Chapter 1

They were saying a new face had been seen on the esplanade: a lady with a
pet dog. Odd that I heard about her before I saw her, but she was on snatches
of conversations for days. It was the dog that got them talking, considering
their rarity since the epidemics. That she is walking, and here, bespeaks
wealth--but to have one of the few remaining dogs makes her most remarkably
wealthy indeed. Now that I see her, the face itself bears remarking as well.
Dusky skin starkly framed by hair bleached bone white, it is beautiful, but
obviously not sculpted to be so. The nose is too long, the eyes overly sharp
and somehow the natural imbalance makes her even more stunning. She is
definitely going in the game, with hardly any alterations.

    Tracking her movements as she circles the park is a pleasant sort of game,
flashes of sunlight on her bright hair marking her before she disappears in
and out of other promenaders and falsely weathered columns. Every time
she comes into view, I try to capture her in my little green notebook. Paper
is the deepest luxury I afford myself. I am an artist, though one who panders
to the masses, and I am willing to invest in the tools of my trade.

    Making another pass around the circle, the lady draws near me again
with her heels clicking evenly on the pavement. I wait. Lips parted, inhale,
and I can feel the bite of her perfume on my tongue. Breaking down the
notes"citrus, florals, musk--I jot them down and then dig in my pockets for
the tin of broken pastels. What colors lie in that scent? The orange-red of
sunset and the palest petal pink.

    The olfactory technicians will be displeased with me again, but I do not
carry a catalog of perfume components in my head as they do. I do my best
to be specific, and this time, I want it to be particularly correct.

    There is something intangible about this morning that I want to capture.
It is not just the lady, though she is lovely and proud.

    The grass glistens, the sprinklers having dusted the ground as though
with dew. The sun refracted through the translucent dome above catches
the drops, and the scent of light on water is wafted by the circulation of the
atmospheric purifiers. This breeze touches the leaves of the slim trees, who
whisper in return.

    And to taste it all. That is where the technology is headed, though I have
been exposed to the prototypes and as yet it lacks the subtle nuances that
could capture the flavor of the morning. Mainly reserved for food simulations
at this time, the tastes are heavy upon the tongue, and the marketers are too
afraid of anything remotely unpleasant to allow a realistic experience for the
gamers. Maltech would like us to call them ”realizers”, but all of the designers
refuse. We build delusions, but we do not harbor them. The fictions we create
are no more real than life has ever been for the struggling underlings, even
if the next generation of technology will allow them to taste their dream
environments. Their virtual worlds are one step closer to emulating the
existence of the wealthy"-adding new sensations of the outdoors that most
people will never know. The gamers will grow to recognize our simulations
of the flavor of the purified air that surrounds upper class neighborhoods.
They will pretend even further that they can walk outside free of pollution
clouds, come into contact with humans without fear of disease.

    In truth, I am just as much of a pretender as any of the players. It is only
because it is my job to observe the upper strata that I live in relative
luxury. Maltech provides transportation from my hermetically sealed flat
to the various neighborhoods I watch and the expensive health care that
prevents me from either contracting or spreading dread diseases. Without
my artistic talents, I would be looking at a virtual replica of the lady with
the pet dog, rather than the real thing. And despite the advertisements,
there is a difference. It is not enough to meet a person’s avatar--the divide
between tangible people and their electric counterparts is indescribable.

    Closing my eyes, and there is the esplanade of the games. False. Limited
colors. Finite pixel count.

    Opening again, and it is solid. The men in shining top hats and stiff
jackets. The ladies in high, ruffled collars. Children in crisply pleated whites.
Their voices ring with prim conviviality, greeting each other by name to affirm
the exclusive community.

I know every name. They line up neatly in the lists I keep and stand tall as captions under the likenesses I have stolen, but I know them without those queues and not simply because these are things I am paid to observe.

The wealthy, the glamorous--they are free and they fascinate me. They can
buy beauty, health, fresh air. Who could not be intrigued?

    A man in an orange waistcoat deigns to glide his eyes over me and my
furiously sketching fingers, and I know that they tolerate my presence for two
reasons. First, I am completely within my legal rights to be here. Initially,
it was assumed that I was just a prostitute and on those grounds the
guards attempted to have me removed. My employers protested most fer-
vently. Second, now that they know that I seek to imitate, they are sincerely
flattered, and for every disdainful glance, there is a furtively interested one.
Like just there, from the woman with the pink lace gloves. Her main focus is
on the line of cars behind me, but it flicks in my direction more than would
be expected.

    Catching sight of a face far more familiar than all of the others, and I no
longer bother to keep track of the lady with the dog. Jessica Cantor tips her
head in recognition primly, but with the motion she causes the feathers on her
broad hat to dance jauntily. She greets me with a quiet ”Mr. Sinclair” and
I nod in return. Ms. Cantor is my technical supervisor. One day, I arrived
at work and found that I had come to see her as the most beautiful woman
I knew. Objectively as an artist, I know that while she is quite pretty, she is
not the exquisite creature I have come to recognize her as, and yet I could
not help but completely redesign her avatar from the ground up. Though the
digital version pales in comparison to the flesh and bone woman, it was the
best work I had ever done. Of course, I had to create a set of new avatars
for all of my supervisors, to avoid suspicion of favoritism, which led to a new
design initiative that meant months of hard work.

    Ms. Cantor built programs around my art that brought it to life in a
way I had thought beyond current capabilities. She writes the most elegant
code"-the particular perfection in simplicity of her lines make them instantly
recognizable. This, at least, is not merely the delusion of a fool in love, for it
is widely recognized that she inherited her technical talents from her father,
who was a pioneer in automation during the height of the epidemics.

    I pack up my supplies to leave. I do not like to continue my observations
when she is around. I feel that it would be odd, to watch and sketch someone
with whom I am actually acquainted. She intrigues me for reasons beyond
her wealth and freedom, and yet I cannot define what those reasons might
be. It somehow seems as though over the time I have come to know her, she
has slowly revealed herself to be more and more wonderful, even in her flaws.
As I replace each pencil in its particular slot in the tin I carry, I think of
the chaos that is her desk. I cannot fathom what lies at the bottom of those
piles, yet she always knows exactly where everything is. It is a system of a
sort, I suppose.

 ***

    The room is already beginning to bend slightly as I pour myself another
glass of scotch. Its warmth in my veins mingles with that radiating from the
gas fireplace up to which our chairs are pulled. Relaying the events of the
day to Ronald Peck, my roommate and fellow art technician, produces the
same results that always come of my talking about Ms. Cantor.

    ”Remember when she was just our supervisor?” he asks. ”Wasn’t that
nice, Ellis? No pining over a woman you don’t have a shot in hell with?” His
condescending tone is not one that I appreciate.

    ”One does not decide to fall in love,” I return stiffly. ”It simply happens.”

    He snorts derisively. ”Don’t give me any of that drivel.”

    ”Are we forgetting the lovely Ms. Cynthia?” Ronald will not meet my
eyes. ”Surely you could not have forgotten the lady to whom you professed
your undying love, only to find that she thought you were the young man
who supplies our sandwiches.”

    ”That was entirely different. Ms. Cynthia was sending me mixed signals.
Ms. Cantor clearly sees you as nothing more than one of many artists.”

    ”I recognize that she does not return my affection.” The inevitable mo-
ment of my sighing and staring deeply into my ice cubes has arrived.

    ”Then can we agree that you are going to forget her?”

    ”No.”

    It is his turn to sigh. ”Why don’t you focus your attention on Mazie
Atkins? She is attainable. And quite attractive.”

    ”Mazie Atkins is no substitute for Jessica Cantor. Ms. Atkins rambles
incessantly. That woman could not find the point of any of her stories if her
very life depended on it.”

    ”That,” Ronald pauses to pour himself another drink, ”is harsh. Quite
harsh indeed.”

    ”Harsh or not, it is how I feel. And as to attractiveness, Ms. Atkins has
nothing that compares to Ms. Cantor’s charms.” I attempt to exchange a
knowing look with Ronald, but he deflects by looking at his glass.

   ”A moratorium on discussing anything female. Starting now.”

   ”Fine.” I cast about for another topic. ”How far do you suppose the little
feud between Bill and Leonid will go?”

   Ronald laughs. ”I don’t rightly know. The thumbtacks in the chair was
a surprising development.”

   ”Not quite as startling as the dye in Leonid’s coffee. Are his teeth still
red?”

   ”Eh, they’ve become rather a pinkish color by this point. Not nearly as
unnerving as the original crimson, but still there.”

   The night begins to drift into aimless office drama.

Reviews

[scatterbrain]

okay, just starting...

in the first paragraph, "bears remarking" is all right for the first use, but is awkward the second time (when talking about the female). if she's beautiful, then it should evoke MUCH more passion than a mere "bears remarking".

love the second and third paragraphs :)

okay. went ahead with the whole story... i see that this was uploaded may 22nd (and with no comments... is that normal for this website!?), so it might not be up-to-date or even on your palette any longer. oh well, here are my main concerns:

lack of direction. it's great to introduce this lady character, but so what? nothing happens. nothing is leading me into the next chapter, or farther into her character. and the dribble at the end of the chapter, the scene in the room... this whole chapter really could be summed up in less than 30 words. i understand the MC is an artist, so he works in an office too?

great writing, and i can tell that you actually know what you're talking about. but as far as sci-fi novels go, this is one I couldn't bear to pick up if I found it in a bookstore :(

I won't go any further... not even sure if you're on this site any longer :P i doubt i've helped, but this is my first review. just wanna give a helping hand, if I can at all. I hope to see ya around!