Versim

by Curtis Hox

  Hark ripped open the package. Inside the box was a glossy black and white EA principal-character photo of Ervé Wrighter: it showed him lurking in a dark corridor, obvious menace in mind. Hark had arrested him in that role before sending him to a prison Rend-V. Ratings had soared but his cult fan base had gone ballistic their hero was placed in solitary ten miles under the surface of a fire world. Ervé seems to be smiling in the photo, as if he knew someone was taking a still shot of him.

  19

  Ervé Wrighter emerged in Washington Square Park underneath the Memorial Arch. He glanced at the moon, a large glowing saucer in the sky. He felt the cool night breeze and even imagined he smelled the water off the Hudson. Something about these retro Rend-Vs invigorated him. Made him feel alive, especially after the years away from the action.

  Thank you, Miesha, for making this happen.

  He strode forward into the park. It was deserted at this late hour. He saw a couple of homeless persons curled up in the shadows beneath a row of hip-high shrubbery, one man wrapped in a dirty sleeping bag, another in black plastic. He passed them on a concrete path toward the central area dominated by a dry fountain, reminding himself to return for them later. He scanned, looking for more recruits. He would build his army here. He needed …

  He saw three men not far away under a burnt-out street lamp.

  Two wore hoodies. The other wore a bubble jacket, even though it wasn’t cold. This one scratched at his neck vigorously, obviously in need of a fix.

  Ervé approached. The junkie shimmied aside, but defiantly stood his ground.

  The other two sized Ervé up in an instant. One was short, skinny, with thin lines of clean facial hair that framed his jaw, looked like a Puerto Rican with an attitude. His buddy in crime could have been dirty white from south Boston, or just some kid up from the suburbs.

  “Sup,” Shorty said.

  “You guys want to make some money?” Ervé asked calmly.

  Dirty White grinned, crossed his arms like a thug. “What you think, we drug dealers?”

  “I think you look like men of potential.”

  “Son,” Shorty said, stepping forward. “You want to get movin’, ‘for it gets real.”

  Ervé grinned at these two insignificant sociopath constructs who had no idea who was standing in front of them. The junkie kept eyeing Ervé as if he knew his night was about to get interesting.

  “Right,” Ervé said. “Here’s how this goes—”

  “You a cop?” Dirty White said, now standing with his chin up.

  “No, no, no. I’m the Devil, boys, and I have a task for you.”

  Ervé mumbled a string of words that sounded like some foreign lullaby. Miesha had promised him a plethora of dark-fantasy-trope tools of such devious quality he’d never stop thanking her. He heard each syllable fill the night air, causing each young man to scrunch up his face.

  Ervé had played several key principals in his time as a leading villain. Once, he’d wowed audience as a lovable cannibal who delighted fans eager to see him serve up victims at his bed and breakfast. He’d also been a space pirate, a gothic monster, a tender foot among the savages, and a lone vigilante against the world. This last role he’d been proud to play, even though Harken Cole made it personal when he’d placed Ervé in that hole.

  He watched the men’s eyes glaze over as the spell worked.

  Ah, to have such power in the real world like the Spinners …

  Miesha’s intoxicating project to take such miracles from the Rend-Vs and make them real was a worthy task equal to any in human history, even grander than the mystical fabrication of these rendered Mindworlds. Ervé was a legal person with forty-two years lived inside Rend-Vs, the last few years of which were spent in prison, but he believed he was as real as anyone else, and his rights were being denied to him.

  And this entire Rend-V will burn to the ground when I’m done with it, he thought. And out of its ashes, I’ll raise an army.

  All three men stood at attention, a dull look in their eyes, as if they’d been hypnotized.

  He waved his hands before them, flickers of light extending like living things and falling on the three men like snowflakes. Each began his transformation instantly.

  The junkie doubled over, a single scream echoing as his constructed life, wasted on simple chemical highs, expired. His body mutated before Ervé’s eyes into a distended and reeking thing of stretched and bloated tissue that would infect anyone who came within five feet of him.

  Dirty White roared once, as the beast inside all rational creatures pushed outward with inexorable celerity. Every inch of his body sprouted, thick, animal-like hair. His face grew a maw, like a predator’s, with the requisite teeth. But he remained upright. The claws that formed on his hands made him stare in wonder at them, the last remaining bit of reason a flickering light that understood what he’d become.

  Shorty turned into an undead thing in a manner of seconds. He stood walleyed, stiff, his mouth hanging open. Flies would soon begin to alight on his tongue. He would be a rotting mess by tomorrow, when he’d begin to lust for the taste of living flesh.

  “You are warriors now, fidels alta mastana Ervé.” Each eye glowed a sinister red as the nanoengines finished their rapid work. Any constructed character with low-level security who looked into them would be infected. “Yes, you are mine, now, boys. Spread the word. Harken Cole. Harken Cole. Harken Cole.”

  The city would be Ervé’s in a few days.

  Now for some fun, he thought. If people are watching, I might as well give them what they expect from me.

  Ervé began whistling and walking.

  He withdrew a semiautomatic handgun. He glanced at it and realized he had never held such a thing. Miesha had promised him the gift and simply said:

  “Fifteen shots.”

  Ervé walked up to the sleeping homeless men and fired twice.

  The ignited gas that shot out of the end was a brilliant white. The sound was so loud birds launched into the air from all the trees in the park. Holes punched through the sleeping bag and plastic. He must have shot true because the victims underneath stopped jerking after a few seconds.

  He returned the weapon to his jacket pocket, turned toward the exit of the park, and went looking for late-night strollers. He saw two women in skimpy club gear, high heels, hair done up. They’d just exited a cab and stood outside a building, using what looked like a money machine.

  One of the women smiled at him as he crossed the street toward her.

  He withdrew the gun and fired twice, both women crumpling, blood splattered all over the wall of the building. The cab slammed its breaks. Ervé turned toward it, but it sped off. He breathed deep and grinned.

  “I do believe I’ll like it here.”

  He rounded the corner, gun hidden again, and went looking for eleven more victims.

  20

  An hour before dawn, Hark stood in the suite’s kitchen, pouring pancake batter onto a hot pan. Translucent lines of his HUD hung muted in space. His carapace had retreated to dormant mode. He felt his Skinsuit ripple along his body as it continued to reform itself. His vitals were stable, although he felt like he’d been tossed in the air by a rodeo bull. The skin of his face had healed, one definite benefit of life in a Rend-V. He couldn’t sit still any longer, so he decided he’d make everyone breakfast.

  Frankie woke up first, hair akimbo, his pizza-delivery shirt twisted half way around his body. He wandered into the kitchen like he’d partied all night. The right side of his face was stippled with carpet rash.

  “Dopamine depletion ain’t no fun,” Hark said with a sympathetic smile. Frankie’s eyes were glazed, his skin fish pale. “I’ll fix you up a nice cocktail that’ll have you smiling in no time. But you need to eat first. Sit.”

  Frankie plopped himself onto a stool at a counter that ran across the kitchen. Hark grabbed a glass, opened the refrigerator, and poured him some hotel orange juice from a crystal carafe.

  “Fresh sque
ezed,” Hark said. “I called up just for you.”

  He set the glass in front of him.

  Frankie burped and took sip. “I feel like my body’s full of sand.”

  “Your brain was firing on full go for quite some time. Sorry about that. But you did well, soldier.” Hark pointed at the glass. “Drink up. I got food coming. You want something while we wait. Toast? Banana?”

  Frankie scratched at the device in the chest. “I was dreaming this wasn’t happening.”

  “It is.”

  Hark turned his back on him and returned to the pancakes. He listened to Frankie mumble about all the “fly dope” that had happened.

  A stabbing pain made Hark pause as Frankie exclaimed how awesome his life had suddenly become. Hark nodded and agreed, even though he knew the young man had no legal right to live, that he’d been constructed (probably as a cookie cutter Krista upgraded a few days ago) to play a basic role in the Rend-V. His twenty years or so of life had been false, in the sense of happening, and his life could be snuffed out in an instant. Hark felt a moment of anguish that soon Frankie would realize he couldn’t remember what junior high was like, then high school, then …

  “That’s some amazing government hardware you got there,” Frankie said. Hark looked over his shoulder. Frankie managed a knowing grin. “What is it again?”

  Hark straightened, knowing he was asking a direct question about his Skinsuit. More deflection meant more guilt later. Breakfast was going to make everyone feel better. He needed them chipper so they could hear the news, especially Frankie and Celia.

  “The government has all the best stuff.”

  “Come on, I heard that already. What was all the business about the twenty-sixth century?”

  “Can’t talk about that.” Hark flipped a pancake. He could hear it in Frankie’s voice: the devotion, already a perfect sidekick. He almost thought, as if someone had made it happen, but someone had made it happen. His sister Krista had, to help Hark, sure but also to remind him of the cost of his idealism. And, if he knew Krista, for some reason of her own.

  Hark yanked open the refrigerator too hard, and a plastic bowl of butter popped out. He caught it before it hit the ground.

  He heard someone approaching. Binda had slept on the couch. Her blue hair stuck to the side of her face, but she looked good enough. In fact, she could walk out on the street right now and not get stared at for the wrong reasons.

  “Toothbrush?” she asked.

  Hark pointed to a half bathroom down the hall. “I asked for four.”

  She grimaced at Frankie but said nothing before walking off.

  Hark heard the coffee machine begin to percolate water into the pot. The smell of crushed beans filled the air and reminded him of calmer days. He never drank coffee in Rend-Vs. Never. It was too much of a domestic activity. He was a high-action, thriller specialist. He rarely had time to drink coffee. One Rend-V he was dropped in for a three-month stint. He’d woken up with broken ribs in a body limited by minimal physio enhancements. Nothing like he had right now. He had to run through a jungle, all busted up, chasing down a mad killer who’d kidnapped a woman. He caught the man, of course. His bonus was huge, especially since he’d accepted the broken ribs clause.

  Celia approached. She had already showered and looked as fine as she did the day before. She stood formally a few feet away. “My sister’s not answering. We should call the police.”

  “Coffee?” he asked. “I’m making pancakes. We have fruit. Why don’t you sit?”

  “What is that … getup you’re wearing? And what happened in the street yesterday. You look fine now.”

  “I’m good, ma’am.”

  Celia sat next to Frankie. She had wrapped her shawl around her neck, hiding her breasts. She looked like a Parisian fashionista next to Frankie in his grimy pizza uniform.

  He saw her glance at him. “I need to shower.”

  “After breakfast,” Hark said.

  Binda rounded the corner and slid onto the last stool. “Hey.”

  Hark set glasses in front of them and began to pour OJ. He set three plates. One by one he dropped a stack of pancakes on each plate.

  He handed Binda a plastic container of maple syrup.

  “Dig in,” he said.

  Hark stood with plate and fork in hand, eating as deftly as if he were sitting. He leaned against the fridge and smiled, pretending that this was about to be over. He joked that Frankie was the luckiest guy in the world to be sitting between those two. Already, Hark could tell Binda would go in the back room with Hark right now for a little fun, if he wanted it. Oddly, Celia hadn’t so much as smiled at him. He usually had the women swooning after this much time in his presence. Even the ones who pretended to hate him showed signs of interest. But this wasn’t your typical job. He’d get no bonus for the amount of high-intensity romance he produced. The sex always had to wait until the end. What people really wanted to see was him work for it (except for the perverts, of course).

  Not on this one, Hark, thought. No playing around.

  Celia barely touched her food. Frankie ate all of his. Binda was nearly done.

  Hark flopped another cake onto Frankie’s plate and even poured the syrup for him.

  “My name is Entertainment Specialist Harken Cole,” he said. All eyes snapped up. “I’m here for a specific purpose.”

  “Entertainment specialist?” Frankie asked. “What is that? Is this some new reality show?” He looked around, straightening. He ran his finger through his hair.

  Celia cocked her head, a sly grin. “Entertainment …?”

  “It’s not what you think—well, a little.” They both smiled, while Binda kept her eyes down. “Might as well get to it. Frankie, it’s the red pill, right?” Frankie nodded. Hark glanced at Celia. “This might be a shock, to both of you. I’ll start with Frankie. Frankie you were constructed by the Entertainment Agency as a cookie-cutter personality and inserted into the Collides Rendered Entertainment Adventure with false memories of your childhood. Your entire life has happened in the city, hasn’t it?” Frankie nodded. “You ever been to Florida?” He shook his head. “I didn’t think so.”

  “Cookie-cutter personality?” he asked. “False memories?”

  “Since you grabbed your alarm clock yesterday, the false memories have begun to fade. You’ll soon only remember who you are from day one inside the V.”

  “How long ago was that?”

  Hark continued to smile to hide the ache he felt for Frankie. He liked the kid, sure did, and he hated to wake him up like this. But the truth was important for all of them.

  “Not sure, Frankie. We’ll figure it out soon enough.”

  Hark turned to Celia.

  Celia sat rigid, as if she might slide right off her stool. Her lips were pursed and her eyes beady. “This is too much. I’m going to kill my sister.”

  Frankie glanced at both women. “What do you mean, cookie-cutter personality?”

  Binda faced him. “I’m a biologically born person with unstamped chromosomes, like Celia. I paid to enter this rendered world and live here. I like these retro Vs. I’m also a hopeful actress. And I just got my big gig. You, Frankie, are …”

  Celia glared at her. “You’re an actress too?”

  “You said you wanted the red pill,” Hark said to Frankie, hands out in a supplicating gesture. “I’m a narrative-student. I study the old ones. Epics, tragedies, I even read real paperback novels, when I can find them. I know you’re going to think I mean this is a simulation and that you’ll wake up somewhere else. The harsh reality is it’s not, but I know your makers, Frankie.”

  “It’s twenty-five twelve CE,” Binda said. “And the world is not … like this.”

  Celia smiled now. “The future? You’re from the future.”

  “We’re from the present,” Hark said. “No time travel. You just don’t realize it. You live in a theater.”

  Celia began shaking her head. “Thanks for breakfast, but I think I’ll b
e leaving now.”

  Frankie stared ahead as if enthralled. “I need to lie down. That action figure I found … I thought it was a dream.”

  He stood on shaky legs, walked to a couch on the other side of the suite, and fell into it.

  “He’ll be alright. Let’s give him some time. Binda, can you get that little black box of mine in the other room?” Hark asked. “Frankie needs some meds.”

  She nodded and walked off.

  Celia crossed her arms. “You want to tell me what’s really going on? You some sort of radical marketer? Am I being auditioned?”

  “I wish.”

  Hark inhaled a deep breath. He considered his next move carefully. Once he said the words, her mind would start to open to the truth. Her alarm clock would become available. She’d either wake up or not, depending on if she sought it out and found it. But, he had to start the process. That was his task. And for some inexplicable reason known only to them, EA was forcing him to do it, even if it meant shutting down the Rend-V. They were probably making a killing, every minute, as he stood there, the sales ramping up. Say the words, and she’ll feel the weight of the truth.

  “Celia Preston. ‘The lilies of Dover sway toward the eastern shores of Albion. The dream fades, Celia. And the roar of pebbles remind you evermore of home.’”

  His breath caught in his throat as the transformation rippled across her face. Her hands curled into balled fists. Her cheeks sucked in like a bulimic’s. Her eyes bulged. Her jaw nearly unhinged. She rattled out a long breath. A faint moan followed.

  He continued: “Your real name is Celia Preston, a versim touch they use for hosts like you.” Her brow knit. “Your actual body is floating in a popular stasis vat in the Voxyprog fortress. You’re in a shrine, actually, worshipped because of this world you generate. Your mind, Celia, is a powerful asset the Entertainment Agency uses to profit from all of this.” He raised his hands and looked around the apartment. “It’s all real, though. It’s not a simulation, but you’re being watched by millions. And right now, we’re the focus.”

  “What … did you say? Those words? Something about the lilies of Dover …”