Skin Deep

by Brandon Sanderson

  J.C. shook his head in annoyance, then jogged off to scout the perimeter as we waited for the car.

  “I did warn you something was up,” Ivy said, arms folded as we stood beneath the canopy with the valets, rain pattering above.

  “I know.”

  “You’re normally more suspicious than this. I’m worried that you are developing a blind spot for women.”

  “Noted.”

  “And J.C. is disobeying you again. Coming on his own when you pointedly left him at home? We haven’t ever discussed what happened in Israel.”

  “We solved the case. That’s all that happened.”

  “J.C. shot your gun, Steve. He—an aspect—shot real people.”

  “He moved my arm,” I said. “I did the shooting.”

  “That’s a blurring between us that has never happened before.” She met my eyes. “You’re trying to find Sandra again; I think you purposely sabotaged this date to have an excuse to avoid future ones.”

  “You’re jumping to conclusions.”

  “I’d better be,” Ivy said. “We had an equilibrium, Steve. Things were working. I don’t want to start worrying about aspects vanishing again.”

  My limo finally pulled up, Wilson—my butler—driving. It was late evening, and the regular driver only worked a normal eight-hour shift.

  “Who’s that in the back?” J.C. said, jogging up and trying to get a clear view through the tinted windows.

  “Yol Chay,” I said.

  “Huh,” J.C. said, rubbing his chin.

  “Think he’s involved?” I asked.

  “I’d bet your life on it.”

  Delightful. Well, a meeting with Yol was always interesting, if nothing else. The restaurant valet pulled open the door for me. I moved to step in, but J.C. put his hand on my chest and stopped me, unholstering his sidearm and peering in.

  I glanced at Ivy and rolled my eyes, but she wasn’t looking at me. Instead, she watched J.C., smiling fondly. What was up with those two?

  J.C. stood back and nodded, removing his hand from my chest. Yol Chay lounged inside my limo. He wore a pure white suit, a silver bow tie, and a polished set of black-and-white oxford shoes. He topped it all with sunglasses that had diamonds studding the rims—an extremely odd outfit for a fifty-year-old Korean businessman. For Yol, though, this was actually reserved.

  “Steve!” he said, holding out a fist to be bumped and speaking with a moderately thick Korean accent. He said the name Stee-vuh. “How are you, you crazy dog?”

  “Dumped,” I said, letting my aspects climb in first, so the valet didn’t close the door on them. “The date didn’t even last an hour.”

  “What? What is wrong with the women these days?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, climbing in and sitting down as my aspects arranged themselves. “I guess they want a guy who doesn’t remind them of a serial killer.”

  “Boring,” Yol said. “Who wouldn’t want to date you? You’re a steal! One body, forty people. Infinite variety.”

  He didn’t quite understand how my aspects worked, but I forgave him that. I wasn’t always sure how they worked.

  I let Yol serve me a cup of lemonade. Helping him with his problem a few years back had been some of the most fun, and least stress, I’d ever encountered on a project. Even if it had forced me to learn to play the saxophone.

  “How many today?” Yol asked, nodding to the rest of the limo.

  “Only three.”

  “Is the spook here?”

  “I’m not CIA,” J.C. said. “I’m special forces, you twit.”

  “Is he annoyed to see me?” Yol asked, grinning behind his garish sunglasses.

  “You could say that,” I replied.

  Yol’s grin deepened, then he took out his phone and tapped a few buttons. “J.C., I just donated ten grand in your name to the Brady Campaign to Prevent Gun Violence. I just thought you’d like to know.”

  J.C. growled. Like, literally growled.

  I leaned back, inspecting Yol as the limo drove us. Another followed behind, filled with Yol’s people. Yol had given Wilson instructions, apparently, as this wasn’t the way home. “You play along with my aspects, Yol,” I said. “Most others don’t. Why is that?”

  “It’s not play to you, is it?” he asked, lounging.

  “No.”

  “Then it isn’t to me either.” His phone chirped the sound of some bird.

  “That’s actually the call of an eagle,” Tobias said. “Most people are surprised to hear how they really sound, as the American media uses the call of the red-tailed hawk when showing an eagle. They don’t think the eagle sounds regal enough. And so we lie to ourselves about the very identity of our national icon . . .”

  And Yol used this as his ringtone. Interesting. The man answered the phone and began speaking in Korean.

  “Do we have to deal with this joker?” J.C. said.

  “I like him,” Ivy said, sitting beside Yol. “Besides, you yourself said he was probably involved with that assassin.”

  “Yeah, well,” J.C. said. “We could get the truth out of him. Use the old five-point persuasion method.” He made a fist and pounded it into his other hand.

  “You’re terrible,” Ivy said.

  “What? He’s so weird, he’d probably get off on it.”

  Yol hung up his phone.

  “Any problems?” I asked.

  “News of my latest album.”

  “Good news?”

  Yol shrugged. He had released five music albums. All had flopped spectacularly. When you were worth 1.2 billion from a life of keen commodities investing, a little thing like poor sales on your rap albums was not going to stop you from making more.

  “So . . .” Yol said. “I have an issue I might need help with.”

  “Finally!” J.C. said. “This had better not involve trying to make people listen to that awful music of his.” He paused. “Actually, if we need a new form of torture . . .”

  “Does this job involve a woman named Zen?” I asked.

  “Who?” Yol frowned.

  “Professional assassin,” I replied. “She was watching me at dinner.”

  “Could be wanting a date,” Yol said cheerfully.

  I raised an eyebrow.

  “Our problem,” Yol said, “might involve some danger, and our rivals are not above hiring such . . . individuals. She’s not working for me though, I promise you that.”

  “This job,” I said. “Is it interesting?”

  Yol grinned. “I need you to recover a corpse.”

  “Oooo . . .” J.C. said.

  “Hardly worth our time,” Tobias said.

  “There’s more,” Ivy said, studying Yol’s expression.

  “What’s the hitch?” I asked Yol.

  “It’s not the corpse that is important,” Yol said, leaning in. “It’s what the corpse knows.”

  3

  “Innovation Information Incorporated,” J.C. said, reading the sign outside the business campus as we pulled through the guarded gate. “Even I can tell that’s a stupid name.” He hesitated a moment. “It is a stupid name, right?”

  “The name is a little obvious,” I replied.

  “Founded by engineers,” Yol said, “run by engineers, and—unfortunately—named by engineers. They’re waiting for us inside. Note, Steve, that what I’m asking you to do goes beyond friendship. Deal with this for me, and our debt will be settled, and then some.”

  “If a hit woman is really involved, Yol,” I said reluctantly, “that’s not going to be enough. I’m not going to risk my life for a favor.”

  “What about wealth?”

  “I’m already rich,” I said.

  “Not riches, wealth. Complete financial independence.”

  That gave me pause. It was true; I had money. But my delusions required a lot of space and investment. Many rooms in my mansion, multiple seats on the plane each time I fly, fleets of cars and drivers whenever I wanted to go somewhere for an extended time
. Perhaps I could have bought a smaller house and forced my aspects to live in the basement or shacks on the lawn. The problem was that when they were unhappy—when the illusion of it started to break down—things got . . . bad for me.

  I was finally dealing with this thing. Whatever twisted psychology made me tick, I was far more stable now than I had been at the start. I wanted to keep it that way.

  “Are you in personal danger?” I asked him.

  “I don’t know,” Yol said. “I might be.” He handed me an envelope.

  “Money?” I asked.

  “Shares in I3,” Yol said. “I purchased the company six months ago. The things this company is working on are revolutionary. That envelope gives you a ten percent stake. I’ve already filed the paperwork. It’s yours, whether you take the job or not. A consultation fee.”

  I fingered the envelope. “If I don’t solve your problem, this will be worthless, eh?”

  Yol grinned. “You got it. But if you do solve it, that envelope could be worth tens of millions. Maybe hundreds of millions.”

  “Damn,” J.C. said.

  “Language,” Ivy said, punching him in the shoulder. At this rate, those two were either heading for a full-blown screaming match or a makeout session. I could never tell.

  I looked at Tobias, who sat across from me in the limo. He leaned forward, clasping his hands before him, looking me in the eye. “We could do a lot with that money,” he said. “We might have the resources, finally, to track her down.”

  Sandra knew things about me, things about how I thought. She understood aspects. Hell, she’d taught me how they work. She’d captivated me.

  And then she’d gone. In an instant.

  “The camera,” I said.

  “The camera doesn’t work,” Tobias said. “Arnaud said he could be years away from figuring it out.”

  I fingered the envelope.

  “She’s actively blocking your efforts to find her, Stephen,” Tobias said. “You can’t deny that. Sandra doesn’t want to be found. To get to her, we’ll need resources. Freedom to ignore cases for a while, money to overcome roadblocks.”

  I glanced at Ivy, who shook her head. She and Tobias disagreed on what we should be doing in regard to Sandra—but she’d had her say earlier.

  I looked back at Yol. “I assume that I have to agree before I can know about the technology you people are involved in?”

  Yol spread his hands. “I trust you, Steve. That money is yours. Go in. Hear them out. That’s all I’m asking. You can say yes or no afterward.”

  “All right,” I said, pocketing the envelope. “Let me hear what your people have to say.”

  4

  I3 was one of those “new” technology companies, the kind decorated like a daycare, with bright walls painted in primary colors and bean bag chairs set at every intersection. Yol popped some ice cream bars out of a chest freezer and tossed one to each of his bodyguards. I declined, hands behind my back, but he then wagged one at the empty air between us.

  “Sure,” Ivy said, holding out her hands.

  I pointed, and Yol tossed one in her direction. Which was a problem. Those who work closely with me know to just pantomime, letting my mind fill in the details. Since Yol actually threw the thing, my ability to imagine broke down for a moment.

  The bar split into two. Ivy caught one, sidestepping the other—the real one—which hit the wall and bounced to the floor.

  “I didn’t need two,” Ivy said, rolling her eyes. She stepped over the fallen ice cream bar and unwrapped hers, but she looked uncomfortable. Any time a flaw appeared in my ability to mediate between my imaginary world and the real one, we were in dangerous territory.

  We went on, passing glass-walled meeting rooms. Most of these were empty, as one would expect at this hour, but every table was covered in small plastic bricks in various states of construction. Apparently at I3, business meetings were supplied with plenty of Legos to accompany the conversation.

  “The receptionist at the front desk is new,” Ivy noted. “She had trouble finding the visitor name badges.”

  “Either that,” Tobias said, “or visitors are rare here.”

  “Security is awful,” J.C. growled.

  I looked at him, frowning. “The doors are key carded. That’s good security.”

  J.C. snorted. “Key cards? Please. Look at all of these windows. The bright colors, the inviting carpets . . . and is that a tire swing? This place just screams ‘hold the door for the guy behind you.’ Key cards are useless. At least most of the computers are facing away from windows.”

  I could imagine how this place might feel during the day, with its playful atmosphere, treat bins in the halls and catchy slogans on the walls. It was the type of environment carefully calculated to make creative types feel comfortable. Like a gorilla enclosure for nerds. The lingering scents in the air spoke of an in-house cafeteria, probably free, to keep the engineers plump and fed—and to keep them on campus. Why go home when you can have a meal here at six? And since you’re hanging around, you might as well get some work done . . .

  That sense of playful creativity seemed thin, now. We passed engineers working into the night, but they hunched over their computers. They’d glance at us, then shrink down farther and not look up again. The foosball table and arcade machines stood unused in the lounge. It felt like even in the evening this place should have born a pleasant buzz of chatter. Instead, the only sounds were hushed whispers and the occasional beep from an idle game machine.

  Ivy looked to me, and seemed encouraged that I’d noticed all of this. She gestured, indicating that I should go farther. What does it mean?

  “The engineers know,” I said to Yol. “There has been a security breach, and they’re aware of it. They’re worried that the company is in danger.”

  “Yeah,” Yol said. “Word should never have gotten to them.”

  “How did it?”

  “You know these IT types,” Yol said from behind his sparkling sunglasses. “Freedom of information, employee involvement, all of that nonsense. The higher-ups held a meeting to explain what had happened, and they invited everyone but the damn cleaning lady.”

  “Language,” Ivy said.

  “Ivy would like you not to swear,” I said.

  “Did I swear?” Yol asked, genuinely confused.

  “Ivy has a bit of puritan in her,” I said. “Yol, what is this technology? What do they develop here?”

  Yol stopped beside a meeting room—a more secure one, its only glass a small, square window on its door. A handful of men and women waited inside. “I’ll let them tell you,” Yol said as one of his security guards held open the door.

  5

  “Every cell in your body contains seven hundred and fifty megs of data,” the engineer said. “For comparison, one of your fingers holds as much information as the entire internet. Of course, your information is repeated and redundant, but the fact remains that cells are capable of great storage.”

  Garvas, the engineer, was an affable man in a button-down shirt with a pair of aviator sunglasses hanging from the pocket. He wasn’t particularly overweight, but had some of the round edges that came from a life working a desk job. He was building a dinosaur out of Legos on the table as he spoke, while Yol paced outside, taking a call.

  “Do you have any idea of the potential there?” Garvas continued, snapping on the head. “As the years pass, technology shrinks, and people grow tired of carrying around bulky laptops, phones, tablets. Our goal is to find a way to do away with that by using the body itself.”

  I glanced at my aspects. Ivy and Tobias sat at the table with us. J.C. stood by the door, yawning.

  “The human body is an incredibly efficient machine,” said another engineer. A thin man with an eager attitude, Laramie had built his Legos into an ever-growing tower. “It has great storage, self-replicating cells, and comes with its own power generator. The body is also very long-lived, by current manufacturing standards.”

 
“So you were turning human bodies,” I said, “into computers.”

  “They’re already computers,” Garvas said. “We were simply adding a few new features.”

  “Imagine,” said the third engineer—a thin, arrow-faced woman named Loralee. “Instead of carrying a laptop, what if you made use of the organic computer already built into you? Your thumb becomes storage. Your eyes are the screen. Instead of a bulky battery, you eat an extra sandwich in the morning.”

  “That,” J.C. said, “sounds freakish.”

  “I’m inclined to agree,” I said.

  “What?” Garvas asked.

  “Figure of speech,” I said. “So, your thumb becomes storage. It looks like, what. A . . . um . . . USB drive?”

  “He was going to say ‘thumb drive,’” Laramie said. “We really need to stop using thumbs as an example.”

  “But it’s so neat!” Loralee said.

  “Regardless,” Garvas said, “what we were doing didn’t change the look of the organ.” He held up his thumb.

  “You’ve had the procedure done?” I asked. “You’re testing on yourselves?”

  “Freaks,” J.C. said, shifting uncomfortably. “This is going to be about zombies. I’m calling it now.”

  “We’ve done some very initial tests,” Garvas said. “Most of what we just told you is just a dream, a goal. Here, we’ve been working on the storage aspect exclusively, and have made good progress. We can embed information into cells, and it will stay there, reproduced by the body into new cells. My thumb doubles as backup for my laptop. As you can see, there are no adverse effects.”

  “We keep it in the DNA of the muscles,” Laramie said, excited. “Your genetic material has tons of extraneous data anyway. We mimic that—all we have to do is add in a little extra string of information, with marks to tell the body to ignore it. Like commented-out sections of code.”

  “I’m sorry,” J.C. said. “I don’t speak super-geek. What did he just say?”