Veneer

by Daniel Verastiqui

  Russo found a box of assorted bandages in the cabinet beneath the sink and dumped them out on the counter. His left arm was trashed; the only skill it retained was the ability to feel pain, crying out every time he tried to move it. Doing everything one-handed was a challenge, but he managed to fill the sink with paper pull-tabs.

  Looking at himself in the portal, he laughed at how ridiculous he looked with all the white strips on his face. The mild convulsions sent a spasm down his back, crumbling his entire body in place. It was as if an invisible hand had closed its fingers around his spine and squeezed in anger. Just when he thought he would lose it completely, the sensation subsided and he found he had only fallen a few inches, saved by his good hand on the counter. It would be days before he would be able to move freely, a fate he accepted willingly. After all, he wasn’t Deron; a little fight with a bigger opponent wasn’t enough to send him to the hospital.

  Satisfied with his work, Russo returned to the living room where he sat down on the cushy couch and crossed one leg over the other. His palette glowed on a throw pillow next to him, flashing text and images as it scoured the network for information about Seers. The term itself appeared several times, but not in the context he needed. A lack of results made him nervous; it meant either he was crazy or the conspiracy went deeper than he realized. Eric could have been withholding the truth, not just to be a dick, but because his life depended on it. That kind of information couldn’t get out into the world. If people knew...

  A short trill got his attention, made him pull the palette into his lap to investigate. Someone had sent him an archive of images with a note that read thought you should see these. Examining them one by one, Russo felt the numbness of his arm spread to his entire body. Someone had rewritten history in the form of obviously fabricated veneers. The idea that anyone had seen him settle his score with Deron was laughable, yet there it was, with a crappy grain filter to make it seem more authentic.

  “Fucking Rosalia.” He tossed the palette aside and stood up. At the window, he looked out over Easton, at all of the veneers that were no more real than the bullshit on his palette. The propaganda would work, of course. People had given up their right to question what they saw. Believing was seeing, but it worked just as well the other way around. So maybe it wasn’t enough to get the uniforms to do anything about it, but it would get people talking. He punched the wall next to the window and received a painful reminder about the state of his injuries.

  When was Rosalia going to learn not to mess with him, that any attempt to hurt him would be met with such a disproportional response that even Russo would have trouble explaining it? Deron had learned that lesson well; now it was time to teach Rosalia. Maybe a few weeks in a coma would do her some good. At that, he laughed, again felt the pain, again scowled in discomfort. He hung his head in frustration. The truth of it was that he needed to put his old life behind him. Focus on the goal, he told himself.

  “Something bothering you?” slurred a voice from the corner of the room.

  Russo pointed angrily without looking up. “I don’t want to hear a fucking word from you unless it’s about veneers.”

  “Veneers are the byproduct of reconciliation, a decorative façade that can be applied to any surface that can be accessed physically.”

  He had broken his nose, Russo reminded himself. That’s why he couldn’t gag him, since every time he tried to breathe through his nose he either started choking or blew out a bloody snot bubble.

  It was a shame; silence would have helped him think.

  “I remember when I was your age, Russo. I wrecked my dad’s car. So he—”

  Crossing the room quickly, Russo jumped into the man’s lap, leading with his knee. Ignoring the spray of blood, he grabbed his captive with one hand and pulled his head forward.

  “Listen to me,” he growled. “The more you talk, the closer you get to bleeding out. Is that what you want? Should I just do you now? Are you too fucking stupid to save your own life?”

  He broke off, crossed the room to the serving bar that separated the living room from the kitchen. An assortment of knives had been laid out, all part of an intimidation attempt that hadn’t produced any results. The whole night had been like that, Russo realized. Beating Agent Tavarez to a pulp had only made it possible to subdue him. Getting information out of him remained a challenge.

  Russo took a deep breath. “Maybe I’ve made a mistake,” he said, using his good arm to lift the other onto the counter. He fingered the handle of a carving knife.

  “You think?”

  “We all make mistakes,” Russo continued. “That uniform made a mistake taking me in just for hanging around a building no one was using. You made a mistake by identifying me without pretending to use some kind of device. Do you realize all of this could have been avoided with a camera and a slick veneer? Just hold it up when you do whatever you do and people won’t suspect. Then, you let me leave with that information. You let me follow you home. Which leads us to now.”

  Russo turned with a flourish and tried to spread his arms. In his right hand, the carving knife dangled menacingly.

  “And what was your mistake?” asked the agent. “Stalking? Assault? Attempted murder?”

  “I haven’t attempted anything yet,” interrupted Russo. He was tired of hearing his crimes read back to him. The list was far longer than Eric knew and nothing he had done in the last twenty-four hours even made it into the top ten of his evil deeds. Killing would be a first, but the agent didn’t need to know that. Russo let the tension build before saying, “This is where you beg for your life.”

  The fucker actually laughed. “I’m not begging shit from you.”

  Behind his veneer, Russo smiled. From the moment he first met Agent Eric Tavarez, to the conversation in the lobby, to the violent struggle in his doorway, he had never heard the man curse. It was part of his programming, that politically correct way of talking, trying to make himself seem impartial and above emotion. But now he was breaking down, becoming sloppy and desperate. The smile bubbled up. He was becoming human.

  “Hello, Eric,” said Russo. There was recognition in the man’s face; he knew he was slipping. “I don’t know if you’ve been following along, but I’m trying to get some information out of you. You can see through veneers. I want you to teach me that magic.”

  “Magic,” repeated Eric, chuckling again. “You fucking idiot.”

  Russo approached his victim and spoke in a child’s voice. “Oh yes, I’m the idiot. Just a dumb motherfucker with a knife in my hand. And you’re just a glorified uniform with a death wish. I guess that’s why I’m giving you one last chance to tell me your secrets. But I’m so stupid that the only thing I can think now is that the magic isn’t with you. I think it’s in your eyes.” He leaned over, his face near Eric’s. “Are those special eyes?”

  “Only to me,” said Eric, his voice shaky. Finally, he was afraid.

  “Only to you? Well, you know what’s special to me? Magic. So how about you give me the magic and I let you keep your eyes?”

  “If you kill me, you’ll never find out.”

  Retreating, Russo raised an eyebrow. “Is that so? So I won’t find your contact list on your phone? Your portal won’t have any info about who you work with? Their names? Where they live?”

  “I should have put you down.”

  “Yes, you should have.” He pointed the knife at Eric’s face. “Last chance.”

  Eric’s head dipped and he spoke into his chest. “You’re headed somewhere that you’re not gonna like, Russo. And it’s not gonna be anyone’s fault but your own. You will have cheated your way to a place that you can’t come back from.” Looking up, his eyes barely open, he added, “If you make it there, don’t forget I tried to save you.”

  “I don’t want salvation!” yelled Russo, switching his grip on the knife. “I want your fucking sight!”

  The veneer over Eric’s eyes held only for a moment; there was simply too much blood to c
ontain.

  27 - Deron

  Fifth and Navasota met at the southeast corner of One-Zero plaza, an expansive memorial site comprised of decorative gardens and a single, dominating spire in the center. Its silver veneer simulated the reflected light of the sun at any angle. Flanking it were two conic sails that appeared to billow even when the wind was calm. It was along the base of the memorial that Deron found the next set of markings, another in a series of addresses for him to pursue. Some were within walking distance; others required the use of the trams, like the one that had brought him all the way south to Vargas and Freight Lane, just a mile away from the outer wall of Easton.

  Now, staring at a hastily scrawled arrow pointing out of the city, Deron considered the possibility that he was walking into a trap. It was Principal Ficcone’s vague warning that gave him pause, made him wonder why the police would pursue someone who couldn’t see the veneer. The better plan would have been to set up some kind of automated system, like a series of addresses, to draw the blind in, bring them all to one location so they could be rounded up. Hunters of the blind would be crafty in their methods. Those without sight must be detained before they could spread their disease to others.

  Deron sighed, followed the viral hypothesis to its illogical conclusion.

  He replaced the fantasy with what he already knew: the injury, the Swarm Survivor arena, and the slow degradation of the veneer. Paramel Terminus had been so dim that he could barely see anything. Then on the way home, visions of a strange landscape, reality itself dissolving. A flash of a dingy hallway emerged from his memory and blinked out. A hospital, he thought, nurses with ugly faces, walls with nothing on them.

  Deron cursed under his breath. He had seen it, weeks ago, seen the truth and not even known it. It was injury to the brain that caused it, that somehow shut down the evolutionary ability to reconcile visual data onto any surface. They could say what they wanted about magic, but here was real proof that it was biological. There were systems in his body responsible for all the major senses and the one that controlled his reconciliation was broken.

  Around him, the foreign veneers of factories and warehouse made him feel lost, as if he had been dropped in another city or another time where reconciliation was a pipe dream, a power wished for as often as invisibility or immortality. He thought about his ancestors, about how they saw the world before veneers. It wouldn’t have looked like this; the buildings were only the color of off-white evercrete because there was no reason for them not to be. It was probably cheaper to crank out the undecorated parts and let the customer update it with the right design.

  Truth: Deron was not blind. Rather, he could finally see. He could see as humans had for hundreds of thousands of years, without reconciliation, without what they called magic. But why was it so dangerous? What was it about a man with true vision that worried them so? And who was them? Deron shook his head, tried to clear away the confusion and the conspiracy theories. It was all too much. Focus on the messages, he told himself.

  Deron checked the arrow again; it was still pointing to the outer wall. Though a mile was nothing compared to how far he had already travelled, he couldn’t ignore the sinking sun and the rising hunger in his stomach. Freight Lane went all the way to the edge, cutting through the outer tract of Easton, a ring of the city dedicated to small factories and light industrial. Here, the people simply ignored him and went about their work with forced detachment.

  Fortunately, the outskirts were home to a fleet of mobile eateries, little carts that followed lunch bells and quitting times. There were already several in a parking lot across the street, taking up position around half a dozen worn picnic tables. Deron tried to imagine what their signage looked like, how flashy their advertising would have been. Not that it mattered; a hot dog stand needed no signs when there was a mild breeze.

  It was a large tortilla hanging from a cart that drew him across the road. The woman smiled at his approach; given the empty tables, it seemed she had been waiting eagerly for her first customer. He ordered an oversized burrito and had the woman fill it with beans, rice, and barbacoa. The anticipation was marred by a tense moment when she held out a palette, wanting payment. Though he couldn’t see the scanner in the portal, he pressed his finger and didn’t take another breath until it beeped approvingly.

  Deron chose one of the sturdier-looking tables and sat down to peel the paper wrapper from his burrito. As he savored the first bite, he couldn’t help but glance once again towards the wall. The idea of approaching it in broad daylight made his leg shake uncontrollably. No one touched the wall; it was one of the rules. Don’t mess with it and the double-barreled sentry guns on the watchtowers wouldn’t mess with you. He chuckled. It was just like Swarm Survivor, except he was the fleshy blob trying to get out.

  The burrito went down easy, devoured in a matter of minutes. By then, more people had shown up looking haggard and hungry. They filled in the tables around him, each bringing the smell of dinner and nine hours of physical labor. Only when there were no more seats did they join him at his table. There was no acknowledgement of his presence and no one even looked in his direction until a wide-jawed hulk sat down, glanced at Deron, and asked, “Another one?”

  The men took turns sizing Deron up and shaking their heads. They seemed to know something he didn’t.

  “Another what?” he asked, his voice squeaky.

  “It looks like you’re done,” said the jaw. “Why don’t you move along so someone else can sit down and eat? What you’re looking for is down that way.” He pointed to the outer wall, but only Deron followed his finger.

  “How do you know—?”

  “Kid, I’m asking politely.” He took a large bite of his sandwich. “It gets uglier after that.”

  Although no one else at the table seemed to be behind the threat, Deron knew he couldn’t take on the jaw alone. He stood and walked away, avoiding the glances from the other diners. They knew he didn’t belong there and the more he thought about it, the more he realized he might not belong in Easton at all.

  Deron almost missed the next message as he made his way down Freight Lane. It had been placed at an angle along the rise of a loading dock. Its arrow pointed to an empty field or the wall beyond it, but he couldn’t see anything interesting about either. The sick feeling returned; it could have all been a trick, a wild goose chase to poke the eyes of those who were already blind. But who would go through all that trouble?

  It could have been anyone, he realized. Anyone could have done it blindly, magic or no magic, just by marking up buildings as they walked to nowhere. It made him wonder if anyone else had ever been dumb enough to follow them.

  “Another one,” he said aloud.

  That’s what the jaw had meant. Deron wasn’t the first.

  28 - Sebo

  Easton’s veneers were adjusting to the low light when Sebo set out from Deron’s house. They changed minutely, their intensity ramping up to visible but not overwhelming. Downtown was the exception; even at a distance, it burned as brightly as its daytime counterpart. Signage and decorations at the very tips of the skyscrapers blotted out the stars.

  The plan had been to meet up with Rosa and her friend, Ilya, at Perrault’s around eight, but a dinner that ran late had delayed Sebo’s trip to check on Deron. Now, burdened by the weight of bad news, he paced himself, already convinced of how Rosa would react. She had gone all day thinking Deron was ignoring her and now she had to find out he was missing, likely by choice.

  Sebo cringed, thought about the faces she might make and how ill-equipped he was to comfort her. At least Ilya would be around, give her a shoulder to cry on if she needed it.

  Amber running lights at the edges of the sidewalk began to glow brighter the closer he got to Parker Avenue. That the rest of the world seemed so normal, so unaware of the turmoil happening in the lives of a few students, left Sebo amazed. Not that they needed to care, but it made him wonder about the reverse, about how many other crises were takin
g place in Easton, other stories of violence and despair that he would never know about. Maybe someone else in the city right then felt the way he did, had a friend who by all accounts had gone out of his mind and simply slipped away beneath the veneer.

  Slipping beneath the veneer, thought Sebo, smiling. It sounded romantic: becoming one with the artificial world, seeing what other people couldn’t see, hiding in plain sight.

  Now there was a frontier to explore.

  Parker Avenue was teeming with its typical weeknight bustle. The citizens of Easton walked the street dutifully, tired after a long day on the job, but out and about just the same. Walk around, meet some people, have some food, and do some shopping. Long ago, someone had broken society down into a set of basic habits and used that knowledge in the planning of Easton, the closest thing to a utopia in recorded history, a place where every desire could be satisfied except for a select few and most of those were just down the road in Paramel.

  Rosa and Ilya were already at Perrault’s when Sebo arrived. Seated on the same side of a booth near the back where the light was dimmer, their mouths moved simultaneously, as if conversing synchronously. Sebo bypassed the expectant gaze of the barista at the counter and headed for the booth. Ilya saw him first; she nudged Rosa to look up. He gave an ambiguous apology for his tardiness as he slid onto the empty bench. In the middle of the table, someone had reconciled a portal and within it, an image of a gunmetal gray chip, shiny and expensive-looking.

  “Thanks for coming,” said Rosa, her previous levity fading.

  She was good at reading veneers. If his face betrayed the bad news, she would surely see it.

  “Anything, for a lady,” replied Sebo. The sentiment was not quite true. There were some women for whom he would do anything, but their beauty started more at Ilya’s level than Rosa’s. The only reason he sat across from her now was because of Deron and that tenuous connection was always under constant strain. “Is this all of us?”