Versim
Authors: Curtis Hox
VERSIM
© 2012 Curtis Hox
All characters in this compilation are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Author’s Note
Thanks so much for purchasing
Versim
. As an indie author, it’s critical for me to know what my readers think. Feel free to contact me and let me know. You can even point out any mistakes, if you like, or get on my case for any reason at all. If you enjoy the book and want to post a review on
Amazon
, I’d appreciate it. If you do, when the second book in the series comes out, I’ll send it to you for free. Just email me and remind me you posted a review. I can be reached at
[email protected]
.
Again, thanks so much, and I hope you enjoy it.
1
A LONE MAN LAY ON A CAST-IRON PARK BENCH painted a bright green that matched the verdant bushes around him. He sat up and scanned his environment. He was good-sized, with a wrestler’s neck and a workman’s hands. He wore a pair of crimson-striped, white sweat pants, generic tennis shoes, and a burgundy tee with a fading
Fire Department of New York City
logo above the heart. He appeared to be the kind of man who could run up a flight of stairs while carrying someone. He surveyed his antiquated clothing and smiled.
Pre-Rupture Rend-V, he thought. This should be interesting.
He squinted as his eyes adjusted to the dappled sunlight punching beams through a canopy of leafy branches above him. He noticed the logo on his shirt. He smiled again, this time a big smile, and looked around.
“Central Park.”
Harken Cole stretched his arms on the park bench as a woman with roller blades skated past him. She gave him a suggestive smile, but kept going. Flute-like melodies of songbirds in the trees distracted him. Not far away, he saw an open field with people playing …
“Softball.”
He observed the game as he waited for his mission update. He always enjoyed this part of the immersion process: waking up, no idea where you were, waiting on the inevitable memory return and instructions.
The last month of his life was a blank. His bosses did that on purpose so that the full mission happened in stages. You were either the hero or the villain in the drama about to play. And Hark was the best. They only put him in the most popular Rendered Entertainment Adventures. His last one—a far-future science-fiction production called
Mindbot
—logged twelve million paying riders. Not viewers, thank you (viewer numbers were in the hundreds of millions). Twelve million people paid to jack into
Mindbot
to experience what the principal characters experienced. They rode along like disembodied spirits, watching, feeling, but invisible. And he’d been there to keep the narrative on track and spice things up so that they got their money’s worth.
He grinned at the thought of that. “Come on, guys, give it to me.”
He waited. None of his augmentations were on yet: no Head’s Up Display, no Abdominal Energy System, no enhancements whatsoever. He was as normal as that old man over there tossing seeds at pigeons. He watched as a family walked by pushing a stroller with a toddler and pulling a small Mini-Pinscher on a leash. They were dressed as he imagined people used to dress several centuries ago in twenty-first century North America. They looked happy (as well as oblivious) that they were constructed persons. More strollers began to walk by him.
Hark stood, feeling brand new in the husked body they’d given him for this Rend-V. He saw a winding, cobblestone path leading into a thicket of brush and bedrock. He followed it. The trees and bushes were so dense that the paths barely cut through them. He kept on the lookout for a private place, maybe a grotto.
He found a shady place in a curve in the path.
Just in time, he thought, before doubling over as the energy wafer embedded below his stomach activated. It felt like a mule had kicked him in the belly. He went to one knee, gasping for breath. He stood, the wafer sending tendrils of fire into his body as if God himself had breathed in a spark of life. His HUD clicked on, a transparent glass window the size of a billboard appearing in his field of vision. Data ran from the top down in clear electric blue.
“Keep it coming. Keep it coming.”
His systems triggered one at a time. His hearing and eyesight focused. Every part of his body felt cleansed. His invisible energy carapace snapped into place, a protective barrier that could stop a bullet and whose technology was far beyond his pay-grade
He still felt naked without his Consortium Blaster or his Skinsuit, his Assembler Kit, and the other gear he usually used.
This was a retro narrative, so they could choose to deny those items to him. They’d given him his basic physio enhancements like two hearts, an improved nervous system, a rock-solid cardiovascular system, increased soft tissue and bone durability, skin with the tensile strength of rubber, etc., and he’d have to keep those advantages a secret. At least, that was protocol according to versim rules. And until he figured out who the players were and what the story was, he was to keep a low profile.
He waited a moment, watching the data scroll in his HUD, hoping his AI, Magdalena, would activate.
The final system triggered. No AI.
“I’m half blind.”
A bearded man out for a hike with a carved rosewood walking stick led a boy with his own little stick. The man scowled at Hark, then continued past.
Stop talking to yourself.
He waited a minute and then returned the way he’d come.
Still no mission. He was in-V and ready to go. But he needed … he spotted a shoe-box-sized object wrapped in brown paper and twine on the bench he’d just left. He sat back down, lifted the box, and shook it. No sound at all. Yep, that’s it, he thought. They’re going way retro on this one. No AI, no gear. I even have to read a physical message. Cheeky fellows.
He tore it open and found a white sheet of ruled paper with a simple, printed message:
Corner of 72
nd
St and Amsterdam. Female, attractive, celebrity, wearing a white blouse, Levis blue jeans, and silver pumps. She’ll be sitting by herself drinking a Mimosa. Walk up to her and say: “I’m the guy your sister told you about. Come with me.” Your mission: keep her alive.
He read
keep her alive
four times.
“That’s it?” He scanned the message again. “For how long?” He almost crumpled the paper. Instead, he read it once more. “Keep her alive. Thanks for the help.”
He couldn’t believe they were pulling an
in medias res
insertion, starting him right in the middle of the action, with such little information. After being immersed, he liked to wait until his full memory returned before entering the drama. They always blanked the details for technical reasons meant to protect the integrity of a specialist’s cognitive architecture. He had no idea what he’d learned during his pre-immersion briefings, which usually wasn’t much. But specialists always gleaned a few things about the Rend-Vs they were about to be immersed in: who the principals were, what the narrative was, what the scripted outcome should be.
He was still in the dark, and that made the job interesting. He tucked the message into his pant’s pocket and started walking.
He crossed Central Park West at a busy intersection, multistoried buildings stretching away in both directions. Up the road he saw a perfect replica of The Dakota, where John Lennon was shot by a madman. He paused at the movement in the street: combustion-engine yellow cabs with actual drivers, unenhanced riders on antiquated bicycles, pedestrian traffic—it was all so well rendered he paused to enjoy the scene. Everywhere he looked, the details of a fully constructed world astounded him. He wondered if the arena for this drama would remain in the city. The amount of data for something with as many objects and characters as Manhattan was staggering. They had bigger Rend-Vs, of course, but … until his memory came back he’d just have to assume this one was a large one with millions of individuals.
Prime time, as they used to say.
He spotted an open-air cafe on a far corner. Darabont’s was a French brasserie, its name written in fancy indigo cursive on a glass window. The crimson canvas awning outside protected two rows of diners seated behind a gilt cast-iron fence. One couple had tied their chocolate Labrador outside, where it sat in front of a bowl and lapped clean water. Everyone appeared to be enjoying what looked like cocktails over brunch.
Hark spotted his target sitting alone. She’d sought anonymity behind a white shawl tied around her head, a wide-brimmed hat, and reflective sunglasses—the sure mark of a celebrity. A champagne glass sat before her. Both hands rested on the table. He was guessing she’d just gotten the news. She was a typical principal protagonist, which meant she was an actual Rend-V actress contracted for this job. But she was asleep, which meant she didn’t know about her true identity or the fact her real body floated in a stasis vat. She was in-character. His bosses were cruel, and most principals (unlike specialists) were kept in the dark about their true identities during the entire drama. Verisimilitude is what they called it— or versim for short. Once in-V, you were either asleep like her, or awake like Hark.
Poor woman, he thought. It’s about to get real. And I’m going to be the one she’ll rely on. So buck up, Hark, and take care of business. The world is watching.
He walked inside a gate just as a white-shirted waiter in an ebony bow tie rushed by with a stainless steel tray of drinks.
“Excuse, me,” the waiter said, as he skirted down the aisle. “We’re working here.”
“Sorry, buddy. I won’t be long.” The woman looked up as Hark sidled to her table. “I’m the guy your sister told you about,” Hark said. “Come with me.”
Her mouth opened so wide he could see down her pink gullet. She wore the kind of bright lipstick only the beautiful could pull off. Her skin was flawless. She had one of those long necks that meant she’d maybe been a ballerina. Two cords of muscles at her throat stood out in stark relief.
“Better go now,” he said.
She snapped her mouth shut and reached for the glass of ice water by her bubbly orange Mimosa. “I thought she was joking …—”
“She wasn’t.”
“Who are you?”
“I’ll tell you, but it’s better if we do it someplace else—”
She pointed at the empty seat. “Tell me here.”
He watched her recover with such celerity he knew he was dealing with a professional. He didn’t recognize her, though, because they’d probably dampened that memory as well. She could be a huge Rend-V celebrity with a cult following that numbered in the millions. He could even know her personally.