  He was still in the dark, and that made the job interesting. He tucked the message into his pant’s pocket and started walking.

  He crossed Central Park West at a busy intersection, multistoried buildings stretching away in both directions. Up the road he saw a perfect replica of The Dakota, where John Lennon was shot by a madman. He paused at the movement in the street: combustion-engine yellow cabs with actual drivers, unenhanced riders on antiquated bicycles, pedestrian traffic—it was all so well rendered he paused to enjoy the scene. Everywhere he looked, the details of a fully constructed world astounded him. He wondered if the arena for this drama would remain in the city. The amount of data for something with as many objects and characters as Manhattan was staggering. They had bigger Rend-Vs, of course, but … until his memory came back he’d just have to assume this on
e was a large one with millions of individuals.

  Prime time, as they used to say.

  He spotted an open-air cafe on a far corner. Darabont’s was a French brasserie, its name written in fancy indigo cursive on a glass window. The crimson canvas awning outside protected two rows of diners seated behind a gilt cast-iron fence. One couple had tied their chocolate Labrador outside, where it sat in front of a bowl and lapped clean water. Everyone appeared to be enjoying what looked like cocktails over brunch.

  Hark spotted his target sitting alone. She’d sought anonymity behind a white shawl tied around her head, a wide-brimmed hat, and reflective sunglasses—the sure mark of a celebrity. A champagne glass sat before her. Both hands rested on the table. He was guessing she’d just gotten the news. She was a typical principal protagonist, which meant she was an actual Rend-V actress contracted for this job. But she was asleep, which meant she didn’t know about her true identity or the fact her real body floated in a stasis vat. She was in-character. His bosses were cruel, and most principals (unlike specialists) were kept in the dark about their true identities during the entire drama. Verisimilitude is what they called it— or versim for short. Once in-V, you were either asleep like her, or awake like Hark.

  Poor woman, he thought. It’s about to get real. And I’m going to be the one she’ll rely on. So buck up, Hark, and take care of business. The world is watching.

  He walked inside a gate just as a white-shirted waiter in an ebony bow tie rushed by with a stainless steel tray of drinks.

  “Excuse, me,” the waiter said, as he skirted down the aisle. “We’re working here.”

  “Sorry, buddy. I won’t be long.” The woman looked up as Hark sidled to her table. “I’m the guy your sister told you about,” Hark said. “Come with me.”

  Her mouth opened so wide he could see down her pink gullet. She wore the kind of bright lipstick only the beautiful could pull off. Her skin was flawless. She had one of those long necks that meant she’d maybe been a ballerina. Two cords of muscles at her throat stood out in stark relief.

  “Better go now,” he said.

  She snapped her mouth shut and reached for the glass of ice water by her bubbly orange Mimosa. “I thought she was joking …—”

  “She wasn’t.”

  “Who are you?”

  “I’ll tell you, but it’s better if we do it someplace else—”

  She pointed at the empty seat. “Tell me here.”

  He watched her recover with such celerity he knew he was dealing with a professional. He didn’t recognize her, though, because they’d probably dampened that memory as well. She could be a huge Rend-V celebrity with a cult following that numbered in the millions. He could even know her personally.

  He sat and smiled.

  Charm, yeah, charm always works, he thought. Smile for the cameras, Hark.

  “Listen, doll,” he winced, but he kept smiling. He chided himself, remembering such language was unfashionable by this point in history. “I mean, ma’am, I’m here to protect you.”

  “Protect me from what?”

  He looked around, expecting the drama to start in some showy fashion. The scenarios they used him for were always exciting thrillers to draw ratings. The action would happen soon enough. He had no idea what or when, though, so he smiled.

  “What did your sister tell you?”

  “To go with you and do what you say. She told me it was critical. Is she all right?”

  “She’s fine.”

  “Then why?”

  Hark looked to his left. A man with pressed slacks and shiny Italian shoes sat alone at a table only three feet away. He was hidden behind an actual broadsheet newspaper—the kind made of real paper, black and white ink, no moving images. Hark grinned at the antiquated information delivery medium. On the first page was a story under the headline: Manhattan Predator Strikes Again. The sub header read: City in uproar over NYPD’s lack of progress.

  Serial killer Rend-V? Could get ugly.

  Hark was staring at a narrative clue, as sure as he was standing there. The directors liked dropping hints instead of doing a full memory dump all at once. As a specialist he’d eventually receive the most information of anyone in the Rend-V, but his bosses at EA kept even him in the dark. They had technical reasons, sure, but they also had their own agendas. And it was always something to spike ratings.

  The woman saw him looking at it. She relaxed. “Body guard? My sister hired a body guard.”

  He nodded, pretending. “That’s right.”

  “Why do we have to leave now? I was about to order.”

  He looked up as a delivery truck that had been parked at a light began to move. Behind it, down the street several blocks, hung a massive billboard on the side of a building. On a red field written in ivory, large letters the size of a human being read: WHO ARE THE VOXYPROG? It looked like a slogan for an upcoming film.

  Goosebumps stippled his skin. He almost reached for her glass of water to buy some time. He gulped and tried not to stare. He maintained his charming grin, enough that she didn’t seem to notice. The Voxyprog were a secretive martial organization in the real world. They protected an army of mystic hackers who programmed the Rend-Vs, the Sersavants. The very chair he was sitting in was the creation of some programmer who’d coded it, then passed it along the network, where it was vetted, then fed into the proprietary system that made these worlds real. That very last step was mysterious to Hark beyond the most basic level: a team of high-level cognopsychics immersed in stasis vats took the code from the hacker corps of Sersavants and fed it to the host. And overseeing it all was the Voxyprog, a martial order that never advertised who they were in the real world, much less in-V. Versim was being broken with that billboard in the most visible way possible.

  With a thought, he triggered all his bio systems accessible to him without his AI. He felt his senses sharpen, his heart rates steady, and his muscles relax.

  “We really should be going, ma’am.”

  “I want lunch.”

  He considered grabbing her arm. But that would cause a panic. And he didn’t want to start their budding relationship by acting like a jerk.

  Hark scanned his environment, allowing his HUD to tag everyone in data tiles that floated around them. Without Magdalena, though, he couldn’t translate the data as fast as he needed. So far, nothing was pinging danger-red. He triggered the mental command so that his energy carapace pushed out from his dermal layer an inch. The energy wafer embedded in his abdomen faintly vibrated. His fingertips sizzled, ready to explode.

  “It’s urgent,” he said. “We need to get out of here.”

  “I want lunch.”

  If it had to be in a public place like a cafe, that was fine with him. She was about to get yanked to her feet. He’d apologize later. He continued to scan. He spotted three men in sunglasses and blazers threading their way up the sidewalk a block away.

  “Show time.” He stood and grabbed her arm. “We’re leaving.”

  She yanked it away. “Don’t touch me.”

  He could have held on, but he didn’t want to hurt her.

  A few diners glanced their way. One gentlemen who looked like he could handle himself stared over his plate of poached duck.

  “My luck,” Hark said to the guy. “She’s a prima donna.” He leaned in close to her. “If you don’t get up and follow me. Those three tough guys,” he looked at the men moving up the sidewalk, “are going to kill you.”

  Her eyes widened and a tremble rippled through her. He gently grabbed her arm and hurried her down the aisle.

  2

  A block up the road, Hark turned left into the shadows of a narrow alley between two tall buildings. It was full of swollen, stinking, black plastic bags that would soon be taken to the curb. Several side entrances to the buildings provided steps to doors.

  “Hide behind one of those.” He led her to the steps and planted her behind them. She squatted in a pile of rotting cabbage. “Don’t say a wo
rd.”

  Hark stepped back onto the sidewalk where strollers walked by. He faced his attackers, allowing them to see him. He stepped back into the alley.

  He let his HUD run through their data. He read three men, well built, each over two-hundred pounds, all three carrying semi-automatic sidearms, all three with knives. Hark smiled at that. Let them pack the old stuff. Looked like two 9mms and a .357 magnum. Wouldn’t be a problem for him. He was about to make them regret waking up this morning. A red alert flashed in his HUD: one man registered several expensive bio enhancers, the kind only used in military special operations or high-tech Rend-Vs.

  Definitely antagonist principals, Hark considered, as he forced his energy carapace to expand. These guys are players.

  He stepped back a few yards.

  The three men appeared and faced into the alley.

  “Give us the woman,” one said.

  The speaker was on the left. Short, clean-shaven, professional. The one on the right was the dangerous one. Taller, thicker. Looked Russian or Eastern European with a wide face and a nose as flat as could be. Broken before. More than once. The middle guy was jumpy, looked like extra help.

  “What woman?”

  The one on the right dropped the smile. His hand moved inside his jacket.

  No patience. He’ll attack without provocation. He goes first.

  Before the man could withdraw his weapon, Hark stepped forward and blasted a three-foot energy spear from his right hand. It felt like living fire summoned from the depths of the Earth to funnel out in glorious carnage from his fingertips. The heat line caught Flat Nose in the neck, punching a three-centimeter hole straight through. The cauterized wound was clean enough to poke a pool stick inside. For a moment, the man stood at attention. Then he began to gargle as his blood leaked through the carbonized flesh. He used his fingers to try to keep it from gushing out. He crumpled to the floor. The other two reached for their weapons.

  Hark moved between them with such speed they both fumbled their draws. He felt the caress of the heat vents in his back splitting his skin, the thermal sinks venting air hot enough to burn. He hit them both with simple jabs augmented with six-inch spikes. One fell with an imploded heart. The other with a ruptured carotid.