Veneer

by Daniel Verastiqui

  Sebo made his share of appearances too, first showing up in the middle of seventh grade and then gradually coming to dominate the screenshots they had culled from various run and guns. He was tall, like Deron, but he had spent his early years at Dahlstrom Academy where the physical education program was more than just a suggestion. There was no telling what his original colors were since the first time they met he had been wearing some kind of neon veneer copied from a bad anime. It wasn’t a strange choice for a seventh grader; everyone was experimenting with something, doing whatever they could to set themselves apart.

  A quick double-knock made him roll over just in time to see his mom poke her head through the opening door. There was no sign of fatigue in her immaculate face; the only way someone would have known that Ania Bishop had just woken up was from the robe she wore and the rollers in her hair.

  “You’re going to be late for school,” she said, her feet remaining just outside the threshold to his room. “I made pancakes.”

  “Can I skip today?” He wrapped his pillow around his face to shut out the world.

  “Sure,” she replied.

  Deron pulled the pillow away to look at his mom. Sometimes it was hard to tell when she was joking.

  Ania clucked her tongue at the barely tasteful nudes occupying the corner by Deron’s desk. “I thought I told you I didn’t want that on the walls.”

  “It’s my room.”

  Putting a hand on her hip, she replied, “Yes, but it’s my house. If you want to live like that you can go stay with your father.”

  “Yeah right,” said Deron, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “He can’t even make pancakes.”

  “Maybe the whore knows how.”

  For a moment, Deron thought she was referring to Carina, the tall brunette who towered over his desk. It was his mom’s eyes that gave her away, that revealed hatred in a flicker of her veneer. Even after all these years, she was still mad that his dad had left her, left both of them.

  “Come on,” she said, putting her hand on the wall. Carina’s tan body shimmered and gave way to a surreal vista under a starry sky.

  Deron couldn’t say he disliked the new art on his walls, but that kind of virtual tourism was from his mom’s generation, not his. He was more interested in the video games, the violent and immersive simulations that molded innocent tweens into poorly veneered anarchists.

  “There’s bacon...”

  “Then I guess I have no choice.”

  Ania put her nose in the air. “Damn right you don’t.” A moment later, she was gone, the door tapping shut behind her.

  Part of him wanted to get dressed and go downstairs; the air was already thick with the smell of bacon. The other part, the side he almost always listened to, could only think of Rosalia.

  Deron reached over and traced a circle on the wall over the headboard. The pale amber faded away and a smaller version of his start page appeared in the portal. He clicked into his mailbox and brought up the three unread messages. The first one was spam, an invitation to a sim parlor that specialized in full-release sensory. Next was a calendar invite from Sebo; he wanted to go to Paramel on Saturday to play the new Destined 4 Death campaign.

  The third message was from Rosalia, and his thoughts of her turned the wall surrounding the portal into a collage of photos. Some of them were repeats from the photo stream; others were from a more candid collection. He found himself smiling at one subset where he had tried to reconcile Rosalia stripped down to her underwear, to nothing. None of them looked right, but he was too scared to ask her to help him clean them up.

  With a casual swipe, he cleared away the pseudo-nude photos and focused on the message. It was the usual fare: a good morning, a brief description of last night’s dream, and a suggestion of what they should do after school. She ended with a statement that made him sigh, just an innocent, “Hope you finished your reading last night.” She signed the message with love, as always.

  Deron wiped the wall clean and stood up. Stretching, he reached beyond the trees on the ceiling to the simulated heavens above. Somehow, the reconciled but natural colors of a wooded landscape and a blue sky beckoned him into the world. It wasn’t a scene that existed in Easton, not with its shiny skyscrapers and malls and carefully manicured micro-parks.

  His mind wandered, but too soon he was thinking about school again, about the exam and Rosalia and the shops.

  Shaking his head, Deron took the first step and set the day in motion. He grabbed a clean pair of underwear from his dresser and headed for the bathroom. Pausing at the door, he slapped the wall as if it were a malfunctioning vending machine. In the corner, Carina’s curves reappeared. With a few well-placed nudges, Deron managed to reconcile a smile onto her face.

  “Good morning,” he whispered.

  2 - Russo

  The J. Perion Tower had been vacant for almost a year, victim of an economy that seemed to fluctuate wildly under the mismanagement of the local government. It was one of dozens of skyscrapers whose construction had simply stopped, leaving a building that turned into a skeleton thirty floors up. Some furniture still remained in the few completed offices, though anything worth stealing had long since vanished in the night. The only occupants of the commercial monument were the veneers that brave vandals had reconciled on the inner walls.

  Russo Rivera stood in the alley just outside the back entrance and examined the new warning signs posted beside the door. They were the typical nonsense: no trespassing, private property, and a full recitation of occupancy laws. For months, he had been using the empty building as his home away from home, a place where he could practice reconciliation without anyone badgering him about the content. Until now, no one had tried to keep him out.

  “You think this means we shouldn’t go in?” asked Russo.

  Jalay Chapman shrugged without looking up from his palette. His finger darted across the screen, scrolling through a library of static images. He was six inches shorter than Russo and built like a compact bulldozer. Unfortunately, he had no coordination beyond his fingertips. He could draw and shop like no one else, but when it came to physical movement, he was a lost cause.

  “Do you want this by Spanish or not?” Jalay asked, irritated. He found a spot on the opposite side of the alley and leaned against it. Behind him, presence-sensing veneers kicked in and displayed a four by four grid of muted commercials.

  “Maybe someone else wants it for their playground,” Russo mused. He put out a hand and turned the warnings into gray boxes and then faded them to match the evercrete background. “If they don’t want people going in, they should put up some kind of sign.”

  Looking up briefly, Jalay muttered, “It’s probably locked.” When Russo touched the door handle, he added, “And alarmed.”

  Russo smirked and pushed the door open a few inches.

  “Silent alarm?” asked Jalay.

  “Let’s go inside,” said Russo, kicking the door open. He groped for the wall in the darkness and when his fingers connected, he pushed some light down the hallway.

  “We’ll be late for school.” Jalay hadn’t moved from his perch.

  Russo considered scolding his disciple for putting too much faith in school, but something about the hallway drew his attention inward. In previous visits, the walls had been blank, just floor to ceiling canvasses waiting for their veneers. Now, someone had reconciled them into reflective surfaces; he saw his own face perfectly, black eyes and all.

  As if sensing his need, the ceiling above him illuminated, enhancing the facing mirrors effect and allowing him to see deeper into infinity. A red-bordered box grew down from the top of the wall, moving and expanding until it settled over his face and flashed white. Russo smiled when he noticed it was holding his image captive.

  Turning on the spot, Russo walked back outside, muttering to himself.

  “What?” asked Jalay.

  “It was alarmed.” He paused for a moment, considered the strange occurrence of Jalay being
right. “It took my picture.”

  Jalay smirked. “Good thing you’re wearing that face today.”

  Raising his eyebrows a little, Russo replied, “Yeah. Shit, if they think they’re gonna catch me based on that picture, they’re out of their—”

  Movement at the end of the alley caused Russo's throat to tighten up. People had been passing by all morning, but only now did two figures step out of the crowd and take an interest. They looked just like everyone else, but the way they stared, the way they held themselves, spoke to some hidden danger. It became apparent a moment later when their veneers flared to reveal the black and blue uniform of the Easton PD. Russo's flight reflex kicked in, barely leaving enough time to warn Jalay, and even that took considerable effort.

  “Run!”

  Russo was surprised to see Jalay keep up with him as they sprinted down the alley. He had an odd, stop-motion way of running that looked awkward and inefficient. It allowed for a burst of speed, but Jalay wouldn’t be able to maintain it for more than a couple of blocks. It made Russo smile to see his friend begin to labor as they broke out onto the street. He wouldn’t have to outrun the uniforms today; he’d only have to outrun Jalay.

  They split up at the end of the alley and Russo headed towards the micro-park on Mills and 28th. There was light pedestrian traffic on the sidewalks, mostly early morning workers stalking their way to their daytime dungeons. Russo slipped between them nimbly, swapping out his appearance every few seconds to create confusion. As far as they were concerned, an entire group of impolite youths were pushing their way through the crowd.

  At Cole Street, Russo made a right turn and dashed across three lanes of traffic, prompting a chorus of honking horns from the commuters. Some asshole even stuck his head out of his car to yell at him, but Russo gave him the finger and ducked into an alley. When he emerged on Hancock, his eyes jumped to the flashing red text on the surrounding buildings. He cut left, glanced at the store windows to find notices on all of them, each with a picture of his face and a caption along the top that read Person of Interest.

  He kept to the alleys after that, darting into the open only when he needed to cross a street. Portaled boxes kept following him through the veneer, most of them blurry and indistinct beneath an overlay of his own face. At Cameron, Russo decided to hide in a news kiosk to catch his breath. There, he tried to calm himself, but his heart was beating too fast. The fight inside his body made Russo double over in pain. Collapsing onto one knee, he wondered how long it had been since he ran from the police.

  “Are you going to come out?”

  Russo started at the gravelly voice. For the first time, he noticed the shadows on the evercrete sidewalk, two rounded sections of black stretching across the entrance to the kiosk. One of them wavered as the uniform tapped his foot.

  “Are you going to arrest me?”

  “Yes,” said the uniform, drawing out the word. “You made me run. And I just had breakfast.”

  “Ouch,” said Russo, feigning sympathy. He cycled through various ways to escape the clutches of the law, but nothing seemed viable. “That doesn’t sound good,” he continued.

  “Not good for me. Worse for you.”

  “If it helps, my side hurts.” He was on autopilot, making conversation until the moment was right for him to burst out and make a break for it.

  “I thought you’d be in better shape than your friend.” He laughed to himself.

  The sound was unsettling. Its resonance suggested a thick neck and powerful lungs. Easton’s finest were notorious for being big and dumb.

  “Come on,” he urged, “we need to take a ride downtown.”

  He was playing cordial, but Russo knew it was just a veneer, a way to get him to surrender quietly. With an even voice, he asked, “Whatever happened to ‘you’ll never take me alive, Copper’?”

  “Sounds like a good way to get your ass shot.”

  Russo hurled himself out of the kiosk in a desperate bid to escape. For a brief and beautiful moment, the outside world seemed welcoming, drawing him from his temporary jail cell into a realm of infinite freedom. But as he moved, a massive forearm broke in from the left side of the frame.

  It caught him on the nose, blurred his vision, and sent him sprawling backwards to the sidewalk. He felt a strong hand grip him on the upper arm; it dragged him easily towards the street. A patrol car pulled up on cue and out stepped another brick house of a uniform.

  “You look out of breath,” said Brick, opening the back door for his partner.

  “The little fucker’s fast,” said the uniform, pushing on Russo’s head and forcing him into the car.

  Russo held his breath; it smelled like someone had recently puked all over the seat and floorboards. Only after the pain threatened to overwhelm did he venture a tentative gasp.

  “What’s your name, kid?”

  “George,” replied Russo.

  “What’s your last name, George?” There was a palette on the dashboard that showed Russo’s face. The uniform reconciled the name into a search box.

  “Washington.” When he got a tired look in response, he added, “Do you think this’ll hurt my political career?”

  “I don’t think you have to worry about any kind of career.” Then, to Brick, “What do you say? Failure to present identification?” He got a nod in response.

  “I cannot tell a lie,” Russo recited.

  “What,” the uniform asked, turning sideways in his seat, “you think you can just reconcile a veneer and no one will know it’s you? Don’t you think more people would be out robbing banks if that really worked?”

  Russo considered the question, but kept his face neutral.

  “I blame the schools,” he continued. “They teach kids to reconcile, but they don’t teach the limits.”

  They rode in silence for the next few minutes, giving Russo ample time to imagine what kind of technology they had downtown that would reveal his true identity. Impossible, he thought. Although he’d seen the inside of a police station once or twice, it was for minor infractions. They had never even taken his fingerprints.

  Outside, the TNC Bank building loomed as the car pulled up in front of the Easton PD. The uniforms dragged him out and escorted him to an empty holding area. Russo walked casually to a bench along the back wall and when he sat down, he saw the uniform still staring at him. Just for fun, Russo changed his hair color to green, then red, and then zebra. He got into a rhythm, had his whole body cycling through the spectrum. The uniform shook his head and walked away.

  The clock on the wall said it was just past eight o’clock. If he had gone to school, he’d be sitting in Geometry waiting for Mr. Holt to finally lose it and start openly groping Tina the Suck-Up. It was easy enough to imagine, to project onto the front of Tina’s locker in a drive-by reconcile, but to see it in person? Russo smiled, buried his face in the ample cleavage of his fantasy.

  Sometime later, the uniform returned with a man in a dark suit. He had one of those too-square jaws that made him look alien. The fact that he was a full foot taller than Russo didn’t help either.

  “Mr. Washington, this is Agent Eric Tavarez.”

  Russo’s throat went dry. If they were bringing in an agent...

  “Can we hurry this up?” asked Eric. “I’ve got a thing.”

  The uniform nodded and opened the cell door. He pulled out his baton and pointed it at Russo. “Now you stay put.”

  Russo wanted to say something witty, but he couldn’t take his eyes off Eric. The agent was staring at him intently, as if trying to see through him. Or through his façade.

  “Your palette, please,” asked Eric. The uniform motioned to the desk sergeant and had him bring over an EPD tablet. Eric held it for only a few seconds before handing it back. Without another word, he left the room.

  The pressure that had been building at the back of Russo’s head began to lessen, but the look on the uniform’s face kept relief at bay.

  The uniform studied the image b
efore turning the palette around and saying, “Mirror, mirror...”

  Russo’s mouth went dry as he took in the picture. Over the years, he had changed his appearance so many times and the reflective veneers had always backed up the lie. But this picture, it looked so strange, so foreign.

  He barely even recognized himself.

  3 - Rosalia

  There was nothing redeeming about the physical education program at Easton Central High School, not when Coach Baird’s idea of good exercise was to run in place for half an hour while a pastiche of inspirational landscapes scrolled by on the walls. It would have been better to get outside, have some fresh oxygen instead of the recycled air that smelled faintly of body odor. Still, Rosalia put in her time like an obedient student. If it wouldn’t have thrown her off balance, she would have closed her eyes and pretended she was somewhere else.

  The pretending part was easy; all she had to do was reach out and reconcile the wall into anything she wanted to see, though at the moment her mind was too foggy to imagine anything worth emulating. It was still early and her body was mostly asleep, going through the motions for the sake of a good grade. Like most mornings, she was just trying to survive, trying to deal with the aftermath of a night spent reconciling.

  Someone had to pay for the self-prescribed sleep deprivation.

  She smiled at that, thinking it was worth the trouble if she got to spend the majority of her time doing the things she wanted. The dazed fatigue of waking was better spent on first period P.E. anyway.

  The only moment of clarity Rosalia had had since she rolled out of bed that morning had been in front of the school with Deron as he lamented his inability to find time to read. That was typical; he was nothing if not a reliable procrastinator, though she did consider the alternative—that maybe he shared her desire to do the things that mattered, instead of those that had no true bearing on the world. That he hadn’t read the story was inconsequential in the larger picture. It was only necessary because he had an exam on it later. Without that test, the story became pointless, just a jumble of words on a palette.