Veneer

by Daniel Verastiqui

  Was this the right place?

  Rosalia looked around at the dresser that hadn’t been dusted in forever, that only needed a hasty veneer to be presentable. There were clothes scattered on the floor: shirts, pants, and a smattering of black socks. A preview of Deron in the future, she thought. It wasn’t difficult to imagine him following in his father’s footsteps. If they made it past high school and college to marriage, what then? He’d grow tired of her one day and run off with the first woman at work who would give him a blowjob in the supply closet. She tried to overlay that image on the young boy who was smoothing out the edges of the brown comforter. He seemed young, anyway. Maybe it was in his actions, the way he moved with purpose, the way his preparations dripped more with lust than with love.

  Above the bed was the sole decoration on the wall, a woman in a meditative yoga pose. Completely naked, her tan skin was vibrant against the black backdrop. Her face looked completely content; her eyes were closed, unaware or uncaring of the artist who had reconciled her. Rosalia paused to take in what Deron’s dad obviously considered the ideal female and wondered if Deron held the same beliefs.

  He was sitting on the edge of the bed, staring up at her in anticipation. Deron wasn’t going to get up and lift her in his powerful arms and throw her on the bed. Nor would he whisper sweet words to entice her closer. It was unfair, she realized, to hold him to such high standards, to put him on the level of poets—tried and true authors who knew romance like Rosalia knew reconciliation.

  It wasn’t how it should have been, but what was?

  Perfection, Rosalia thought, as she crossed the room to stand in front of Deron’s slightly parted legs. Perfection was something that could be reconciled, given enough time and effort. But perfection was just another illusion, a mirage that sat on top of the truth, promising everything and delivering nothing.

  His hands grabbed her hips roughly and pulled her close. Off balance, Rosalia put a hand on the wall, reaching over the nightstand with its humidor and lighter. She took the opportunity to dim the automatic lights down to the level she had often seen in her dreams, where Deron was still visible but the discrete curves of her body were not. Without breaking eye contact, she reconciled the nude woman away, banished her to the land of forgotten veneers. There was no need for competition at a time like this.

  Rosalia shivered as Deron’s fingers slipped under the lip of her shirt and scraped against her stomach. His hands climbed her stomach, encountered her bra, and then drifted to the sides where his fingernails tickled. With a quick motion, she pulled her shirt off over her head. A definite flash of delight sparkled in his eyes and before it could fade, Rosalia reached behind her back and unhooked her bra. With her hands clasped to her chest, she waited, teasing. And just when it looked like he would reach out and force her, she relented, dropping the bra to the floor by her feet.

  The reaction on his face made her smile. Deron had seen his share of topless women, even beyond those he had plastered on his walls. But those were all virtual. The difference between reconciliations and reality was miniscule, maybe as small as a single integer, but even Rosalia could see how much space that left. Infinite space. An infinite difference between boobs on a wall and her chest inches from his face.

  “What?” she asked, as his hands slipped behind her back. He pulled her to his face, turning his head to the side. Pressing his ear against her stomach, Deron squeezed tightly.

  “Nothing,” he whispered.

  Rosalia wrapped her arms around his head, smoothed out the damp hair that had turned wavy from the humidity. Then he withdrew and she felt his lips on the side of her ribcage, moving forward with restraint and determination. The side of her chest. The left side of her breast. She closed her eyes and enjoyed the sensation.

  He was a multi-tasker, that Deron. Even as his mouth covered her chest with kisses, his fingers pulled at the waistband on the back of her jeans. She could feel his fingers venturing downward, his thumbs diving beneath her underwear. Then his hands came forward, rested with clear intent on the buttons of her jeans.

  “Are you waiting for permission?” she asked.

  “Yes, please,” he said, lifting his eyes to her.

  Rosalia bent slightly to kiss him. “You have it.” Another kiss on his forehead.

  Her body lurched as he tugged at her pants, popping the metal clasps in a string of dull staccato notes. He struggled for a moment before Rosalia helped him push her jeans past her hips. Using his shoulders for balance, she wiggled one leg and then the other. Finally, she kicked them to the side.

  Deron wasted no time drawing his fingertips up the sides of her legs, over the sudden goose bumps. Then he grabbed her, pulled her down onto the bed. They shared a long kiss, then another, until he retreated and stood up at the edge of the bed looking down at her like a hunter at his prey. She could see his thoughts as they happened, watched each one play out in his eyes.

  Rosalia giggled at the way Deron undressed. He was sucking in his nonexistent gut and flexing undeveloped abdominal muscles, trying to impress her. He tossed his shirt away with flair, almost broke into a little striptease. Rosalia watched from the bed, lying back on her elbows with her eyes wide in encouragement. He paused after undoing his zipper as if she weren’t already aware of his erection. She made her eyebrows dance, urging him on, to which he responded by shedding his pants and underwear at the same time. He kicked one leg off and then used the other to fling them across the room. Time stopped for a moment as Rosalia took in the boy in front of her.

  It would be something to reconcile, the first true image of Deron that she had ever collected. He was revealed, a lanky boy with pale skin and wavy hair hanging over his ears. One day, he would grow into his body, fill out in all the right places, and be the protector that she would need.

  “Come here,” she commanded, suddenly feeling the need to have him next to her.

  He obliged without hesitation, flopping down on his stomach beside her and wrapping his arm around her waist. She rolled onto her side and in the resulting embrace, they kissed.

  Rosalia concentrated on his lips, only rejoining reality when he abandoned her mouth for her cheek or neck. It was then that she became aware of his hands, the one that was under her body and caressing her back, the other that was tracing lines on her hip, occasionally tugging at her underwear.

  A crash of thunder drew their eyes to the window where a bright blue light was fading behind it. Rosalia took the opportunity to slide out of his arms and off the bed. She walked to the window and put her hand to it, reconciling the frosted veneer away so that she could see the world clearly. With her other hand, she dimmed the walls to nothing, so that the only light in the room came from the glow of the surrounding buildings and the electricity jumping from cloud to cloud.

  Turning around, she stood between the window and the bed, aware he could only see her in silhouette. Shifting her hips back and forth a few times, she slid her underwear down her legs. Another flash of lightning illuminated Deron’s eyes.

  Rosalia began to feel nervous as she climbed back into bed. She had never been completely exposed with Deron before and though she tried to fight it, she couldn’t help but feel subconscious about her body.

  Deron had pulled himself up to his knees and Rosalia took a similar position in front of him. Again, he kissed her, his hands appearing at the sides of her face and then receding out of view.

  Rosalia let out a sharp sigh as Deron touched her for the first time. The pressure lessened immediately.

  “Sorry,” he said, whispering to her cheek.

  How they must have looked from a distance.

  Rosalia tried to imagine it in her head, but Deron’s fingers were already marching on the border again.

  “Are you waiting for permission?” she asked.

  “No,” he replied.

  “Then what? Don’t you want this?”

  “I want you.”

  Pulling back, Rosalia put her lips near his. “You hav
e me.”

  “Forever?” he asked.

  For tonight, thought Rosalia.

  Instead of answering, she kissed him, forcing his eyes shut once more. Then, with only a gentle push on his shoulder, they collapsed onto the bed.

  Rosalia woke to the sound of thunder grumbling in the distance. The storm that had accompanied their lovemaking had moved on, just as the novelty of sex had faded after all was said and done. Beside her, Deron snored like a content baby and it was almost precious enough to smile at. He seemed so happy, both during and in the twilight that followed. The things he had said, the sweet words she thought him incapable of, had shown the depths of his love for her. If it had not been for them, all she would have taken away was the pain of him entering her and the unfulfilled obligations when he finally collapsed on her chest, panting for his life. It was easy to forgive the insensitivity. Having her as he did was the culminating expression of how he felt about her, the logical conclusion of his quest to possess her mind, body, and... and whatever else there was.

  Such a fool, she thought, caressing his hair.

  Deron thought it would never end, that they would be together until time crumbled and beyond. He refused to believe they were destined for failure, that at some point their relationship would dissolve, whether in five years or five minutes. Rosalia thought she had lost him forever, thought he was dead and gone. It had taken that kind of extreme circumstance to show her that she could exist without him, that the world’s veneers would keep on sparkling.

  She didn’t even take into account the possibility of finding another attractive boy walking around out there, one with a veneer that hid the same sweet and innocent soul underneath. Deron had been a great boyfriend, a perfect boy when she needed one.

  But the time of boys had come to an end.

  In another year, it would be the time of men. She could afford to lose Deron because by the time she got over his absence, she wouldn’t crave that same kind of juvenile spirit that she had adored in him.

  “I love you,” she whispered, kissing him softly on his back. Then, slowly so as not to wake him, she slipped off the bed and collected her clothes from the floor. Piece by piece, she dressed, all the while too aware that she wasn’t crying, that she felt no sadness under her veneer.

  Crying would have meant noise and she wanted him to remain asleep. Let him dream, she thought. Let him bask in the residual bliss. There was only pain waiting for him when the sun came up. There would be no Rosalia then, no discussions of leaving the city, no last ditch effort to convince her that he was right.

  Just an empty bed. Just a fading memory.

  At the door, she paused, looked at him wrapped awkwardly in the comforter. Rosalia studied it well, capturing every detail should she want to reconcile it later. She’d remember him like this. Happy.

  And she’d have to, she realized, because of all the things he would feel when he woke up, happy wouldn’t be one of them.

  PART SIX

  The lights in the room were still down for the night when the wall began to ring. Russo pulled his head out from under his pillow and squinted at the portal glowing brightly beside him. Inside, Agent Ruiz stared back impatiently.

  “What time is it?” asked Russo, rolling onto his side. The uncomfortable desk at the J. Perion building had made him appreciate his own bed more and with Ruiz ostensibly on his side, he had nothing to fear from showing his face at home anymore. His parents had said nothing of his absence; he wasn’t even sure they had noticed. The first thing he did when he returned the night before was collapse on the double bed, fully clothed.

  “It’s four-thirty,” replied Ruiz. “I let you sleep in.”

  “Fuck.” Russo pulled the pillow over his head again and pressed down.

  “This wasn’t my idea.” The agent sounded somewhat resigned. “But someone shit in my bed this morning so now I have to shit in yours.”

  The mental picture flashed and Russo almost laughed.

  “We need to discuss Jalay Chapman.”

  Snorting, he replied, “Why?”

  “When I questioned him day before yesterday, it seems he got more out of the conversation than I did.” Around the portal, more images faded in, filling out Russo’s wall. “Someone has been active on a few darknet message boards. We traced it back to this Chapman kid. He believes agents can see through veneers. And he’s not afraid to share that theory with anyone who will listen.”

  “But you can see through veneers,” said Russo.

  “Yes,” hissed Ruiz, “but that’s hardly common knowledge, is it? Our primary mission is to locate Deron Bishop, but in the meantime, we need Jalay taken care of.”

  Russo tossed the pillow aside and propped himself up on his elbow. “You mean, like killed?”

  The agent shrugged. “How you solve the Jalay situation is up to you. But you need to get it done today.”

  “What about Deron?”

  “You didn’t make enough progress yesterday. I got within five minutes of putting my hands on him. How close did you get?”

  Russo didn’t respond; he simply looked down at the wrinkled sheets.

  “It’s not your fault though.”

  A smirk. Was the agent actually trying to be reassuring?

  “All I had to do was hang around the school for a few hours and the information fell into my lap. Obviously, you couldn’t do that.”

  “I just need more time.”

  “And you’ll get it, but we need to get containment on Jalay before the situation gets out of control. If we don’t take care of both of them soon, there’s going to be more collateral damage.”

  The gasping Agent Tavarez made a brief appearance in Russo’s head.

  “The suits look down on collateral damage,” whined Ruiz. “I don’t get it myself.” A finger came up, pointed directly at Russo. “Learn this well, Rivera. Unless you work for the big V, you’re just a sheep in this world. Everyone you’ve ever known, everyone you’ve gone to school with, seen out on the street, they’re all expendable.”

  “What about us?”

  The finger curled into a tight fist. “We’re the control—the shepherds.” His veneer shimmered into a grin. “And what do we do when the sheep get out of line?”

  “I don’t know,” replied Russo, yawning.

  The agent brought up a flat hand and smashed his fist into it. “We bash them on the fucking head until they rejoin the flock. Or until they’re dead.”

  “I’m not a sheep.” He sat up and stretched his arms.

  “You were.”

  Russo narrowed his eyes at the portal on the wall. “Your power used to be a secret, but now I know. Now Jalay knows. You’re just lucky he doesn’t have any friends or else the news would be all over Easton by now.”

  Anger flashed on the agent’s face. “You’re young,” he said, his tone not matching his expression. “One day you’ll learn that most of your life is spent cleaning up other people’s mistakes. And if Tavarez weren’t already dead, he’d be at the top of my shit list.” He became silent, staring intently.

  It took Russo a minute to realize that he had been a loose end. Eric had spilled a secret and Ruiz had come to cover it up. “What would you have done?” he asked.

  His eyes turned kind for a moment, the way they did when he spoke to the sheep, but Russo could see just how disingenuous they were. “You already know,” he replied.

  Death, probably.

  “But if I had reached you in time, maybe you wouldn’t have blabbed the entire story to your friend.” The agent waited for Russo to look up. “Yes,” he said, drawing out the word. “You thought I wouldn’t find out? You should have read some of Jalay’s postings. They’re very detailed accounts of how his former friend was arrested and identified by an agent. I don’t have to tell you how this sits with the suits.”

  Russo scooted back on his bed until he could lean against the wall. “What do they care anyway? If people knew agents could see under the veneer, wouldn’t they be mo
re afraid?”

  Ruiz tried to laugh, but the forced levity sounded hollow. “Fearful sheep aren’t happy sheep. Besides, we teach them that the world is theirs for the taking, that reconciliation is an evolutionary birthright.”

  “Isn’t—”

  “Ha!” barked the agent. “Humans stopped evolving long before reconciliation. Did you really think that being able to change the appearance of an object is an innate ability? Does that even make sense?!”

  “No!” he shot back. “That’s what I thought because that’s what I’d been told. But then I cut the eyes out of an agent and learned the truth!”

  “The truth,” laughed Ruiz. “You found some wires. That was just a piece of the larger system. How do you think people would react if they found out about that system, if they learned their precious evolutionary skill was just a piece of code on a microchip?” He paused, caught his breath. “It’s not really about the veneers,” he said, quietly. “Sheep could come to understand the truth, maybe accept it. But when you reveal something like that, go against the official story that we’ve held for so long, it makes us look like—”

  “Liars?”

  The smile returned as creepy as ever. “They know we’re liars. What they don’t know is to what extent. Take the Guardian chip in your neck. Official story is that it’s there to protect you, monitor your vitals. But before we shortened the name, it was called the Guardian Angel chip. And it did much, much more.” He put up a finger. “One thing,” he said. “People believe the chip does one thing. They don’t question it, but if you tell them the chip’s responsible for reconciliation too, then that’s two things.” He unfurled another finger. “If two, why not three? Why not a thousand?”

  “What else does it do?” asked Russo.

  The agent made a weird face, as if insulted by the question. “What doesn’t it do?” Enumerating on his fingers, he said, “Vitals, reconciliation, presence-sense, bio-sec, GPS, interface auditing, InSight...” Trailing off, he let his enthusiasm settle. “We know where every citizen of Easton is at every moment of the day and they have no clue. We have logs, detailed logs, that trace their movements over their entire lifetimes. They can’t know. Do you understand? They can’t.”