Veneer

by Daniel Verastiqui

  He made a sound somewhere between a cry and a grunt. Only when he took a deep breath and opened his eyes did he find his salvation in the glowing veneer of the apartment.

  Everything was still messy, but there were photos and art on the walls. Gone were the smudges and the barren quality of another life abandoned. It was back; the world was back.

  Wasting no time, Deron searched for his own face amongst the pictures and found one next to the bedroom door. There, his dad would have seen it every time he went to his room, every time he went to sleep.

  Every night, the picture would remind him of his son.

  It was a bit comforting, just enough to settle his heart rate. As it did, an inkling of recognition crept up. Something was happening, some correlation that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. It was there though, as clear as the fading of his picture. The better he felt, the more translucent it became, until finally he was calm and the gray returned.

  45 - Jalay

  The clouds started rolling in shortly before lunch. Jalay watched them build while listening to Mrs. Ratner lecture about the second civil war, a subject that was bloody and violent but uninteresting. He had heard the story before, in previous History classes, about the rise of the corporate giants, the squeezing out of the government, and the eventual collapse. It didn’t matter to him how many people died or how the survivors eventually rebuilt. What mattered was that it was all in the past, in an era that no longer concerned the living. The only thing that concerned Jalay was the wall of clouds creeping in from the north.

  They were sinister with their dark blue centers and fiery white tips. Growing tall in the infinite sky, they blotted out the sun and cast a shadow on the frail city, causing a panic in the trembling citizens below. Without thinking about it, he reconciled the horizon onto his palette. It was the same image, a perfect reproduction, but it didn’t match the intensity of what he saw outside. Out there was power, raw and dangerous. On his palette, it was just an echo of that power, a snapshot of potential that would go unrealized.

  Just like me, he thought, if his teachers were to be believed.

  When the bell rang, Jalay filed into the hallway with the rest of the class and headed for his locker. He only spent a moment there, just enough time to toss in the History reader and to shed his jacket. The dent in the locker begged for attention, but Jalay ignored it. There was no point in reliving that moment, except for the vengeance it would demand, vengeance that would likely remain as the image of the storm, static and impotent.

  The cafeteria was doubling as a sauna when Jalay walked in. He noticed Principal Ficcone standing on the other side of the dining area talking to a janitor. When they caught eyes, the principal turned his back and began gesturing to the walls. He was probably complaining about the humidity in the school, but he should have just admitted he was starting to sweat under his fancy suit and even though he could reconcile away the stains, he couldn’t do anything about the smell.

  A reflexive breath brought the tantalizing aroma of cafeteria pizza deep into Jalay’s lungs, evoking a smile. There was something about the rectangular slices served at Easton Central, something that made them superior to what he could order from The Hut or buy from the grocer’s. Its contents were completely unknown, but Jalay believed it to be recycled rubber that someone had reconciled to look like dough, cheese, and sausage. Despite its consistency, it was one of the few reasons he came to school and the best meal that they served, good enough to go back for seconds or thirds. Approaching the serving line with his mouth already watering, Jalay forgot about the impending doom outside.

  He tried to ignore the poorly concealed disgust on the cashier’s face as he reconciled his signature on the payment palette. Her reaction made him steel his veneer, try to contain the child-like glee welling up inside of him. The fact that he had to eat alone in a sauna no longer mattered. Unless, of course, Sebo would be open to company.

  Chased inside by the threat of rain, Deron’s best friend had found himself an empty table near the back of the cafeteria. There was no food in front of him, nothing except a small carton of milk, unopened. Jalay walked towards his table as if he were going to pass by.

  “How’s the face?” asked Sebo.

  Jalay paused, took the cheap shot as invitation to sit down. He slid his tray onto the table and plopped down on the plastic seat. “It stopped hurting five minutes ago,” he joked.

  “I think a heartfelt ‘I told you so’ would be applicable here. But,” he said, pausing and looking out the window. Whatever he saw out there in the growing gloom was hard for him to ignore. His eyes came back a moment later. “I’ve had a whole day to point my finger and laugh. I owed you that much.”

  The truth stung, but Jalay was able to soothe it with a large bite of pizza.

  “Pizza,” Sebo reflected, “the cornerstone of any well-balanced diet. I don’t suppose you have any vegetables to go with that?”

  “Tomato,” replied Jalay, pointing to the vaguely red sauce oozing out from under the impenetrable sheet of cheese. “Tomato is a vegetable.”

  “Technically—”

  “How’s Jordan?”

  Sebo’s face went blank for a moment before flashing disappointment.

  “She a good roommate?” he added.

  “Oh, the Roommate.” His eyebrows furrowed. “I couldn’t get her installed. I tried to apply the crack but it kept crashing on me. Are you sure the copy you gave me works?”

  “It works,” Jalay assured him, his gaze drifting into fond memories. “I have her and Felicity on two walls like this.” He put his hands up side by side in demonstration. “Sometimes it sounds like they’re talking to each other.”

  “And it is my understanding that they are both naked, correct?” asked Sebo.

  Jalay nodded peacefully.

  “Then who cares what they’re saying?” Sebo lifted his palette and brought up his contact list. “Jalay with seven L’s?”

  “Six,” he corrected.

  “Six, why not?” Finally looking up, he asked, “Is Felicity the one with the massive...” He held his hands out in front of his chest. When Jalay nodded again, he smiled wide. “Can you transfer her? I’m going to make them have a jumping jack contest.”

  Always play to a man’s vulnerabilities, thought Jalay, as he pulled his palette bag onto his lap. He knew why his own collection of nude women was massive and varied, but the motive for Sebo to be such a porn addict was still a mystery. There was rumor that he was quite the FPS player, which taken together showed an unhealthy obsession with sex and violence. So maybe the boy with the strange way of talking wasn’t so perfect after all. Everyone, it seemed, had a little bit of darkness in them.

  When he loaded his start page, Jalay was surprised to find an instant message not just from Sebo, but some from Russo as well. Only, they contained no text, just a stream of blank images. He closed them out one by one, but as he was dragging Felicity to the transfer window, another image popped up, this one with a streak of white in it.

  “Russo’s sending me pictures,” he said at last, placing the palette on the table. He pushed it closer to Sebo. “But they’re empty.”

  Sebo nodded. “It’s a very abstract style of art—minimalism, I believe.”

  “Or he’s lost his mind.”

  “That’s a given. He comes from a broken home, you know.”

  Jalay raised an eyebrow. “Everyone does.”

  “Instances of psychosis increase when parents divorce. They did a study a few years back about the development of relationships—”

  “These almost look like windows,” he interrupted, pointing to a slight pattern in the picture. Then the realization struck him; he didn’t care what was in the pictures or what Russo had to say. “Fuck him,” he declared, wiping away the message window. When it reappeared a moment later, he put Russo on his block list. Dragging his palette back to safety, Jalay returned his attention to the half-eaten pizza. It still smelled delicious.

 
Outside, thunder began to rumble in earnest. It probably wouldn’t rain, not with Easton’s high walls acting like a buffer against the incoming fronts. Cold air could descend on the city, but unless the storms were formidable, the rain would simply pass around it. Most people didn’t seem to mind; the city’s veneers suffered when coated with water, becoming undefined and lacking discrete borders.

  “Any news on your friend?” asked Jalay, after several minutes of contemplative eating.

  Sebo had busied himself with scrolling through the Felicity stills. “Are you really interested?”

  “Agents seem interested.”

  Looking up, Sebo narrowed his eyes. “He talked to you too?”

  “Yeah. I think he hit everyone. Did Rosalia get interviewed?”

  “I’m not sure,” he admitted. “I haven’t talked to her in a while.”

  “I saw her between classes this morning. She looks sad.”

  “Ha!” His laugh was just a little too loud. “Now he cares!”

  I’ve always cared, thought Jalay. How many women had he collected in how many folders, each one bearing a resemblance to whatever veneer Rosalia happened to be wearing that day? A hundred? A thousand? Each of them reminded him of her, whether they were on his walls at home or following him in an endless stream as he dragged his fingers along a fence after school.

  “More than likely, she’s upset that I didn’t spend all night riding the trams again.”

  “Is that what you’re doing after school?” asked Jalay. “Because I could come over and help you install Jordan and Felicity. I’ve done it a few times already. It just takes a certain touch.”

  He was aware of how hollow his words sounded, how desperate he was for company, for a friend. Worse was that Sebo seemed to take a long time considering the proposal.

  “Alright,” Sebo agreed. He touched his palette and reconciled his address into the chat window. “We have to do it right after school because I’ve got a clan meeting tonight.”

  “Sure, sure,” replied Jalay, moving the address to the map generator. Once he had directions, he pulled up his block list only to find forty-eight messages from Russo. Grabbing one out of the garbage, he examined the formless mixture of color, finding no meaning in it.

  “What the fuck do you want?” he reconciled hastily. He paused before sending it and downed the last bite of his pizza. Joy filled him up again, gave him the confidence to send the message hurtling into the abyss.

  For the remainder of lunch, he kept glancing at his block list nervously, but no further messages came.

  46 - Russo

  Russo sat very still in the expansive lobby, a complete reversal of his first reaction, namely to panic and thrash around blindly, running into walls and furniture. After sustaining a few bruises, he began to realize what was happening to him. It mostly had to do with Agent Ruiz, whose voice he heard beyond the shadows, laughing and taunting. It was all a show for him and Russo was getting tired of it. He found a clear area on the floor, turned his face towards the warmth of the sunlight, and sat down.

  The funny thing was that he could still reconcile, albeit on a completely blank construct. With his eyes open just in case, he looked down at the floor, touched it with his hand, and pushed color into it, a nice hardwood grain. As the texture spread, it became uneven, but Russo concentrated harder, forcing the landscape into the infinite distance. Even when he looked away, the veneer remained, making it appear as if he were on a wooden plane with no end. There were walls though, even a receptionist’s desk with a chair on his left. He groped for it, found the underside of its arm, and reconciled an off-white veneer to give it shape. He spun it around slowly, painting each surface.

  “Impressive,” said Ruiz from somewhere in front.

  Russo estimated the distance, reconciled a beige wall, and put his last memory of the agent’s face on it.

  “It usually takes new recruits several days to do what you’re doing.”

  “Shouldn’t you be out enjoying life while you can?” asked Russo. Threatening the agent wouldn’t win him any points, but there wasn’t much more the man could do besides take away all his senses. That the agent could blind him was unsettling, but if new recruits went through it, then it had to be reversible.

  “I’m noting a skew towards violence in your record.”

  Laughing, Russo pulled himself into the chair. An endless plane and one wall, he thought. It needed more. He began pushing the chair around the lobby, touching the walls and translating one sense into the other. It took a while, but eventually the entire room appeared around him. Looking up, he guessed the height of the ceiling, gave it a pocked-grid design he had seen somewhere before. Just as the last piece was falling into place, every veneer in sight began vibrating violently. Despite his protest, the entire world cracked and shattered. All the colorful pieces fell to the ground where they sank through an unseen membrane before falling out of sight.

  “There are answers to your questions, Russo. And those answers will give rise to more questions and having this knowledge will weigh heavily on you. It will change how you see the world, how you view history. It will tell you why I let you live instead of putting you to death immediately.”

  Russo raised his middle finger in the darkness, realized he couldn’t see it, and then reconciled color onto his body. It was easier to gesture when his fingers were visible.

  “Before we do any real training, we put new recruits in a room and blind them like I blinded you. Do you know why we do that?”

  “Because it’s the only way you get hard anymore?”

  A chuckle. “A fringe benefit,” the agent admitted. “But the real reason is because truth is so much more powerful when it is demonstrated. Children hardly blink when you tell them they can reconcile anything they want. It’s not until they do it that first time that they realize their true potential. Suddenly the world opens up for them. That’s what I did for you. I could tell you the secrets of the Vinestead Veneer, but to simply show you... well, judging by your face.”

  Russo winced, confused. It was the second time the agent had looked through his veneer. The first time, he thought it was a fluke, a lucky guess. The man wasn’t in the same room, yet he could see his true face. That meant he was looking through a portal and seeing something real, both looking at the veneer and under it.

  Un-fucking-believable.

  Reconciliation was supposed to be a personal experience, shared only indirectly. Someone touched a wall, the other person could see it, but never could the idea pass without some kind of medium. If someone could disable veneers on a whim, if they could take his sight without gouging out his eyes, then it suggested a larger system. One thing was for sure; it really wasn’t magic.

  “Of course not,” said Agent Ruiz. He added a condescending chuckle. “What you and the populace call a magic veneer, we call augmented reality. It’s machinery, hardware, and circuitry that makes all of this possible. Do you really think we’d trust control of the veneer to the unwashed masses? You of all people should know how dangerous that is.”

  What the fuck did that mean? The question slipped onto his face.

  “You have incredible arrogance in you, Russo. I noticed it the first time I put my eyes on you. All you need is real justification. And I’m sorry to say that if you’ve been basing that on reconciliation, or even InSight, then you’re going to be disappointed. We’ve got the same hardware running inside us, Russo. We have the same chips in our necks, the same grow-wire running through our spines. The only difference is our level of access. Bits, Russo, bits in a database make me more powerful than you. I can update your record and give you the same power. Or, I can delete everything about you. Erase you from Easton forever.”

  “Forever?!” cried Russo. He made a dismissive gesture and turned his back to the agent’s voice.

  “You should be more appreciative of what I’m offering you. Not many people get the opportunity to become agents, especially those who spend their early years at reform
school. Good men have worked themselves to death for this program, men who knew the right way to treat their company. Some argue that doing what is right for your family or God or your country will make you a good person. But to excel as an agent, you have to be willing to do what is best for the company, for Vinestead.”

  “I don’t know who that is. If they control the veneer, why aren’t they bigger?”

  “Companies change,” explained Ruiz. “Sometimes they get big, other times they constrain themselves to save resources. Sometimes a forward-thinking conglomerate just has to step back from the spotlight for a while, whether from government pressure or public outcry, it doesn’t matter. You go back to Vinestead’s heyday and you’ll find people spitting at the mention of their name. But they hold the patents on some fundamental technologies: the veneer, Guardian chips, and even the grow-wire. All of it is Vinestead R&D.”

  “Turn the lights back on.” It was fine to play games, but if the agent was going to stand there and lecture, the least he could do was show himself.

  Without a response, the lobby snapped into view. Russo waited for his eyes to adjust and then faced the wall where the agent was looking down at him with amusement.

  “Thanks,” Russo muttered. Every muscle in his body wanted to reach through the portal and strangle Ruiz to death and yet he was at the man’s mercy, forced to play the docile student. It would be prize enough, he concluded, that if at the end of this he could cut the agent’s head off slowly. Or another eye-gouging. Not a complete removal, just enough to blind him, let him spend some time fumbling in the darkness. Or better yet, maybe he could get access to the database, turn off all their eyes, and see how they liked it. The possibilities made him smile.

  Pushing himself over to the desk, Russo reconciled a portal and brought up his searches for Vinestead. He wanted to show Ruiz the picture of a building he had found, but instead, his instant messenger popped into the forefront with a pending message from Jalay.

  What the fuck did he want?

  “I can take your toy away if you can’t pay attention,” warned Ruiz.