simulacrum
sim.u.la.crum
—noun, plural —crae
1. An image, or representation: an illegal simulacrum of CEO Lucas March-Goodman
2. The mythical energy wrap worn by low-level skanks wanting to enter the Mind tiers of the Corporation
March-Goodman Dictionary: complete and unabridged
© March-Goodman Corporation Dictionary 2127
Chapter One
Wearing another body...itched.
Vyn pushed back her shoulders, the movement of her false skin a torment of light nails down her spine. It was a design flaw she needed to work on. Still, it wouldn’t stop her from her first trial use. She couldn’t help herself, not when it was so damn close to being perfect. Simulacrum was the holy grail of the low-level skanks, of which she was now one, and others were close to solving its manufacture. It had driven her over the last few days. She had to be first. She had a reputation as a Fomorian to uphold.
The upper-tier of the Mind—in the form of the Corporation’s most exclusive club— wrapped around her, feeling to her false skin as real as the cold-world beyond the server- generated walls. It was a short test. In and out. The club was the first virtual layer, a lobby area to the Halls. And no amount of confidence in her disguise would take her into their depravity. The insanely rich could keep those joys to themselves.
The air brushed warmth against her bared shoulders. The heavy scent of polish, the musk of perfumes, the wreath of smoke from cigars and cigarettes smelled as real as the industrial burn of the outside world. Soft notes of music threaded around the silk-walled room, mixing with the chatter of the club’s ultra-rich clientele.
Vyn sat back in her padded bar stool and picked up her drink. So far so good. She’d entered via the upper-tier portal with no issues. When she was ready, she’d thank Ossian for aiding her with that. Men had gaped as she broke free of the bright air of the arched entrance portal, but she was confident it was for the reason she wanted. Look at the gloss...don’t see the technology.
She stirred the olive in her martini and flicked a glance at the long mirror stretching across the bar. A pneumatic blonde in a clinging red dress stared back at her, her features sculpted, her lips red and pouting. Those who came to the Mind never came as themselves. Not really, even though the Corporation had banned the wearing of disguise. Hints of glamour tightened sagging middles, lifted jawlines, removed bags. The Corporation made money on selling the legal versions of glamour. She made money on the not so legal.
To the trained eye, the changes wrought in their flesh were obvious. Legal glamour was tagged. It was as if they wore labels. Discreet, but there. Even illegal glamour left a pattern against skin and clothes if you knew what you were looking for. A smile lifted her lips. Simulacrum was different. And the Corporation feared it. With her gear, they couldn’t fix her true identity within the Mind, a fact that would break down how they operated, the faith every individual and company placed in the virtual reality they’d created. To everyone in the club, she appeared real, untouched, untainted by gear. A true representation. The true woman. They’d believe she was as perfect in the cold-world. That thought made her sultry smile deepen. It couldn’t be any further from the truth.