This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author‘s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Little Talks

© Sydney Blackburn 2017

All Rights Reserved

Cover Design by SB Designs

THE SKY IS a sharp, steel blue, each cloud outlined in crisp edges . I am under the arches of the Eiffel Tower in Paris, all stark grey against the cold sky, waiting for the airships. Lozenges of emerald, ruby, sapphire, and topaz drift across the sky, crisp and—

“Beautiful, aren’t they?”

I twist around, because no one is supposed to speak to me first. That's not how it works. It's my experience of the airships in Paris.

He's attractive though, this stranger talking to me. Worth a closer look. His eyes are warm, soft. A peculiar golden colour unlike any other in this world. His hair is brown and something isn't quite right.

I look at the person on my other side, who also has brown hair. Every strand is delineated, sharp and clear. But this one, the one looking at me like I'm daft, his hair is soft, unfocused.

“You’re staring,” he says. Is he nervous? Is that possible?

“Are you real?”

He laughs. “Are you supposed to ask that? I’ve never done this before.”

“Watched the airships?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ve watched them before.” Many times. I like the shapes and colours. But I've never seen anyone like him before. “My name is Ollie.”

“Ollie. I like that. I’m Paul.” He offers his hand.

As our hands meet, clasp, there's warmth, solidity. Static ripples across the perfect sky and Paul says, “You’re... different.”

Different from when? “We haven’t met before.” I'd remember. Someone like him. I let go his hand with something like reluctance.

“No, I know,” he says, his words quick. “I didn’t mean different from before. I... don’t know what I meant.”

“Okay.” This is so new. I think I like it.

As Paul watches the airships, I watch him. “You’re cute.”

His head turns towards me, his eyes wide. “I didn’t come here for a hook-up.”

“Neither did I.” Or did I? Maybe I did. Rx does things to the memory. I see things all sharp and clear, but remember them all hazy. I frown, staring at Paul, his soft golden brown eyes and soft hair. Is Paul a memory?

“This is... too weird.” Paul says, breaking eye contact seconds before he disappears.

The Eiffel Tower is bright grey, and dark outlines, all sharp edges as the jewel-toned airships float by.

~*~

The next time I see him, we're in Venice, for Carnival. “Hi, Paul,” I say.

He turns towards me, that same wide-eyed look of surprise on his face. “Who—? Ollie?”

I pull the mask away from my face, confirming it's me.

“I didn’t think I’d see you again.”

“It works that way,” I say with a shrug. “I guess subconsciously, I wanted to see you again.” He is still soft and warm, and I decide I want to touch him again, more than just a handshake.

Paul smiles. “So I’m here because you wanted to see me?”

“Yes.” Obviously. I study him, looking for changes since last we met. How long had it been? A week? A month. Since my last subsistence payment, the last time I could afford a trip like this. “Can I kiss you?”

“What? Why?”

What kind of question is that? I want Paul, that’s why he's here again. But he's not acting like he's part of the program. Did I know someone like him once? Before? I must want to believe so.

“I’m not sure,” I say, when I realize the silence is longer than it should be. “Do you want to kiss me?”

Paul stares at me, as if he is genuinely considering the question. “Can I do that? Even if it's not what I'm here for?”

“What are you here for? And why aren't you wearing a mask?” Could Paul know he was a simulation, a manifestation of my subconscious? Maybe even a memory of before...? 

“If I wore a mask, how would you know it was me?” Paul asks, grinning. “I think I would like to kiss you. “

“I won’t stop you.”

I had kisses in Venice before. It was part of the Carnival. They were cool, an echo of something, passion at a remove.

Paul’s lips against mine are so warm and soft, and Venice vanishes in burst of painful static.

~*~

“Fucking junkies.”

“That explains the weird readings.”

“Does it, though? They’re the same as for the other, you know, incidents.”

“There’s no such thing as ghosts, technician. Does the junkie have time left?”

The VR technicians hate Rx, even though it was designed for VR. They hate those of us who use it. They are not alone.

“You want to go back to Venice, kid?”

Venice? What did Venice matter, compared to Paul's warm mouth? “Paul,” I say, “I want to go where Paul is.”

The techs look across me, at each other. “No such thing as ghosts, huh?”

They try to tell me that Paul isn’t real, when it seems to me he is more real than the techs, more real than me.

I can think of only one way to find out.

~*~

I puke for days, I'm not sure how many, and then with a bad case of junkie jitters, I leave my hab. I shake and shimmy to Rebecca's hab. The howls of an angry baby tell me which door is hers, in case I forget.

I take the baby and it quiets for a minute. Not because I'm special, Rebecca assures me. Just different. Holding the baby stops the shakes in my arms, though my legs twitch and my feet shuffle.

“Ollie.” She sighs. “You gotta quit that shit, it's gonna kill you. I ain't got enough money to get you through—”

“I still got Rx. I'm not here to borrow money.”

Her eye snarrow. “Why you shaking all over, if you still got a fix?”

“Quittin'. Rebecca, you knew me before, right?”

Her face, usually so easy to read, closes up. “Yeah.” She doesn't like to talk about it. No one does.

“Did I have someone special? Named Paul? With golden eyes and soft brown hair?” I feel my face burn, as I realize how vivid Paul still is to me. Vivid, but soft. Not like the rest.

Looking puzzled, she says, “No.” It's almost a question.

“Anyone special?” I'm desperate. I know I'm nothing now, but surely then, before...?

She shakes her head, sadness in her eyes. “I'm sorry, Ollie. You were...young. Too young really, for someone special.”

I don't know what she means, not really. I don't know anything.

“Who's Paul?” She is frowning as she asks.

“I don't know,” I say.

The baby begins to fuss, my differentness is over. Rebecca lifts the tiny bundle from my arms.

~*~

When my next payment is dispersed, I return to the VR center. I've shaken the Rx, somehow. I know if I ever backslide, I will never return to this, whatever this is.

The techs don't seem surprised to see me, but I don't recognize them. They are surprised when I start asking questions.

“Ghosts,” one says. “Lots of people report seeing them.”

“Only recently,” says the other.

“All... real? In the VR?”

One grimaced. “Along those lines. More real than virtual reality. They're not in the programming.”

“Artificial intelligence? The program creating itself out of people's memories and expectations?” I’m smarter, more articulate, without the Rx, but my memory is riddled with holes. I know things that I don't remember ever learning.

The techs seem as surprised as I am by my question, but they shake their heads in the negative. “That would be seen in the program. It's not, nothing's there. Ghosts.”

It’s the same conversation we had before. “Just to users on Rx?”

They exchange a glance I can’t interpret. “No,” says one with reluctance.

I frown, out of ideas. “Are they dangerous?”

They look again at each other, communicating in silence. “No. They're not real.”

I smile, as if I believe them. “Paris,” I say. “I want to watch the airships.”

~*~

Paris doesn't look the same without the Rx. It's still sharply outlined and the colours are solid, making all the shapes look two dimensional, even when I can walk around them. That's another reason Rx is popular. So many reasons.

If Paul is part of the program, then he should be here, because I want him to be. I wish and expect and look around, examining every face in the crowd. Some look like him, a little, as the program tries to give me what I want, but they're not him. If I was on the Rx, these simulacrums would look more like him, but the VR can never duplicate those soft, warm lips, and the depth of colour of those golden eyes and rich brown hair.

Then I see him, scanning the crowd as if he is looking for me. “Paul!” I push towards him and he sees me. His eyes heat up, and he smiles, meeting me halfway.

“Ollie. I've been coming here whenever I can, hoping to find you.”

He reaches for me, and I for him, but I pull back at the last instant. “I don't want to break the program,” I explain in the face of his disappointment. “From where?”

“What?”

“Where are you coming here from? The techs said you were a ghost.”

Incredulity crosses his face. “Techs?” He reaches for me again. “We were able to shake hands.”

I lace my fingers in his. His skin is warm. “You're real,” we say together, staring into each other’s eyes. It isn't possible. It was designed to keep us all involved, but alone, separate. Something crackles and Paris glitches.

“Tell me where you are,” I demand, my voice low and urgent. “I'll find you, in a place where we can touch without breaking the world.”

“Paris,” he says, squeezing my fingers. He lets go one of my hands and strokes my cheek. “Find me.”

The Eiffel Tower disintegrates.

Paris, the real Paris, is a sprawling megacity. It costs money to go. But I’ve given up the Rx and if I give up the VR too, I should be able to go next payment. If I can pick up some odd jobs, maybe sooner. I will go and stand under the arches of the Eiffel Tower. Under a warm blue sky with soft fuzzy clouds, or under a cold dark sky spilling rain.

“Why do you want to go Paris?” Rebecca is cross with me. She thinks I’m crazy. “After a ghost?”

“He’s not a ghost,” I say, because I know—don’t I?—that Paul is real, like me.

“If the techs said—”

She’s interrupted by a wail from the baby. Her hair is combed, but there are dark circles under her eyes. She fusses with the baby while still managing to give me a suspicious look. “You’re clean?”

I nod. “I need to find him.”

“You could find someone here.”

I smile at her. We both know that’s unlikely. Maybe I won't find him in Paris, either, but at least—

“At least you’re doing something,” she says, completing my thought as if she were a... I study her. Her lines and colours are reassuringly soft, like real life. I suppose she’s known me long enough to know me that well.

“I’ll mail you a postcard.”

“Just call or message me. When do you go?”

“Soon.” I still have some Rx, it was sort of my personal test. If it’s there and I can say no, I’m doing okay. But I’m selling it. Paul and Paris haunt me. Maybe they are ghosts. Maybe everything he represents is a ghost, or a dream.

But I’m going. Because he is more real than real life.

~*~

I tell myself I’m going to Paris so often for so long, it starts to feel like a lie. The Rx tempts me, though I’ve sold mine. I have money enough to buy more. I look at my accounts. I go walking down the street, but I buy a ticket to Paris. I have it!

Weeks have gone by, months. Maybe he won’t be there. Maybe he’s given up.

The real life airship is a dull grey colour, but it can scarce be seen under the brightly glowing advertisements. The passengers are captains of industry, because industry no longer has an infantry.

I am out of place, but only in the VR do I feel like I belong, blend in. It strikes me then, how solitary the VR is. No one looks at me, but they don’t look at each other, either. I close my eyes and dream of Paul, as if I’ve known him for more than a few VR minutes, like he’s my lifeline. Like I’m his.

The Eiffel Tower is dwarfed by modern buildings. It is so much less impressive than the VR that I feel assured of its reality.

As I did in the VR, I scan every face for Paul. If he were VR, if this was VR, I would see him for wishing. People like VR for that. It’s easier than real life.

I do not find Paul. I wish we’d had more time to talk. I wonder if he’s looking for me in the VR. I have no more money for that. I hope he hasn’t give up on me.

When the sun sets, a gendarme urges me off the streets. The megacities have strict anti-vagrancy laws. A nearby hostel gives me shelter for a token payment, but I’m late and it’s crowded. I don’t think I could’ve slept anyway.

It’s hard to see the morning sky through the towering buildings, but long fingers of golden sunlight find their way through cracks and chinks. The highlights of Paul’s eyes are that colour.

I have the food provided by the hostel, something nutritious that tastes like chemicals. Banana-flavoured, though I’m pretty sure bananas don’t taste like that. I don’t  remember. I don’t know where to wait, so I walk around, under the arches, a giant square of walking that fills up with people. Unlike the VR, they don’t look up. Like the VR, they don’t talk to me or each other. They move with purpose. None of them are Paul.

I wish to see him so hard that when I do, I still question if he’s a ghost, if my wanting made him manifest. I’m afraid to call out, in case he disappears, but I walk toward him, staring, as if my eyes have a power to hold him here, in this reality.

He sees me. Our eyes meet and something clicks, like a lock sliding home. Somehow we are standing, face to face. His eyes are wondrous and his hair glimmers with shades and highlights no VR, not even on Rx, can duplicate. “How is it possible,” he whispers, touching my face.

“I don’t know.”

Our lips meet. I am aware of his breath, his warmth, the pressure of his mouth, the heat and wet of his tongue.

And the world holds steady, soft and vibrant.

Also by Sydney Blackburn

The Quicksilver Adventures

Diamonds & Quicksilver

A Line Drawn in Quicksilver

Standalone

The Princess and The Sea

Little Talks

Watch for more at Sydney Blackburn’s site.

About the Author

SYDNEY BLACKBURN writes stories of love and emotional connection in a variety of settings from contemporary to fantasy to sci-fi to historical. If you enjoyed this short, you may enjoy Syd’s other stories.

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Read more at Sydney Blackburn’s site.