Veneer

by Daniel Verastiqui

  Ten years, thought Russo.

  Fuck that.

  Above the elevator doors, a dormant portal began displaying numbers, incrementing before finally stopping on twelve.

  Big condos in a small footprint, only six apartments per floor.

  Russo smirked, waited the requisite five minutes, and pressed the call button.

  19 - Sebo

  It was only a few minutes before the cold drove Sebo and Deron back to Paramel Terminus. The flashy graphics of the Chinese eateries on the south end of town would just have to wait until next time. It wasn’t such a terrible fate; the transit station was home to many convenience shops and food kiosks that could whip up an eighty percent approximation of whatever meal they desired. The concessions comprised a neat row on one side of the holding pen where Sebo sat with one leg crossed over the other and arms folded in an attempt to warm his body. His eyes were on the large portal above the security gates showing the arrival and departure of various trains and busses. One line was for Easton, with a departure time of eleven-thirty.

  On one side of the veneer, Sebo was happy to be out of a cold that had turned frigid while they were playing Swarm Survivor. On the other, it felt like a waste to come all the way to Paramel and not spend every moment of it in a sim parlor or at one of the many adult-themed sensory shops. There was one store in particular that he enjoyed, a place called Natural Designs that sold full-wall veneers that at the right angle looked three-dimensional. The illusion made the viewer think that the room extended further into the wall and the extra area just so happened to contain a young woman suffering from Agora- and Vestiphobia. She would sit at her desk or watch television or sometimes even just stand in front of the wall as if there were an invisible mirror between her and the viewer. But like all great advances in pornography, it cost over four grand, leaving Sebo with no option but to wait until it went on sale.

  Browsing the local shops was also a great way to avoid The Shakes. It kept the body moving and the eye processing data, activity that was important if he wanted to stave off the inevitable backlash against the drop in sensory input. Whether it was blended reality or full immersion, simulations had a way of over-stimulating the brain, feeding it so much data so quickly that when it stopped, it caused an involuntary panic in the player. Sebo could already feel his fingers twitching under his arms and the more they shook, the harder he pressed down on them. Food would have helped, but a quick glance showed the lines were already too long. The discomfort would have passed by the time he got back to his seat.

  Deron didn’t seem to have any problems with sensory withdrawal, though he had lapsed into a pensive mood again. He was holding a slice of pizza and studying it as if it were a work of art instead of a greasy amalgamation of dough and synthetic cheese. Or maybe that was how Deron dealt with the aftereffects, by withdrawing from the world, closing up shop for a short time while he mourned the loss of data. Sebo watched him for a few minutes until the spell finally broke and Deron took a bite of his slice. He chewed thoughtfully.

  “Is it good?” asked Sebo.

  “It’s not Kung Pao chicken,” said Deron, taking another bite. He used his napkin to wipe the sides of his mouth. “But what is?” he mused.

  “I suppose it would be the intersection of two sets: chicken and the Kung Pao preparation style. Just like how pizza is the intersection of pepperoni, cheese, tomato—”

  “And ovens.”

  Sebo nodded. “And ovens, yeah.” He pulled his hand out and examined it; the tips still trembled, so he shoved it under his armpit again. “It makes me wonder if simulations are ultimately bad for the human brain.”

  “Huh?”

  “The Shakes,” said Sebo, squeezing his arm. “What is it that makes simulations more intense than the video games we play on our portals? And why don’t we play those anymore? Do you remember Carnage?”

  Deron scrunched his eyes in recollection. “Is that the one where you run over people for points?”

  “That was one option. But what was so engaging about the game was that its race track was in an open world. You could race, you could run over pedestrians, or you could spend the whole time knocking out your opponents.” Cartoony explosions of rocket-propelled grenades striking other drivers flashed in his head.

  “Which did you do?”

  “Neither,” replied Sebo, thinking of the time he had spent in that virtual world and the lack of any meaningful progress. “What I enjoyed most was putting on some music and just driving for hours, you know, exploring.”

  “Sounds boring.” Deron took another bite, again chewing it with gusto.

  “You would think so, but I liked it. I’m not sure how to describe it, but it was just me, sitting at my desk, driving a little car around in my portal. There was a whole world for me to explore and that’s all.” He paused, remembered the nights, the music, and the empty energy drinks piling up on his desk. Touring the unknown land made him feel like an explorer, a pioneer, but it came with loneliness, a suffocating isolation. He shuddered involuntarily.

  “I used to play Arms Race,” said Deron, looking up.

  Sebo followed his gaze, examined the shifting veneer on the ceiling of the station. It had three sections, each with a vaulted inner rectangle that held the dizzying array of reconciled images. Above the entrance and kiosks, flashy advertisements exalted the latest advances in fast food technology and directed tourists to the sim parlors and boutiques within walking distance. Directly overhead, a serene collection of borderless portals showed clips from movies and television shows and even bits of gameplay, anything to distract the waiting crowd below. Above the gate to Easton, Sebo could just make out the almost full moon icon and a temperature that read somewhere in the fifties.

  “I liked how at the beginning, you started off weak,” continued Deron, reminiscing. “You had to gather resources to build up an army and research new weapons. But the enemy kept attacking and it felt like you’d just keep doing it over and over.” He swallowed, cleared his throat. “But then you reach critical mass. You have enough resources to build an army and suddenly you don’t care how much is coming in, because no matter how much you spend, you can’t spend it all. Then the tables turn. You invade and conquer the map. And that’s the way it always goes. At some point, you just overwhelm your enemy.”

  Sebo smiled to himself. “Are you building an arsenal of resources?”

  “I’m amassing wealth.”

  “To what end?”

  “Annihilation?”

  “Of what enemy?”

  Deron turned his head and grinned. “All of them.”

  A polite nod was all that Sebo could muster. One of the public service announcements that ran in homeroom replayed in his head, the one about troubled teens and their potential for mass murder. Deron didn’t seem capable of killing though. It was only in video games that he unleashed his violent side and even then, his ferocity paled in comparison to what Sebo could summon. For that matter, Deron didn’t have any enemies save one and any kind of retaliatory strike against Russo would be well-warranted.

  “It’s dark in here,” said Deron, after a while. He put the grease-stained pizza box on the seat next to him and wiped his mouth.

  “No it’s not,” replied Sebo, acutely aware of the ubiquity of veneers, how their light stung from every angle. If anything, it was too much, too overpowering for a night that was winding down. He glanced at the portal over the gates. The departure time for Easton had begun to flash. “Come on,” he said, standing up. “Or you won’t get a window seat.”

  Security in Paramel was as stringent as that in Easton, but at least they had the good sense to pat them down before they got on the bus. Once Sebo and Deron had made it through the gauntlet of metal detectors and beeping wands, they found two seats near the back of the bus and sat down, Deron next to the window. The veneered glass showed an advertisement for a new condo development just off the main thoroughfare. Sebo shook his head and reached for the window, reconcil
ing the ad into a dull gray that was comforting in its simplicity.

  “Advertisements are the bane of my existence,” Sebo said, growling. “When I become mayor of Easton, the first thing I’m going to do is outlaw most advertising. Everything will have to be static text, one or two photos of whatever you’re shilling, but that’s it. No voiceovers, no ambient aromas, nothing. It’s assault is what it is.”

  “She’s kind of cute,” said Deron, stubbing his finger on the window.

  Sebo’s response got stuck in his throat as the bus started to hum. He tried to look where Deron was pointing, but only saw the gray anti-veneer. As the bus rolled forward, he watched his friend’s head turn to the left. “What are you looking at?”

  “The girl on the other bus. She reminds me of Rosalia, except her chin was bigger.” He touched his own face. “Is that right?”

  “Is what right?”

  “Is that the right way to describe her?”

  “Who are we talking about?”

  Deron didn’t seem to register the frustration in Sebo’s voice. “I’ve heard people say that chins are sharper.”

  Sebo sighed and sat back in his chair. The button on his armrest let him recline, but not enough to get comfortable. He closed his eyes and tried to ignore the ramblings coming from the seat next to him. Deron never knew when to quit, but that was what made him interesting. There was not just wonder in the world, but in people as well. Sebo didn’t know which he would come to understand first, or if such breakthroughs were even possible.

  “There’s nothing to see out there,” said Deron. He was sitting at attention, with one hand on the window, peering out. “Where are all the roads?”

  “It’s nighttime. This precludes you from seeing anything.”

  “But we could see them when we were coming in,” he protested.

  “No,” said Sebo, “that was on the other side of the road. You were facing the other direction. You see?” That seemed to shut him up for a minute.

  “That’s just not right. I didn’t know it was so empty.”

  Sebo muttered something under his breath and reached for the window again. He reconciled a cartoon picture of a rabbit under a watercolor sky. Two eggs in the foreground sparkled blue and white. “There, look at that for a while.”

  After a few minutes, Deron said, “I see something.”

  “It’s called a rabbit.”

  “Rabbits don’t glow like that. But it’s very...” He paused, searched for the word. “It’s almost like low resolution. Blurry, I guess?”

  That didn’t make any sense. The image he had reconciled was perfect down to the last pixel.

  “It’s so far away,” continued Deron.

  “What are you talking about?” demanded Sebo. He sat up and gestured to the window. “It’s right there: a rabbit, eggs, and the sun. The veneer looks fine.”

  Deron narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

  “Fine, whatever you say.” Sebo settled into his seat again and crossed his arms. “This blindness act isn’t very amusing.”

  “You’re the one who’s blind,” mumbled Deron, barely audible over the noise of the road passing beneath them.

  20 - Ilya

  The street name for the drug was Mellow, so-called because of its ability to pacify even the most hyper or anxious user. It didn’t come on immediately; there was a period when the world seemed to sparkle, when everything was funny, and love in all its forms was reciprocal. That lasted about half an hour, most of which Ilya and Rosalia spent riding the tram back from the Tsugumi Galleria. It wasn’t that it was far away, just that there were so many stops, so many people still getting on and off as Saturday crossed into Sunday. They kept climbing aboard and casting veiled glances at the two giggling girls sitting in the back.

  Ilya loved the feeling that Mellow brought on, the way it took even the toughest puzzles and reduced them to an afterthought. Even though she was still cognizant of reality, she found that it no longer mattered to her. The tram would get them where they needed to go, so there was nothing to do but sit back and enjoy the ride. Beside her, Rosalia slumped in the seat with her head on Ilya’s shoulder, laughing every now and then at a funny shape that passed by.

  The commerce sector’s fancy light shows gave way to residential neighborhoods as they turned off Parker Avenue. The streets were mostly empty, but the convenience stores on the corners were still bright and welcoming of the late-night shopper. Surrounding those beacons was the soft glow of amber street lights set just close enough to afford no shadows between them.

  At the end of Rosalia’s street, the tram came to a stop and Ilya had to put considerable effort into navigating the rows and stairs to the sidewalk before it took off again. She watched her friend barely escape the last step before the warning bell tinkled and the electric engine revved up. They both found it hilarious, the idea of Rosalia hanging by the ankle as the tram sped down the street. Ilya smiled when Rosalia put her arm around her shoulder to steady herself. Walking had become quite a chore, but together they managed to make it halfway down the street to her house without falling over once.

  Fortunately, her parents were asleep when they entered. It wasn’t until they were opening the door to Rosalia’s room that her step-mother—or as Rosalia called her, Lynn The Evil Bitch—poked her head out from the master bedroom and inquired about the late hour. Ilya didn’t listen to the whole exchange; she was lost in the veneer on Rosalia’s door.

  There was water that sparkled at different angles, not moving but alive in some way. It contrasted with the darkness behind it, a deep black that extended into the distance where the tiniest flame silhouetted two figures. They seemed content at having found each other in the reconciled emptiness. One figure was likely Rosalia and it didn't take much effort to deduce who the other was.

  Rosalia’s bedroom lit up as they entered. It was the first time Ilya had been in her room and her first thought was how messy everything was. The bed was just a mattress on the floor and Rosalia’s desk looked like a drafting table with the legs cut off. Her possessions formed a small mountain in the middle of the room, leaving a border along the walls so that a person could sit or stand next to them. It took a moment for the portals to buzz in, but when they did, Ilya understood the design choice.

  Rosalia was still standing by the door with her hand on the wall, smiling and looking intently at Ilya. She blushed under the attention. It didn’t matter what appeared, Ilya would act like it was the most amazing thing she had ever seen. The words were already forming when the first image shimmered into view, a placid lake ending in a waterfall in the distance. The shadows gave it depth, made it appear like the room was floating on the water, perhaps even fated to fall over the edge. The statues on either shore were regal and imposing; they held out their hands in warning to all who approached. Beyond, she saw the canopy of a forest, imagined the trees moving in the breeze. Ilya put her hands to her mouth.

  “I did this in Canvas,” said Rosalia, looking up to reconcile the ceiling. The default lights softened until the room was lit by the reconciled landscape on the wall. She moved to a bean bag in the center of the room and plopped down, her Victoria’s Secret bag crumpling in a heap next to her.

  “It’s fun, right?” asked Ilya, moving closer to the painting. “You’re supposed to be able to find people who dream like you.” She was fully aware that none of her dreams remotely matched what was on the wall.

  Rosalia giggled, put her legs out in front of her, and tried to reach for her toes. “I found someone who painted something like that, but they haven’t played in a while.”

  “Have you done more?” Ilya turned, caught sight of Rosalia in her stretch. “What are you doing?”

  “I need my toes.”

  “Your shoes are still on,” she replied.

  “Oh,” said Rosalia, bending her legs and pulling her feet closer. She began untying the shoelaces. Once her feet were free, she rolled off the bean bag and crawled along the floor and over her bed
to another wall. Speaking into her pillow, she said, “I did this one the same day, but no one else has.” She sounded disappointed.

  Ilya joined her on the mattress, sitting on the edge with her legs folded to the side. She watched as the moon formed, part of it reconciled on the window, breaking up the masterpiece. The proximity of the heavenly body made her heart beat faster, frightened by the possibility that it might strike the Earth. Ilya shuddered and looked with new appreciation on Rosalia, on the unassuming girl who had entered Mellow’s second stage. Just enough energy would drain from her body to make her languid but not unconscious.

  With a huff, Rosalia rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling. There were words on her lips, which parted and closed purposefully, but she said nothing. Instead, her hand found its way to the wall again and suddenly all four began to shimmer with photo streams. The little rectangles fell from the crease in the ceiling, tumbling end over end through the waterfall or in front of the moon. They landed in piles along the floor like blocks, some of them upside down, some of them backwards, until finally they slid through the floor and out of view.

  “I never knew,” said Ilya, leaning back on her elbows. It was hard to tell which images were photos and which were pure reconciliations; Rosalia’s skill enabled her to create either interchangeably. There were so many virtual destinations, places of pure fantasy that existed only in a young girl’s mind and as two-dimensional representations on her wall.

  “Yeah. I draw a lot.” Rosalia’s speech was beginning to slur as she dragged herself back to the bean bag. She found a comfortable position and put her head back.

  It was then that Ilya realized the ceiling was a reconciled portal, not just a veneer that needed to be touched to be changed. Rosalia was running some kind of program that dropped pictures like rain from clouds. They came out of the distance, fell with simulated physics, and landed on the artificial barrier of the ceiling. Ilya joined Rosalia at the bean bag, carved out her own little space, and rested her head near her shoulder.