Versim

by Curtis Hox

  “What did Dauk offer you?” Tripp asked.

  “Excuse me?”

  “For laundering his funds to Preston.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Come on. You can tell me. You’re helping a rogue Voxyprog intelligence officer and a controversial EA Rend-V director run an evil prick so that he can do his thing: Ervé Wrighter. You know the name. Everyone does. He’s a major antag. Major status. And he’s been on the run, until recently.”

  “I had no idea he was involved—”

  “Right, so you aren’t a fan. Let me guess what Dauk promised you. Access to a harem Rend-V. A week of dipping it in as much rendered snatch as you can. You into the twisted Vs?”

  That’s it, sir.

  Tripp didn’t need Sunni to see the slight change in the man’s face. Pizer Dauk had access to the deepest secrets in the Voxyprog fortress. He’d promised some sort of fetish dream you couldn’t get in reality. Tripp had seen it all. He would like to sit around and get this guy’s story. You never knew when you’d hear something original, like the tale last week of a guy who wanted his own Rend-V world full of fembots who battled to be in his bed at night.

  Tripp saw flashing lights outside the single window. The cops were clearing the space near the bar, a wide interior corridor with a thousand other shops. The small portion of the hive would be in lock down until they bagged the criminal.

  When the door kicked open, everyone inside dropped to their knees, hands up. Stormtroopers in black riot gear rushed in and locked on the booth. They made sure to keep their weapons away from Tripp.

  He stood slowly, sipped once more from his mug. “Arrest this asstard for funding illegal bleedover activity.”

  11

  Krista stood to the side of the shrine in a pocket of inky shadow. The shrine sat nestled in the nave at the end of a dim hall in which two lines of pillars ran on either side. Inside each pillar, large tapers that illuminated the place in flickering ghost light sat in niches lined with mirrors. Eager but quiet tourists formed a single line that inched toward the shrine before exiting through a side door. A few robed and cowled Sersavant ushers swung incense-burning censers, insuring that everyone spoke in hushed tones. Krista stood alone in a place reserved for people of her station.

  Krista stared at a golden sculpture in the round of a giant woman sitting cross-legged, her arms outward in a gesture of supplication, each hand in a mudra of serenity. The elephant-sized sculpture sat on a raised dais, around which tourists dropped curios: hand-scribbled prayers of intercession for certain characters; hints about how to make the narrative better; threats that if so and so doesn’t get something the entire story will fall to pieces; pictures of a favorite character; roses for the host.

  Behind the sculpture a holovid of Collides flashed into space, showing random scenes generated from the host inside. Nothing on Hark yet. That was being kept under wraps, even though word was spreading.

  All I need to do is pretend to be a fan, she told herself. No Spinner would ever be allowed to drop a prayer at a shrine. The Voxyprog are too afraid we’ll ask for just the right element to snatch control. I’m not so bold. But I do need something. I just have to be quick about it.

  Krista found herself staring at the golden shrine, its beautiful luster an effect designed to dazzle pilgrims. She bit back an urge to curse her moment of reverence. The magic of the immersed host, a cognopsychic in stasis working for a living, was explainable. Yet here she was staring wide eyed like the most devout pilgrim who’d traveled for a glimpse at this world maker.

  Inside, Celia Preston floated in an immersion vat, a living human suspended in warm biotic nano-liquid. She had been submerged for twenty years, dreaming her dream that gave life to the constructs in the Rend-V. Her imagineer mind was a prized tool valued in the trillions. She had been promised a small percentage of the sales of the Rend-V. According to V-Society pundits, her net-worth reached into the billions—just from her time as a host. A cognopsychic like her, when she finished, would command a legion of followers and continue her god-like status, as all the retired hosts did.

  And my job is to investigate what these psychics create when they bleed over into reality, she reminded herself. Without her, I’m unemployed. Worse, without her, ten years of work will disappear inside Collides. Without her I lose my library.

  Krista retrieved a tiny rolled up piece of paper from her pocket. She palmed it. Her AI, Atticus, just finished telling her how foolish this was, especially after Tripp’s message that a high-ranking Voxyprog official, Pizer Dauk, was funneling money and resources to controversial bleedover director, Miesha Preston. And everyone knew Miesha’s favorite principal Rend-V actor was Ervé Wrighter. They also knew how much Ervé hated Harken Cole.

  Krista glanced at the paper. On it, a few lines from texts written inside Collides—lines cribbed together in a particular fashion and done so for the effect they would have in the real world—would insure the safety of her project. She was staring at a genuine piece of bleedover lore. It was a spell, she’d admit, if someone forced her. Centuries of intellectual labor had gone into understanding this mysterious process. She had printed it on actual vellum, the fine hairs on the backside soft to the touch.

  When bleedover began to be noticed in the twentieth century, the world of narrative pushed into reality, changing texts, altering them, shouting to humanity to pay attention. Pioneers who risked everything learned how to take these altered texts and work miracles. They opened doorways into the world of narrative and traveled back and forth. They became known as Spinners. And she was one of them.

  Krista fingered the prayer spell. It was tied with a tiny vermillion ribbon. She pulled it tighter. What she could do now as a Spinner, though, made those early attempts look like child’s play.

  She was responsible for an entire archive of in-V-created objects like literature, visual art, music, etc. These pieces were created by constructed characters—persons without true legal representation. But their artifacts were electric with bleedover potential. An entire covert industry developed from a heated arm-race attempting to create new technologies for real-world service. And Krista was at the forefront. Everything she did, she did for the good of humanity. She had never sold a piece of lore for personal gain. What she handed over to her superiors she did so because she believed in their mission. That’s what she told herself to sleep at night.

  She closed her fist around the roll as three figures emerged out of the darkness. They were dressed in the ceremonial outfits of a Voxyprog soldier: armored bodysuits, pressure helmets, goggles around their necks. Each one carried a wicked sidearm on the hip. They also were enhanced physically to tower over people like Krista.

  “Inspector Cole,” the center soldier said. She was a broad-shouldered woman, thick in the neck—sure sign of a physio package. She looked like she could crush stones with those hands. “A word.”

  Another figure emerged from behind her, this one dressed in a flowing crimson robe brocaded in gold at the neck and sleeves. An older man, shriveled up like a raisin, but spry. His head was bald, his eye sockets sunken, his cheek bones prominent peaks in his face.

  Krista recognized, Pizer Dauk, now a senior Voxyprog intelligence officer by the medallion he wore on a chain around his neck. She was staring at the very man Tripp had verified was running a secret operation to insert Ervé Wrighter into Collides.

  All of Krista’s intel had warned her that the host was in jeopardy. She hadn’t known from whom, and when Hark said he had to enter Collides for reasons he wouldn’t tell, she knew Pizer was involved. Tripp had just confirmed it, and verified that Miesha Preston was involved. Now that Ervé was involved, she feared she was dealing with something much larger than some minor bleedover between Rend-Vs. Hark had defeated Ervé in a prior narrative, and Ervé held a grudge.

  “I had a feeling you’d be coming,” he said

  “Here I am.” Krista led him back into shadow, leaving the guards behind. She slip
ped the prayer roll into a pocket. “Collides is doing well, no?”

  Pizer nodded. “I’m guessing you’re part of the unauthorized intrusions.”

  “We’re trying to help.”

  Pizer’s head cocked. “You Spinners … do more than help.”

  “This time, it’s straight up protection of the V, and our assets inside. Hark has his own reasons. But don’t pretend you aren’t aware of why I’m involved.”

  “You know,” he asked, “why your brother has risked everything to find the host?”

  “Intelligence is still coming in. We found your own unauthorized insertions. I wonder what your bosses would think of your little project to flip the V?” Pizer tilted his head in the perennial sign of touché. She said, “We know Miesha’s involved. And Ervé.”

  “She’s brilliant. And he’s deep as we speak. He moves fast, that one.”

  “And he’s going after the host. Why would you encourage that?”

  Krista watched a subtle touch of emotion ripple across Pizer’s face. The old Sersavant had been a Voxyprog for too long, his initiation into the techno mysteries happening decades ago, if the rumors were true. Krista had met him when she was still being recruited across the Consortium branches for her interfacing skills. She had a top-notch intellect package, and the EA Intelligence Office had won the contest for Krista Cole. She could have been a specialist like Hark, a repo like Tripp, or any other of the top jobs. She could have been a Sersavant cognohacker and dipped her mind into the boggling science of how the Vs were generated. Krista and Pizer weren’t that different. They had even shared a few drinks once, before she’d become a bleedover inspector and fell among the Spinners.

  Now they were on opposite ends of things. Pizer’s life was dedicated to unleashing the impossible in the rendered Mindworlds, Krista’s to reigning it in when it bled over into reality. But today they both had the same desire: making sure Collides was under their control.

  “You’re involving yourself because you have to,” Pizer said. “You Spinners always have an ulterior motive. I know about yours.”

  Krista paused to consider how much to tell him. The currency that kept order in a world where humans could turn narrative into reality was clandestine intelligence over the technologies that made it happen. The Coles were as deep in the industry as any family, and Hark had mucked things up a few weeks ago and put her most important operation in jeopardy.

  Pizer must have seen the look of annoyance. “Does your brother know about the library in Collides?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “You should tell him to get out before it’s too late.”

  “Too late?”

  Pizer moved in close. And for the first time, she could see how he’d aged. The anti-senescence treatments usually worked wonders, but Sersavants always aged faster than they should. “It’s bigger than you think. EA has been manipulating him from the beginning for this big show.”

  “EA? I know you’re running Miesha. That means the Voxyprog’s involved. But EA? I would have heard something.”

  “Miesha’s talented, and bold,” he said. “She’s been behind the project from the start. Miesha came up with the idea of snagging Hark for her own reasons, convinced EA to snare him with that silly contract, and then waited years for her plans to come to fruition. She wants Hark for her big plans, and now she’s got him.”

  “That means you’re directly allowing Ervé Wrighter to taint the entire V.”

  “Taint?” He smiled wickedly because he obviously wanted her to know they both considered that a silly concept. “Would it matter to you if it flipped?”

  She knew it wouldn’t matter. They could turn it into a flaming hellhole, so long as her operation was protected. “Not at all.”

  “I didn’t think so. Tell Harken to get out. Ervé will still have his twisted world. The personal vendetta narrative doesn’t have to play. Tell him. Before it’s too late. My gift to you. Miesha will have to accept it.”

  “I will.”

  Two other high-ranking Voxyprog officials walked by. Pizer stiffened.

  “Have you enjoyed your time, Inspector Cole?” he asked, his voice now formal and critical. His eyes roamed everywhere but to Krista.

  “Almost done here.”

  He stood still, while his eyes moved, almost as if they were unconsciously scanning the room. The other officials paused, pretending not to be interested, then continued on their way.

  Krista edged closer to the shrine. “One thing to do.” She brandished the piece of paper, then tossed it as far as she could. It hit the shrine, fell, and landed among the hundreds that had been dropped there today. “I’m done.”

  She grinned.

  Pizer turned his head, as if he could melt the paper by just looking at it.

  The soldiers glared. But none of them intervened.

  “Ballsy,” Pizer said.

  “Shrine prayers are sacrosanct,” she reminded him.

  “No one will remove that request before it’s been scanned and processed. Our host is traditional. She listens to all prayers in the quiet of her dreams. Some she even answers.”

  “I hope she listens to mine.”

  “Care to share?”

  “A heretic, Pizer? Really”

  “I think for myself.”

  “Good for you.” She waited, eyebrows raised. “Eaten lunch?”

  “You dropped some Spinner lore on the shrine, didn’t you?”

  Krista smiled. “And no fiery hand of the Artificers has smitten me, has it?”

  Pizer returned the smile. “I’m a heretic just for listening to you. Lunch can’t hurt.”

  “Not usually.”

  “Tell me what you asked of our host.”

  “Asked?” She waited as Pizer paused, the familiar look crossing his face of someone standing before a Spinner and realizing the truth of what she does. Pizer’s eyes flickered with fear. “I’m sure you’re aware of the importance of the New York Public Library in Collides.”

  “It’s unofficial policy to leave it alone.”

  “I want it protected, no matter what.”

  “Of course you would.”

  12

  “It’s worse than we thought,” Tripp said. He sat on his cot, hands behind his head, legs straight. Around him, the equipment blinked and hummed.

  Krista had just walked in. She looked flustered. “I know.”

  Tripp righted himself, placing his feet on the floor. “What do you mean you know? I thought you were just dropping off one of your magical pieces of paper.”

  Sammy was in the other room, peering into Garce’s vat. He had on headphones, listening to whatever data the unenhanced listened to for information.

  Krista stood with arms crossed in a warning sign that everyone knew meant she might go ballistic.

  Tripp loved it when she got like this. Hark was the clown everyone adored and who always came up glowing because he also had a “heart of gold,” as Mom liked to say. Krista was their older sister who would stomp the lilies in a brand new garden just to kill the bugs. Tripp, he was the realist who never looked away from what was before him. And Krista appeared troubled. Someone’s garden was about to be messed up.

  “What happened?”

  Krista moved to her cot. “I dropped the prayer. It’ll do its job. It’s a little warning that if my library isn’t protected, Celia Preston in her immersion vat might start having some headaches. I hate twisting a cogno’s arm that way. But it had to be done. Also, I ran into Pizer. Must have known I was coming.”

  “He have information?”

  “Not much, but the Voxyprog know, and they’ve got their hacker corps onto us.”

  “Shit.”

  “We have to be careful. Like you said, Pizer’s got Miesha Preston on the payroll as a director, for sure. He’s backing her and allowing her to run Ervé for her own ends. Miesha’s got a green light with some elements in the Vox. I think they want to rewrite versim rules. That means the entire V coul
d flip. I’ve got to protect it.” Krista nodded her head, another sure sign she was going to that scary place.

  Tripp edged knee to knee with her. He grabbed her hands. “I know what you do. I know who you are. We both have the same goals. But Hark’s involved.”

  Her hands gripped his, and she looked into his eyes. She was his big sister, and she’d backed him so many times. But now it was his turn. He couldn’t turn away from the fact she was a Spinner, even if it was off the books. Her clandestine organization’s existence was denied by every official branch of the Pan Allied Consortium. She claimed she wanted to protect society from the ravages of bleedover. But, some whispered, Spinners used bleedover for their own agendas. Something about all this made him think Krista was involved. But she wasn’t telling.

  None of that mattered now that Hark’s life was on the line. Not for Tripp and, he knew, not for his sister.

  “Whatever you need, from me, Krista,” he said, “you got it.”

  “My bet is they want to flip Collides to prove a point. It’s about political power between factions in EA and the Voxyprog. Pizer’s in it for his own unknown reasons. Miesha wants to further her radical aims. And Ervé wants to hurt Hark. I have to dig because I fear they’re immersing in Collides for more than a Rend-V catastrophe.”

  “We have to be careful,” Tripp said.

  “It’s bigger than we thought.” She lay down on a cot. “Sammy, let’s go.”

  Tripp laid himself down as well. “See you inside.”

  13

  Miesha Preston sat in her old Upper Deck bedroom watching the staid Rend-V for which her mother had left her. She sat cross-legged on the carpeted floor in a thick, cotton bathrobe, her head wrapped in a towel. Around her, she’d lined every inch of her room with digital imagery from popular Rend-Vs. This was the room she’d grown up in. And it hadn’t changed in years. Her mother’s image dominated. She’d once thought of it as her gilded cage, this bedroom she rarely now visited.

  A wide holovid projected a paused 3D image from the wall. It showed a wide shot of Times Square from Collides. In it, Specialist Harken Cole stands on a sidewalk, getting ready to cross a street. She was watching it live as a regular viewer, just to check up on the narrative.