Veneer (2 page)

Kate tried to stifle her laughter.

Across the playground, Deron hadn’t made any progress with his ball. It was still Rosalia’s blue, not that he seemed to mind very much. She knew he wouldn’t even try to change it now. At least not until Russo turned it red again.

Kate smirked.

One way or another, Deron Bishop was going to learn to reconcile.

Deron was only faintly aware of the nightmare winding down. The school gym was fading out like a slide show dissolving into the next picture. When it was gone, only the desk beneath him remained, with its glowing portal offering up questions that cycled too quickly to be read, accompanied by answers in a language he didn’t recognize. Soon there was no difference between portal and desk, between the veneer and the squiggles that somewhat resembled words. Even in the dream, Deron's mind rejected this divergent form of the veneer. There was no order to it, no control that he could exert. He pushed it away, forced it into the infinite distance.

Then he was alone in an empty construct, left only with a sense of dread at not having answered a single question on his test.

Deron shook himself awake and opened his eyes to his darkened bedroom. Reaching for the wall, he imagined his room lit up in a soft amber color. This thought, combined with the physical contact of his fingers, caused the walls to cycle through the gradient of black to yellow, stopping somewhere in between to match the vague idea of color in Deron’s head. He looked to the ceiling, thought of trees, and reconciled a bright sun in a blue sky, surrounded on the edges by the tips of evergreens.

One by one, his decorations loaded, covering the walls with reconciled posters, some of them moving, others static but detailed. Above his desk, a rectangular section exploded from a pinpoint and formed a widescreen portal. It flickered twice before loading Deron’s start page—four icons sitting on a background of Rosalia at Gillock Pond.

Though it was as bright as a cloudless day in his room, the world outside remained dark, still awaiting sunrise. He could reconcile light wherever he wanted, but ultimately his body took its cues from the natural cycles of night and day. At that moment, the world was telling him to stay in bed. Deron closed his eyes and embraced a darkness so absolute that if he hadn’t felt the pressure of the bed against his back, he could have imagined himself simply floating in the ether, surrounded by emptiness and quiet.

The nightmare came back to him.

He did have a test in third period English that he wasn’t prepared for. The text was available anywhere he could reconcile a portal, but he had never gotten around to reading it. In a matter of hours, he would have to sit down at a desk just like the one in his dream and answer questions about the motivations of people who didn’t really exist. The only option was to cheat somehow, to bring up the text in small print on the edge of his desk. That was risky though and in the long run it was better to take the zero than take the zero
and
get caught cheating. Rosalia had probably done the reading. Whether she would fill him in on the details was another story.

Deron groaned, tried to force his body into action, but it was set on staying put. There was just no part of him that wanted to get up and go to school. Nothing about it was appealing, not the lectures from the bored teachers, not the stale burritos in the cafeteria, and certainly not the shops—the fabricated images that appeared randomly on the walls throughout the school. Russo’s creativity knew no limits when it came to putting Deron’s face on obese women or men in overalls fornicating with wildlife. Principal Ficcone had warned him about it a few times, but the shops kept popping up, with Deron unable to do anything but erase them when he found them. Rosalia held that he should respond in kind, but Deron could never summon the energy.

The portal above his desk beeped and when he looked over, he saw a flashing envelope with a
3
superimposed over it. The e-mails were probably unsolicited, a pitch for a short-term loan or a social network for cheating spouses. Rolling onto his side, Deron faced the wall and smiled at the photo stream that flowed in an arc from the headboard down to the middle of the bed. Pictures of Rosalia were plentiful, dating back to junior high and the hazel eyes she used to wear. Her pictures progressed until her hair turned to red flames, collected in a high ponytail on the back of her head. This was how Deron knew her now.

Sebo made his share of appearances too, first showing up in the middle of seventh grade and then gradually coming to dominate the screenshots they had culled from various run and guns. He was tall, like Deron, but he had spent his early years at Dahlstrom Academy where the physical education program was more than just a suggestion. There was no telling what his original colors were since the first time they met he had been wearing some kind of neon veneer copied from a bad anime. It wasn’t a strange choice for a seventh grader; everyone was experimenting with something, doing whatever they could to set themselves apart.

A quick double-knock made him roll over just in time to see his mom poke her head through the opening door. There was no sign of fatigue in her immaculate face; the only way someone would have known that Ania Bishop had just woken up was from the robe she wore and the rollers in her hair.

“You’re going to be late for school,” she said, her feet remaining just outside the threshold to his room. “I made pancakes.”

“Can I skip today?” He wrapped his pillow around his face to shut out the world.

“Sure,” she replied.

Deron pulled the pillow away to look at his mom. Sometimes it was hard to tell when she was joking.

Ania clucked her tongue at the barely tasteful nudes occupying the corner by Deron’s desk. “I thought I told you I didn’t want that on the walls.”

“It’s my room.”

Putting a hand on her hip, she replied, “Yes, but it’s
my
house. If you want to live like that you can go stay with your father.”

“Yeah right,” said Deron, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “He can’t even make pancakes.”

“Maybe the whore knows how.”

For a moment, Deron thought she was referring to Carina, the tall brunette who towered over his desk. It was his mom’s eyes that gave her away, that revealed hatred in a flicker of her veneer. Even after all these years, she was still mad that his dad had left her, left both of them.

“Come on,” she said, putting her hand on the wall. Carina’s tan body shimmered and gave way to a surreal vista under a starry sky.

Deron couldn’t say he disliked the new art on his walls, but that kind of virtual tourism was from his mom’s generation, not his. He was more interested in the video games, the violent and immersive simulations that molded innocent tweens into poorly veneered anarchists.

“There’s bacon...”

“Then I guess I have no choice.”

Ania put her nose in the air. “Damn right you don’t.” A moment later, she was gone, the door tapping shut behind her.

Part of him wanted to get dressed and go downstairs; the air was already thick with the smell of bacon. The other part, the side he almost always listened to, could only think of Rosalia.

Deron reached over and traced a circle on the wall over the headboard. The pale amber faded away and a smaller version of his start page appeared in the portal. He clicked into his mailbox and brought up the three unread messages. The first one was spam, an invitation to a sim parlor that specialized in full-release sensory. Next was a calendar invite from Sebo; he wanted to go to Paramel on Saturday to play the new Destined 4 Death campaign.

The third message was from Rosalia, and his thoughts of her turned the wall surrounding the portal into a collage of photos. Some of them were repeats from the photo stream; others were from a more candid collection. He found himself smiling at one subset where he had tried to reconcile Rosalia stripped down to her underwear, to nothing. None of them looked right, but he was too scared to ask her to help him clean them up.

With a casual swipe, he cleared away the pseudo-nude photos and focused on the message. It was the usual fare: a good morning, a brief description of last night’s dream, and a suggestion of what they should do after school. She ended with a statement that made him sigh, just an innocent, “Hope you finished your reading last night.” She signed the message with love, as always.

Deron wiped the wall clean and stood up. Stretching, he reached beyond the trees on the ceiling to the simulated heavens above. Somehow, the reconciled but natural colors of a wooded landscape and a blue sky beckoned him into the world. It wasn’t a scene that existed in Easton, not with its shiny skyscrapers and malls and carefully manicured micro-parks.

His mind wandered, but too soon he was thinking about school again, about the exam and Rosalia and the shops.

Shaking his head, Deron took the first step and set the day in motion. He grabbed a clean pair of underwear from his dresser and headed for the bathroom. Pausing at the door, he slapped the wall as if it were a malfunctioning vending machine. In the corner, Carina’s curves reappeared. With a few well-placed nudges, Deron managed to reconcile a smile onto her face.

“Good morning,” he whispered.

2 - Russo

The J. Perion Tower had been vacant for almost a year, victim of an economy that seemed to fluctuate wildly under the mismanagement of the local government. It was one of dozens of skyscrapers whose construction had simply stopped, leaving a building that turned into a skeleton thirty floors up. Some furniture still remained in the few completed offices, though anything worth stealing had long since vanished in the night. The only occupants of the commercial monument were the veneers that brave vandals had reconciled on the inner walls.

Russo Rivera stood in the alley just outside the back entrance and examined the new warning signs posted beside the door. They were the typical nonsense: no trespassing, private property, and a full recitation of occupancy laws. For months, he had been using the empty building as his home away from home, a place where he could practice reconciliation without anyone badgering him about the content. Until now, no one had tried to keep him out.

“You think this means we shouldn’t go in?” asked Russo.

Jalay Chapman shrugged without looking up from his palette. His finger darted across the screen, scrolling through a library of static images. He was six inches shorter than Russo and built like a compact bulldozer. Unfortunately, he had no coordination beyond his fingertips. He could draw and shop like no one else, but when it came to physical movement, he was a lost cause.

“Do you want this by Spanish or not?” Jalay asked, irritated. He found a spot on the opposite side of the alley and leaned against it. Behind him, presence-sensing veneers kicked in and displayed a four by four grid of muted commercials.

“Maybe someone else wants it for their playground,” Russo mused. He put out a hand and turned the warnings into gray boxes and then faded them to match the evercrete background. “If they don’t want people going in, they should put up some kind of sign.”

Looking up briefly, Jalay muttered, “It’s probably locked.” When Russo touched the door handle, he added, “And alarmed.”

Russo smirked and pushed the door open a few inches.

“Silent alarm?” asked Jalay.

“Let’s go inside,” said Russo, kicking the door open. He groped for the wall in the darkness and when his fingers connected, he pushed some light down the hallway.

“We’ll be late for school.” Jalay hadn’t moved from his perch.

Russo considered scolding his disciple for putting too much faith in school, but something about the hallway drew his attention inward. In previous visits, the walls had been blank, just floor to ceiling canvasses waiting for their veneers. Now, someone had reconciled them into reflective surfaces; he saw his own face perfectly, black eyes and all.

As if sensing his need, the ceiling above him illuminated, enhancing the facing mirrors effect and allowing him to see deeper into infinity. A red-bordered box grew down from the top of the wall, moving and expanding until it settled over his face and flashed white. Russo smiled when he noticed it was holding his image captive.

Turning on the spot, Russo walked back outside, muttering to himself.

“What?” asked Jalay.

“It
was
alarmed.” He paused for a moment, considered the strange occurrence of Jalay being right. “It took my picture.”

Jalay smirked. “Good thing you’re wearing that face today.”

Raising his eyebrows a little, Russo replied, “Yeah. Shit, if they think they’re gonna catch me based on that picture, they’re out of their—”

Movement at the end of the alley caused Russo's throat to tighten up. People had been passing by all morning, but only now did two figures step out of the crowd and take an interest. They looked just like everyone else, but the way they stared, the way they held themselves, spoke to some hidden danger. It became apparent a moment later when their veneers flared to reveal the black and blue uniform of the Easton PD. Russo's flight reflex kicked in, barely leaving enough time to warn Jalay, and even that took considerable effort.

“Run!”

Russo was surprised to see Jalay keep up with him as they sprinted down the alley. He had an odd, stop-motion way of running that looked awkward and inefficient. It allowed for a burst of speed, but Jalay wouldn’t be able to maintain it for more than a couple of blocks. It made Russo smile to see his friend begin to labor as they broke out onto the street. He wouldn’t have to outrun the uniforms today; he’d only have to outrun Jalay.

They split up at the end of the alley and Russo headed towards the micro-park on Mills and 28
^th
. There was light pedestrian traffic on the sidewalks, mostly early morning workers stalking their way to their daytime dungeons. Russo slipped between them nimbly, swapping out his appearance every few seconds to create confusion. As far as they were concerned, an entire group of impolite youths were pushing their way through the crowd.