Versim

by Curtis Hox

  He wished Magdalena was here to witness this. She always played the role of avid observer. She’d have had something witty to say about his performance.

  A few strollers stopped in their tracks. They gaped at the bloody bodies on the ground. Only a few seconds to get moving before they realized what had happened.

  Down the alley, Hark’s asset stood, both hands at her mouth. She was shaking her head in apposite disbelief.

  “I told you,” he said. She was looking at the pools of congealing blood and a nickel-plated gun that flashed in the sunlight as it fell from Flat Nose’s bloody fingers. “Don’t pass out.” He reached her before her knees buckled. He led her out of the alley. He waved a taxi at a red light. He jumped in as the light changed. “Let’s go.”

  3

  The ride downtown consisted of Hark staring out the back window while Celia Preston tried not to hyperventilate. She gripped the armrest on the door and a handle attached to the front seat as if her life depended on it. Neither said a word. The cabby was a turbaned Punjabi Sikh with a greased handle-bar mustache who listened to a Championship League match between Arsenal and Barcelona that sounded, truth be told, as if it were actually playing. He kept talking to the radio in his native language, as if that would help.

  Hark ignored him, each minute passing without Magdalena’s calm voice making him curse all the techno gods and their sycophantic Voxyprog lackeys who made the rules about Rend-V immersions. Celia’s name had come to him in a flash, which was helpful, but he had nothing else on her. For the first time he noticed what nice breasts she had. Her shirt was unbuttoned so that a hint of cleavage showed. He found himself staring at it, moving down to her tiny waist and hips that were meant for dancing and … all kinds of other things.

  He looked away before she caught him.

  “We … uhm … we,” she tried to catch her breath. “We should go to my apartment …”

  As intriguing as that normally would be for Hark, he shook his head. “That’s the last place we should go.” He watched her bottom lip quiver, a shaky hand at her mouth. She fumbled with her sunglasses. He helped her. “A hotel.”

  “Four Seasons. I have an account there. They know me.”

  “Won’t work if they know you.”

  He saw a renovated five-story hotel on a busy block of buildings with walk up rentals. “Right here.” The cabbie stopped. Hark looked at Celia. “Please pay the man, ma’am.”

  She fumbled with a small purse on her arm. She handed over a twenty.

  “Cash,” Hark said. “Quaint, but helpful.”

  It only took five minutes for them to book a simple room with a single made bed, a closed half-closet. The thick blinds were drawn. A flatscreen hung from the wall. The place was clean and put together well enough, but cramped.

  Celia walked straight for the tiny bathroom, shut the door, and sobbed.

  Hark closed and locked the hotel room door. He drew the heavy blinds aside and peeked out the window at a brick wall.

  He turned on the TV to a broadcast news station: something about trouble in the Middle East, Egypt in turmoil, Libya tottering, Syria attacking itself, the Arab League working with NATO. All ancient history from the real world and imported into this rendered one. The true technological Ruptures would make such socioeconomic troubles disappear as the developed societies turned their attention to a new dream of enhanced humanity and a new threat of smart machines. A hundred years after the Arab Spring, V-Theory would be on everyone’s lips as rendered worlds in the minds of cognopsychics became real. Hark listened with enough concentration to hear any clues, but didn’t pay much attention.

  Should have gotten my full memory and all my stuff by now, he thought. Think, Hark. What’s the scenario here? It can’t be a simple run-and-hide narrative. Those standards are played out. The industry is bursting at the seams with them. Come on, your last gig was as a super soldier fighting chaos demons in space. What could this retro V be in an old Manhattan? Maybe a romantic thriller? You keep her safe from some serial killer? But the Voxyprog never, ever advertise. And their name was out in the open where you could see it. Be careful, buddy. She’s attractive, but you don’t know if that’s a good thing or bad thing. Magdalena, where are you?

  One job they’d left his kit, of all places, under the bed … . He checked. It was empty, as was the closet.

  Celia opened the door. Her eye makeup was smeared but she still looked like a queen. Hark moved to a desk with a mini-refrigerator. He opened it and withdrew a chilled plastic bottle of water. He waved it at her.

  She shook her head.

  He popped the cap and drank half.

  “The Big Apple.” He smiled. “Nice to be here again.”

  She began shaking. He guided her to the bed. “What’s happening?”

  He settled down next to her, ready for the ‘Big Talk.’ This always happened in one form or another. When principal protagonists first expose themselves to a major conflict, shock always makes things interesting. The best performers are the ones who feel the deepest. He wanted to put his arm around her, not because she was so beautiful, but because he knew she was in this role because she was good, which meant she’d feel the drama deeply and express her feelings well. He looked around again, as if there might be a clue, or a hint of what was coming next. He wanted a full memory update so that he knew who she was and what they were up against. He wanted it soon.

  She managed to control her breathing. “I was supposed to go to my studio. I have a dance session. We hired a new choreographer.”

  “Not today. Sorry, but we’re hunkering down for a little while. Won’t be so bad. I’m a nice guy.” He smiled a big-toothed smile that usually made people feel better.

  She stiffened, looked at him as if he’d just cursed her mother. She inched away.

  “Who are you again?” She pulled her phone out of her purse. “My phone won’t connect.”

  He frowned.

  The Sersavant hackers loved to mess with people in-V like that.

  “What?” she asked, glaring.

  “Nothing.”

  “This is funny to you?”

  “Not at all.” If this were a romantic comedy, now would be a great time for a kiss. The ratings would love that. But maybe not so soon. If he knew what his bosses were hoping for (a heavy drama, or maybe something light and funny, something dark), he’d know how to proceed. “Look, I’m here to help you.”

  “With what? Who were those men you killed?”

  “Bad guys. They’re after you.”

  “Why?”

  “You’re a celebrity.”

  She nodded. That fib earned him some leeway. He hated starting off telling lies, but he had nothing to go on, and versim rules meant he couldn’t tell her the truth. She wouldn’t believe him, and it broke the cardinal ethos of the Rend-V industry that had become its slogan: It’s not Pretend in-V. It’s Real in-V.

  He eased himself away from her to give her space. He was practically blind and deaf without Magdalena and her updates. He needed information. He needed his gear. Without her he was doing this one alone. They’d already forced him into the conflict within minutes of his arrival. It was most likely a fast-paced thriller—

  A knock on the door startled Celia so much that she jumped to her feet.

  “Shh,” Hark said, finger to his mouth.

  Another knock followed by a voice outside the door: “You order pizza?”

  Hark pointed at the bathroom. Celia stumbled off the bed and into the bathroom, shut the door, and locked it.

  Hark breathed deep. All his systems were primed as best he could make them. His AbSys wafer embedded below his gut had fully recharged. He gave the command and expanded his carapace—half defense, half offense. He also directed energy to his fists.

  He yanked the door opened. In a blur, he snapshot the scene: a little guy wearing a dirty white-and-red pizza outfit, even a checkered hat. He carried a large pizza box that said Mino’s in red lettering. Hark snatched hi
m off his feet and tossed him across the room with one hand. He made sure to avoid the wall so that he didn’t kill him. The guy careened into the bed, which saved him a few broken bones.

  Hark kicked the door closed and was on him before he could protest. “We didn’t order any pizza.”

  The guy raised his hands as if he might stop an oncoming car. “Is this 2B?”

  “Yes.”

  “Shitballs, that’s what’s on the slip.” The guy began shaking. He wiped a greasy hand across his forehead. “You almost broke my neck.” His chest heaved. Hark could see a bit of sand beginning to form. “My goddamn neck!”

  “You’re fine.” Hark stepped back so the guy could stand. The directors also liked to introduce supporting characters right away. This one was definitely a natural human without a touch of aesthetic or physical enhancement. He looked more mouse than man. He’d be a perfect buffoon. He couldn’t be much more than 5’ 4”, tops. He had a bird chest and a huge Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as if trying to get out. His shoulders were narrower than his hips. He looked as if he had the typical anterior tilt to the pelvis that people who sat in front of computer monitors suffered. He also looked to be slightly pronated in the foot. “Who ordered the pizza?”

  “I don’t take the orders.” He sat up, hands on knees, scowling. “You gonna toss me around some more, or can I leave?”

  Hark looked at the open pizza box with the slices half up against the wall.

  We’re blown.

  He definitely had no idea what sort of Rend-V this was. He knew the antagonists were active and dangerous, but retro. Letting this guy go, under most scenarios would be the right move. In a few types of narratives, he’d have to make the hard decision about not letting him go. He just didn’t know yet if that was necessary.

  The guy continued to stare at Hark, his eyes wide with fear.

  “Oh, man,” he said and began rocking back and forth. “I knew I should have kept that temp job. I’m screwed. Why’d I come to New York to be an actor? I can’t act. I’m crispy toast.”

  “You’re an actor?”

  He nodded.

  Definite secondary character.

  “Take it easy,” Hark said. “I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to ask you a few questions.”

  “About what?” He continued to rock. “I stood in line last night, all night, for a role off Broadway, way off Broadway. I didn’t get the part.” Hark thought he’d let the guy talk, maybe trigger something in Hark’s memory or, if the Sersavant hackers were being pricks, make Hark have to interpret what he was hearing. “Third-rate production, no doubt. A rock opera about cowboy zombies.”

  Hark smiled at that. Sounded like something the Sersavants would be into. He bent down and grabbed a slice of pizza. He was always hungry after immersing. “What’s your name?”

  “Me?”

  Hark took a big bite. “Anyone else in the room?”

  “Frankie. Frankie Okes.”

  Hark paused in mid chew and almost asked, What kind of name is that? Instead, he continued chewing, acting interested.

  “So you didn’t get it?”

  “They laughed me out of there. I can’t sing very well, I guess. My luck, huh? And today, I have to ride a mountain bike with a bulky hard case on the back. Big enough to carry a watermelon.”

  Hark paused again, then swallowed. “That big?”

  Let it be. Come on, let it be.

  “Some Estonian kid’s. He was off today. Only bike available.”

  “You want to make a hundred bucks, Frankie?”

  Frankie perked up. “Who wouldn’t?”

  “Go down there and bring me whatever’s in that case.”

  “What if it’s locked?”

  “Get creative.”

  “No way, mister. Sorry, I need my job—”

  “Two hundred. If it ain’t my stuff, you put it back.”

  “Your stuff?”

  “Mine.”

  “How will I know?”

  “You’ll know … and if it is … trust me, you want to bring it to me.”

  Frankie edged off the bed. “Three hundred.”

  “You got it.”

  4

  Hark waited patiently. Celia peeked once. He waved her back inside the bathroom but gave her a big grin and a thumb’s up. He would bet the bank that Frankie was a player, maybe a small player, but a player. If he returned with something for Hark, he was definitely in the drama. Hark hadn’t gotten anything else after remembering Celia’s name, but he felt a pregnant sense of possibility. Something was coming, and soon.

  Frankie returned with a brown grocery bag, the type Hark had seen a million times in movies from this period.

  “What is this stuff?” Frankie asked.

  Hark accepted it and dropped the contents on the bed. “Yeah, baby.”

  His Consortium Skinsuit was folded into a neat square. He ran his fingers over the black, reactive material so highly prized that one suit cost more than most people made in a lifetime. He saw his Consortium Blaster, a personalized hand-cannon that would only fire for him and would do so with enough modulated power to punch a hole in a wall. His Assembler Kit was no bigger than a kid’s lunch box, but it would fit snuggly on his upper back and work wonders the twenty-first century only saw in science fiction books and films.

  “Frankie, you’re the man.”

  Hark slapped him on the back and made Frankie stumble forward. “Hey.”

  “Sorry.”

  Hark yanked the bathroom door open.

  Celia sat on the toilet. She wasn’t using it. But she still looked angry he’d just opened the door. “Ever heard of knocking?”

  “Oh, my fault. Sorry.” He stepped aside. “I need to get in here, ma’am. It’s for your safety.”

  She stepped out, still glaring.

  Frankie’s mouth dropped open. “Oh my god. It’s Celia Preston.”

  Hark shut the door as Frankie babbled about how much of a fan he was.

  Hark began to hope this was going to be a standard gig as he unfolded his Skinsuit. They hadn’t given him Magdalena. But he had everything else. This was looking like a retro high-tech thriller. Maybe his role was as some super agent the government lost track of. Maybe a time-travel narrative. Somehow the actress element was a big part of it. He was already praying it was a love interest. He didn’t mind working for the amorous denouement. In fact, he preferred it that way. She was vulnerable and beautiful, and he was here to protect her. He’d wait as long as she required for a first kiss.

  In seconds he dropped his pants and shirt and stepped into his Skinsuit. It adhered to his body as if poured on. The black-blue material looked reptilian in the florescent light. He ran his fingers over the tiny scales, feeling them constrict. With his carapace and Skinsuit he could run into machine-gun fire and come out unscathed. It was designed for far future Rend-V conflicts in which humanity battles demon hordes and twisted mechanized murdering machines. And sing all glory to heaven if they hadn’t sent him retro with his gear. He smiled at himself in the mirror, thinking this could be fun, after all. He was a hero to millions, so he practiced the grin he knew melted hearts, and nodded. Yeah, could be fun. He even ran his fingers through his wavy, brown hair to give it a disheveled style.

  He put his sweat pants, shoes, and jacket back on. The Skinsuit folded over his hands to form gloves. He kept the Blaster and AK in the bag.

  He opened the door and saw Celia sitting on the bed, Frankie in front of her. There was his sister, Krista Cole, standing in the open doorway. The simple fact of her presence caused Hark to gasp. All his hopes for a predictable job disappeared as he stepped toward her.

  “Krista!”

  She shut the door. She wore retro clothes: tight denim jeans with rust-colored stitching, some fancy urban boots with metal tips, a beige button up that fit her too tightly, in his opinion. They had rendered an in-V copy of her perfectly. She even wore her long brunette hair in thick curls so that they fell down each side
of her face. She appeared to be a city girl, maybe on her way to go shopping or to meet some friends for brunch.

  “Hark,” she said, crossing to him. She gripped his gloved hands. “Have they come for her yet?”

  He nodded. “Three. I took them out.”

  “Good, you jumped in just in time. The Voxyprog know you’re live by now.”

  Hark realized that if she were here … “How did you find me?”

  “We don’t have time for that right now. How much do you remember?”

  “Jack squat. I got her name. That’s it.”

  Krista glanced at Celia. In only a few seconds he watched his sister size her up. He felt pride in Krista’s capabilities. She was the prize of the family. Both Hark and his brother, Tripp, would tear down the world for her. And she would do the same for them. But with Krista, nothing was ever simple.

  “Things are off the rails,” she said, “big time.”

  “How are you here?”

  “I’ll explain it later. You just hijacked a Rend-V, Hark.”

  “What?”

  He stared at her beautiful face, the kind of face guys never got over. He’d seen enough of her boyfriends crumple into blathering messes when she eventually moved on. And she always tired of her lovers. She was an Entertainment Agency bleedover investigator with a skill set that most individuals didn’t even know existed. Krista had carte blanche access to any Rend-V in production. Her job was, officially, to determine when, how, and where assets from Vs bled over into reality. But, she was also a Spinner, he knew, even though she wouldn’t admit it. She did the miraculous on a daily basis, and he was as proud as he could be of her. He’d once seen her mumble a few cryptic words and make an aggressive man weak in the knees and teary-eyed. She used bleedover to benefit those who believed that Vs were as authentic as reality. In fact, Hark suspected that she was here for more reasons than she’d admit to him. And when she spoke the way she’d just spoken to him, there could be no doubt the situation was serious. She was his older sister, and she’d talked to him that way his entire life whenever V-Theory and its social impact were the topic.