SIXTEEN

Johnny knocked on Garçon’s door then stepped into the office. The blinds were closed, the room lit by a single lamp in the corner.

Garçon was working at his desk.

Johnny cleared his throat.

‘You wanted to see me, sir?’

Garçon looked up, smiled.

‘Take a seat, Johnny. Would you like a drink?’

‘Just a glass of water.’

Garçon stood up, reached for a nearby jug and poured Johnny a glass of water. Helped himself to a glass of bourbon from a rather expensive looking decanter.

‘So,’ he said, sitting back down at his desk and cradling his drink in his hands. ‘You’ve been away for a while, Johnny, haven’t you?’ He spoke as if slightly amused by the code guy’s absence.

‘Er . . . yes, sir . . .’

‘But you’re back,’ Garçon said, flashing his plastic veneers. ‘And we’re really glad to have you back, Johnny.’

Johnny lifted his water, took a sip.

‘Feel better now, I hope?’ Garçon asked vaguely.

‘Yes, sir. Much better,’ Johnny lied.

‘Good. Because I need you at your prime, Johnny. I’ve got something big lined up. I’m trying to create the impossible. I’m trying to pull the biggest, legitimate heist in history.’ He leaned across his desk, eyes twinkling. ‘I want to raise the very dead, here, Johnny.’

‘The dead?’

‘I want to bring Jesus Christ back to life and you’re going to help me.’

Johnny waited for the punch line but it didn’t come.

‘Our customers,’ Garçon continued ‘are ready for something more daring. More taboo. More spiritual!’

Another flash of those veneers.

‘Jesus . . . Christ?’ Johnny quizzed.

‘Jesus Christ. The Christian God.’

Johnny laughed. He couldn’t help it.

He could think of no greater commercial flop than Jesus Christ. Since the Holy War, religion, and every distant cousin of religion, was a no-no. Outside of Total America, there was no money in Jesus. And with a closed border policy, online as well as offline, there was absolutely no way to exploit the TA market.

Garçon glared at him from across the desk.

Johnny lifted his drink, nervously, took another sip, suddenly wishing it was JD instead of water

‘You do mean VR, Mr Garçon?’ he said. ‘Right?’

Garçon came alive, again.

‘Have you ever read any history of Jesus Christ, Johnny?’ he asked.

Johnny had not.

‘The story of Jesus was told in chunks. None of which came from any official source.’ Garçon waved his hand, impatiently. ‘People didn’t write things down back then, you see. Most of them couldn’t. So these fables about the things Jesus did spread via word-of-mouth.’

He lifted his own glass, touched it with his lips, set it back down.

‘And what a story! It’s really quite amazing: Jesus was reported to not only be the son of God, but a part of God himself. Here was a man the average Joe could relate to, have a beer with, and yet, he promised the very earth to them. He promised more than the earth, Johnny. Don’t you see? Jesus was the ideal brand.’

‘I guess . . .’ Johnny mused.

‘Of course it took more than just a few storytellers for this new brand to catch on,’ Garçon continued. ‘Constantine, you ever heard of him?’

‘No sir.’

‘He was the Roman emperor at the time, made Christianity the state religion. Suddenly Jesus was the new black. Everyone, and I mean everyone, wanted a piece of him. We’re talking books, merchandise, the whole nine yards.’

Garçon leaned back in his seat, looked to Johnny and smiled.

‘Man,’ he said in a softer voice, ‘if there’d been movies back then, you’d have had one hell of a script. Some of the stories they recorded were just beautiful. His lover, an ex-prostitute called Mary, was said to have poured shampoo on Jesus’ feet, washed them with her hair. Isn’t that something?’

Johnny suddenly thought of the whore from Tomb Street, scrambling around on the floor in front of him, scooping up dope.

‘That is something,’ he agreed.

Garçon leaned forward again, back to business.

‘Johnny, I don’t believe there ever was a Jesus. Not in the historical sense, anyway. People were desperate for someone like him, though, someone to liberate them from an empire that thrived on hedonism, where gluttony was a sign of success, where middle-aged men took nine year olds to be their lovers.’ Garçon’s eyes narrowed. ‘So they created their own religion, pieced it together from the myths that surrounded them. Don’t you see, Johnny? These people created a crude form of virtual reality.’

‘Okay,’ Johnny said, still not sure he did see, ‘so you want me to create a VR Jesus doll?’

‘Yes! Lark City’s out of control. There’s as much demand for change now as there was back in Constantine’s time. People need religion again, Johnny, a reason, a product to help rein themselves in, and we can capitalise on that.’

Johnny thought for a moment, toying over the brief in his head. It all still seemed insane to him.

‘How long do I have on the beta version?’ he asked. ‘The usual three months?’

Garçon’s face dropped.

‘Johnny. I’ve . . . er . . . well, I’ve been put under some pressure by the funders. I told them we already have the beta version. They want to see something sooner than that.’

‘Sooner as in one month?’

Garçon grimaced.

‘Try one week.’

‘A week?!’ Johnny blew out some air.

He caught a sharp look from Garçon, cleared his throat, checked himself: that was a little expressive for a doghouse code guy. But a beta version in a week was pretty tough even for standard, off-the-shelf VR. For something like this, it would be pretty much impossible. Johnny was looking at long hours, little sleep . . .

. . . which was exactly what he needed.

‘Okay. We can maybe do that. Beta version in your inbox for Friday week, latest.’

But Garçon still wasn’t happy.

‘No, Johnny,’ he said, ‘I’ll need the final cut. By next Thursday. Otherwise, they’re going to pull the plug, cut the funding.’

Garçon leaned forward again. Against the orange glow of the desk lamp, Johnny could see him a little better. A single bead of sweat rolled down his perfectly smooth forehead. His normally perfect hair was ruffled. Even his suit looked creased, the silk shirt upturned oddly at the collar.

‘Can you do it, Johnny?’ he asked. ‘Can you?’