Veneer

by Daniel Verastiqui

  “Hey,” called a boy’s voice over the diminishing gulf. He sounded excited and soon enough his smile became visible. “Finally!”

  At close range, Deron became more optimistic that he could hold his own in a fair fight. His opponent was shorter but a little stockier. Even though his heart was about to explode, he still had the option of running away.

  “Can you see?” asked the boy.

  “Of course I can see,” replied Deron, clenching his hands into fists. He thought about how vicious Russo had looked during their last meeting and tried to channel the same aggressive posture.

  “I’m Valentin. What’s your name?”

  “Deron.”

  “You gonna hit me, Deron?”

  “Depends.” He felt foolish trying to sound tough. “What are you doing out here?”

  Valentin’s smile shifted but remained friendly. “I’m here for you, for anyone that’s free of the veneer.” He put his hands on his waist and looked back the way Deron had come. “This is like, my tenth time coming out here. I was beginning to think I’d never get one.”

  “One what?” Deron took a step backwards, unsure what to make of Valentin’s subtle claim.

  “A defector. A fugitive.” Valentin scratched his chin. “Outcast?”

  “I left on my own,” said Deron, proudly.

  “Sweet.”

  “Yeah,” he replied, nodding at the unfamiliar expression. “Do you live out here?”

  “Not here,” said Valentin, looking around in disgust. “You’ll see.” He extended his arm in invitation.

  Deron took one last look at the dot of a city. “Do you come out here every night?”

  “No,” he explained. “We have shifts. It’s a long way, but you only have to do it every few weeks, so it’s not bad. Just have to stock up.” He gestured to his backpack. “It’s like going for a long walk. You’re just the icing.”

  All Deron could do was nod.

  “You thirsty?” Valentin handed over the disc. “I’ve got my own flask. I only get to drink this if I don’t find anyone. My dad says it has extra vitamins and stuff in there, but you can’t taste ‘em.”

  “It’s good,” said Deron, after a quick swig. The texture was different than what came from the faucet at home.

  “So what’s new in Easton?”

  “You’ve been there?”

  “No,” replied Valentin, visibly saddened by the admission. “I was born in Dos Presas.” His accent slipped for a second as he pronounced the name with a Spanish flair. “My dad says even if I get in, I wouldn’t be able to see anything.”

  “You don’t have the magic,” said Deron.

  At that, his new guide smiled and changed the subject. “We should go. It’s a long walk back home and it’s not gonna get any warmer until the sun comes up.”

  Deron shrugged, felt himself caught up in the torrent that flowed under Valentin’s feet. So many pieces of the puzzle had just fallen into his lap and he hadn’t had a moment to arrange them properly.

  The trail led outside. There were people outside, people that came back looking for others with Undersight. Then what?

  Though Valentin was leading him somewhere, he hadn’t said anything about what they would do when they got there. There were no possibilities that jibed with what they had taught him about the outland. Valentin was young, but he had survived the radiation so far. And it hadn’t made his dad sterile.

  So many lies, he thought.

  “So,” asked Valentin, after a long silence, “tell me about yourself. Do you have a girlfriend?”

  “Yeah,” said Deron. “Her name’s Rosalia.”

  “What does she look like?”

  Something caught in Deron’s throat. “I don’t know.”

  PART FOUR

  Principal Ficcone pulled Sebo out of the crowd as soon as he stepped through the front doors of Easton Central. His curt come with me didn’t suggest a good mood.

  Sebo was surprised by the early morning ambush, but his lingering grogginess kept him from puzzling out the impetus. Instead, he simply followed the principal away from the flow of students towards his office. His secretary opened the door for them as they approached and that’s when Sebo saw the two uniforms waiting inside. He shot a look at Principal Ficcone, but the man’s veneer was impassive. Ushering him into the room, he instructed Sebo to sit down.

  Settling into the leather chair, Sebo wanted to ask what was going on, but the principal left the room abruptly and the two uniforms didn’t seem inclined to speak with him. Every question hung in the air unanswered, met with a stern look and a warning to sit quietly. After a few minutes, he gave up trying to get information out of them and switched to listing all of the possible reasons why the cops would want to talk to him, or worse, arrest him. His mind cycled through his recent transgressions, arranging them in descending severity, but nothing came close to breaking any important laws. Then, like a smack to the face, he flashed on the answer.

  Deron.

  Worst-case scenarios began to play through his head, aggravated by the silence coming from the uniforms. If they knew something, they weren’t telling. Unlike Sebo, they had the resources to mount a proper manhunt, to do much more than ride the trams until two in the morning looking for someone who wasn’t there. All night, he had circled the lower half of Easton, watching the crowds get progressively smaller, watching his optimism dwindle in the reconciled twilight.

  By the end of the night, all he had to show for his efforts was an ache in his back and a desire to sleep until July. Then, when he did rest, he found himself again on the hunt, spying Deron from the tram but losing him on the double-take.

  After Sebo turned his attention inward, the uniforms drifted to the window and started mumbling about the attractive girls passing through the front plaza. As far as they were concerned, guarding Sebo was secondary to ogling the young flesh on display outside.

  “Did you hear about Barber?” asked the larger of the two. His hand seemed glued to his Blackjack, the hefty black baton hanging from his belt.

  “Who?” The other officer was slightly shorter than his counterpart, but his muscles bulged distinctly under his uniform.

  “You ‘member that rookie we met at Poe’s weekend before last, when we busted up that party?”

  Muscles laughed. “You mean that little five foot nothing chump? What about him?”

  “Censured. Six weeks as a desk jockey.”

  “Sheeeit, what’d he do, slap the chief?”

  “No,” laughed Blackjack. “He was doing traffic duty at Rio Vista, you know, on the north side?”

  “Did he slap a fifth-grader?”

  Blackjack put up his hand. “Just listen. Barber’s working traffic, right? And he sees this group of kids walking to school and one of ‘em has this box in his hand.” He mimed the object. “And when Barber looks at the kid, he hides the thing behind his back all suspicious-like.”

  Muscles nodded.

  “Barber says to the kid, ‘What you got there?’ and the kid, being the genius that he is, says he has a bomb.”

  “Fuck all,” said Muscles, crossing his arms.

  “Naw, it wasn’t a real bomb. Turns out this kid made it out of rubber bands and one of those little ring boxes—I don’t fuckin’ know. But Barber’s a fuckin’ idiot, so he gets all up in this kid’s face and tells him to open the box.”

  “So...”

  Blackjack lowered his voice. “So the kid starts opening the top and Barber leans in and then the little fucker yells, ‘Boom!’”

  “And then he slapped him?”

  “No, fucking Barber draws his sidearm and points it at the kid and yells, ‘Bang!’”

  “He got censured for that?”

  “Yeah, well, the kid shit his pants.” He shrugged. “So his parents wrote a letter, of course.”

  “Is that true?” asked Sebo.

  “Nobody’s talking to you,” reminded Blackjack.

  “He should have shot him in the face,
” said Muscles, looking out the window again. He stubbed his finger against the glass. “Dig on those,” he said. “I’d punch your mother for a shot at—”

  Fortunately, the door behind Sebo swung open, saving him from a degenerating conversation that would have explored the limits of indecency among the ranks of the Easton PD. He turned in his chair, expecting to see one of his classmates joining him, but instead saw Principal Ficcone accompanying a well-dressed man with a familiar face.

  “This is Mr. Kahani,” said the principal.

  “We’ve met,” said the man. He crossed the room and extended his hand. “Agent Ruiz. How are you today, son?”

  “Confused,” replied Sebo. He cast a glance at the uniforms by the window.

  Agent Ruiz took the hint and sighed. “Officers, can you please wait outside? I’d like to have a chat with Mr. Kahani.”

  They grumbled in response, but complied. As they passed Principal Ficcone, he shuffled awkwardly in place.

  “Mr. Ficcone, please, a little privacy?”

  “Sure, sure,” he replied, appearing flustered for the first time in Sebo’s memory.

  When they were alone, Agent Ruiz reconciled a friendly veneer, “Please relax, Sebo. You’re not in any trouble.” He walked around the principal’s desk and sat down in the high-backed chair.

  “And Deron?”

  The agent’s eyebrows jumped a micrometer. He pulled a palette from his jacket and reconciled a portal on it. “Aside from the fact that your friend is missing, no, he is not in any trouble that we know of. According to his mother, he left his house sometime yesterday and hasn’t been seen since. Has he tried to contact you?”

  Sebo shook his head. “No. Rosa and I—”

  “Rosa,” said the agent, consulting his palette. “Rosalia Collier. Deron’s mother indicates she is his current love interest.” There was something detached about the way he said love interest, as if it were a habit of the proletariat, a group of which he was no longer a part.

  “Yeah.”

  “And how would you characterize their relationship?”

  Sebo had never really examined it before; he shrugged to fill the moment. Although it was clear why Deron liked Rosa—she had tits, after all—it wasn’t obvious why she liked him in return. “Well,” he said, after collecting his thoughts, “I suppose it’s a normal relationship. They—”

  “Are they sexually active?”

  Sebo blinked slowly, tapping out that’s none of your business with his eyelids.

  Agent Ruiz smiled. “Forgive me. I’m just trying to get a clear picture of Deron’s life. Strong hormonal and emotional factors, especially in young men, can often make them behave erratically. If Deron and this Rosa had a falling out or if they argued about sex, for example, then that helps define a psychological profile which, sometimes, can provide clues to a person’s intentions.”

  “You think Deron killed himself because they broke up?” It was laughable, but coming from such an official source, Sebo couldn’t bring himself to smile.

  “No, no,” said the agent, waving the suggestion away. “Our current focus is on whether Deron is still in the city. He doesn’t show up on any of our systems: presence-sense, security posts, you name it. Can you think of any reason why he might want to go on vacation?”

  Sebo shook his head, lost in thought.

  Agent Ruiz sat back in his chair and tried to effect a more casual attitude. “Last Saturday, you two were going to Paramel, right?”

  “Yeah,” replied Sebo, wondering if the agent could sense his omissions.

  “And did you meet anyone there? Perhaps...” He paused, making a show of it. “Russo Rivera?”

  Sebo narrowed his eyes at the mention of the name. “Why would we meet with him? He practically—”

  “Practically what? Practically killed Deron? Say what you will about the police force, but the people I work for actually do some investigating. Approximately three weeks ago, Deron was involved in an altercation with this Russo, was he not?”

  “I don’t know.” He spoke the words quickly to avoid being interrupted again.

  With a sigh, the agent changed his tone yet again. “Look, Sebo. I’m trying to help Deron. I know he hasn’t identified Russo as his attacker yet and I know you think you’re protecting him by lying to me. But what you don’t realize is that Russo’s been missing a lot of school lately. In my business, we call this putting two and two together. Deron is missing. Russo is truant. Two boys unaccounted for with a history of violence between them. You see how it all reconciles?”

  Deron would never do that, thought Sebo. Not even in his diminished mental state would he try to confront Russo on his own.

  “Of course, this is only one of many theories we’re pursuing and I admit it doesn’t fit with some of the things we know. But after I talk to your classmates, I should have a better picture to work with. In the meantime, I guess I’ll just keep watching the streets.” He paused, scrolled through a few screens on his palette. After reconciling some notes, he stood and walked to the window. The last bell had long ago rung and the previously crowded plaza was now deserted. The two uniforms were outside, leaning against their cruiser and laughing about something probably inappropriate.

  “Question,” said Sebo.

  Agent Ruiz nodded without looking back.

  “Why are agents involved in this? Shouldn’t the police department be handling missing persons?”

  The agent chuckled in response. “Look at those two cavemen out there. Would you want them in charge of bringing your friend home safe?” He turned and put his hands behind his back. “In all honesty, I volunteered my assistance because I recognized your friend’s face from the other night. You two seem like good kids.”

  Maybe it was cynicism, maybe it was simple distrust of authority figures, but a small part of Sebo doubted the agent’s sincerity.

  “My card,” said Agent Ruiz, crossing the distance and offering a small, veneered rectangle. “If you hear from Deron or think of anything else that might be useful in this investigation, I would appreciate a call.”

  “Okay,” he replied, unsure. He slipped the card into his pocket without examining it.

  “Well, I suppose that is all for now. Thank you for your time, Sebo.” He feigned a bow and retreated to the doors.

  Sebo leaned forward and put his elbows on his knees. He held his breath as he asked, “Are you going to arrest Russo for what he did?”

  “Naturally,” replied the agent.

  “He’ll resist.”

  Agent Ruiz scoffed. “I’m sure he’ll come quietly. They always do.”

  “No,” said Sebo, looking up and locking eyes. “You’re not hearing me. He will resist arrest.”

  Recognition flashed on the agent’s veneer and he chuckled. “No promises, kid.”

  33 - Deron

  The sun was up and blazing by the time Deron rolled out of the unfamiliar bed and walked to the window. His entire body felt weak, not just from the lack of sleep but for the distance he had walked the night before. It was still dark when they made it back to town and Valentin had urged him to get as much rest as possible. The Path from Easton, as he put it, had broken stronger men than Deron. But even though the bed was somewhat comfortable, he couldn’t ignore the questions running through his mind or the ache of his calves as he tried to peer out through the dirty glass.

  While waiting for his eyes to adjust, Deron looked around the room and saw things as they should have been—in color. There were toys and trinkets on the desk and on the shelves, charred pieces of plastic and wood that looked ancient in the dusty light. There was nothing quite like it in Easton, not when the veneer could obscure the very suggestion of age, on objects as well as people. Deron thought of his mother, of the lines he had seen the morning before, and wondered if she even knew they were there, plotting and growing beneath her veneer.

  A knock at the door made Deron take a step back. It was a louder sound than Valentin could have made and that
meant someone else wanted to talk to him. His mind raced; he had taken Valentin at his word that he was out looking for refugees from Easton. But what if he had made it all up? What if this little town with a name Deron could translate wasn’t open to newcomers? They lived in the outland without access to modern amenities. Maybe they didn’t need another mouth to feed.

  The knock came again, softer this time.

  A gritty voice called, “Are you up yet?”

  Deron opened the door and found a tall man blotting out the sunlight.

  “Good morning,” he said. “My son tells me you come from Easton.”

  Deron nodded in response.

  “My name is Timo.” He extended his hand. “And you?”

  The man’s grip was rough and strong. “Deron Bishop.”

  “What say we get some breakfast, Deron?”

  “Alright,” he replied, slipping into the shoes he had left by the door. He followed Timo out into the sunlight and immediately felt his skin begin to sizzle.

  “This is the center of Dos Presas,” said Timo, motioning to a large open patch of dirt surrounded by grass. “See how all the buildings form a circle around us? They go out in all directions, with shops, a cafeteria, and a clinic. Houses form the second and third rings.” He turned to Deron. “We have about six hundred people the last time we counted. Some come and go, but most live here full-time.” He gestured with his hand into the distance. “Beyond the homes are farms and beyond those, the river borders.”

  Timo led him to a grouping of picnic tables on the edge of the circle. They reminded Deron of the parking lot dining room in Easton except these were not uniform, as if they had all been built from scratch.

  “Mornin’, Deron!” Valentin looked different in the daylight, much less menacing than his silhouette suggested. He had been sitting at the table but got up and approached with a smile when he saw Deron.

  Timo interrupted the greeting. “Go fetch our friend some breakfast. Tell Carrie it’s for a new arrival.”

  Valentin nodded obediently and set off towards a building whose sign read Cafeteria. It was a good thing there were signs since everything had that same log cabin kind of feel to it. Deron was sure these people had heard of evercrete, but most likely they didn’t have the knowledge or resources to make it. He sure didn’t.