Second Veil

by Wilson, David

  He closed and sealed the door. He didn't believe he was in any danger, but he knew that with the chamber sealed properly, other priests would believe the watch was set, and would not interfere. More than just a place to study the heavens, The Chamber of Stars – and the duty they spent there – was meant as a place and a time of meditation. Almost all of The Temple's activities involved the group. They met for prayers. They carried out rituals that had been passed down to them from earlier generations. The Chamber of Stars was their opportunity to commune with the powers that protected them. It was a chance to think about how they had been chosen and protected by the veils.

  There were books on the shelves lining the walls. Some were the journals of past priests. Some were transcribed scriptures – holy documents that, while seldom in total agreement, followed a common thread of compliance. They agreed on the point that was central to their faith. They had been chosen, and they had been protected. Anything interfering with that protection was heresy. Anything heretical should be punished, squashed, hidden away or destroyed. It had always been their way, and until the space debris had crashed through the veil, shattering their security, their way had had the backing of The High Council.

  Myril walked to the great brass telescope. It was aimed, as always, straight out through the skylight and beyond both veils. There were thousands of stars out there – he'd tried many times to count them, and failed. He'd always wondered what they represented, if there were other worlds, other chambers with men of faith, watching him as he watched them, but too far removed to be aware.

  If there was no purpose to it all, he felt a part of him would die. If they had not been protected because there was something special about them – something that needed to be preserved, then why? By whom? The veils weren't like the technology they'd discovered on their own. There were no airlocks to be opened. The great pumps that supplied their air had worked flawlessly for centuries and there was no indication in any of the journals or records that there had ever been a time they'd understood how it worked. It just did. It was the same with the incinerators, and the exhaust tubes.

  No sane being would go to the trouble to create something so perfect just because they could. And now it was crumbling. The more they changed things, the more they tried to make it better, the farther they got from the original plan, the closer to oblivion they fell. It would not be long before they shot craft beyond the Second Veil, hoping to find answers to questions they should never even have asked, and doomed the entire planet.

  Myril stared into the stars, and as he did, a peace descended, removing his doubt and filling him with the warmth of true purpose. He knew what he had to do. He also knew he could trust no one to help him. If he shared his plan with even a single other man or woman, it would fail. He was the High Priest, and it was his duty to set things right. They would not thank him – but it didn't matter. The priesthood was a thankless life – a gift of one's self to the world. He would make a final gift, and he would make it count.

  He closed his eyes and bowed low before the ancient telescope.

  "Thank you," he whispered.

  Then he turned, opened the airlock, and disappeared into The Temple, moving with a speed and purpose he hadn't known for many years, and willing all others to overlook his passing.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The tracker was packed to capacity with supplies, and all preparations were complete for the return trip. For the first time in recent memory, Euphrankes found himself reluctant to depart the city. He knew there was work to do, and his excitement over the prospect of outfitting the Tangent and taking her through the veils was barely contained, but it was oddly pleasant to sit in the city of his birth, with a man so recently his enemy, and break bread. It was one of those moments to be remembered carefully.

  "We should be able to make better time on the return journey," he said. "We've already cleared and checked the road on the way in. The cargo will slow us a little, but not a lot. It's the most work the tracker has seen in a very long time."

  "But not the last," Cumby said. "I'm sure of that. I don't know how we could have been content to let the roads in and out of the city fall, one by one, as we sat back and watched. I'm just thankful that you ignored us and took the initiative to come up with those patches."

  "I've made something of a career of ignoring people," Euphrankes said. "I believe that, as well, may be behind us at this point. We all have too much to do to spend much time bickering over it."

  "Agreed," Cumby replied. "Once you are on your way, I'll be concentrating on organizing the first party to open one of the other roads. The road to Sparana shows the most immediate promise. The rift is less than a mile from the city, and we should be able to provide more safety and life support than we can on longer trips, like that to Bethes."

  "If your design works," Euphrankes said, "it will be something of a moot point."

  Cumby laughed. "It's only an idea, coming from me – it won't be a design until you are through with it. That's what I always admired in your father. Ideas have come easy to me throughout a long life, but it's one thing to conceive of a thing, and entirely a different thing to have the ability to bring it to life."

  "Discovery is its own reward," Aria said. "Just being there at the moment a thing works for the first time can leave me exhilarated for days."

  Euphrankes swallowed the last bit of food on his plate, and washed it down with cool water. He rose slowly, and extended a hand.

  "I think it's time we got moving," he said. "The sooner we reach The Outpost and join Zins, the sooner all the rest of these plans can get in motion."

  Before Councilor Cumby could respond, there was a commotion in the hallway outside the room where they sat. Cumby rose, as one of his pages entered. The young man looked concerned, and Cumby frowned.

  "What is it? What has happened?"

  "Nothing has happened, sir," the boy replied. "There is a priest outside. He says he has word of Myril, and that it is urgent."

  Cumby glanced at Euphrankes, and then at Aria, who shrugged. They hurried from the room as a group to find a young priest pacing the hallway outside the door. When he saw Cumby, he stopped and turned, eyes wide and expression frantic.

  "You have to come!" he cried. "Sir, I would not disturb you, but Myril…I believe he may have lost his mind."

  "What's your name, son?" Councilor Cumby asked. His voice was calm, and as he spoke, he stepped closer and laid a hand on the young priest's shoulder. "Tell me what has happened, and we'll find a way to deal with it."

  "My name," the priest said with an effort, "is Ozymandes. It was I who first saw the…object…in the sky. I was on my way to evening meditation when I saw Myril, the High Priest, he corrected himself, descend the stairs from The Chamber of Stars. I thought nothing of it at first. I thought that perhaps he'd been checking the skies for more danger, or that he'd only needed a bit of time alone to gather his thoughts. I expected him to turn toward the inner temple – to address the rest of us. Instead, he turned away, and he left The Temple. I didn't know what else to do, so I followed."

  "Followed him where?" Cumby asked patiently. "Where did he go, Ozymandes, and why do you think it important enough to come to me?"

  "He is in the pump house, sir," Ozymandes said. "When he went in, he was carrying a large pipe. I believe he means to damage the compressors."

  Cumby and Euphrankes stared at the young priest, mouths agape.

  "Gods," Euphrankes said, "he'll kill us all!"

  And then he was running. Behind him he heard Councilor Cumby calling out to the nearest guards, and he heard footsteps. He assumed Aria was behind him, but he couldn't waste time looking back, and he was afraid if he took his eyes off his goal, he might tumble and injure himself. Euphrankes worked hard every day, but there were few places with fresh enough air to support sprinting, and he was not used to such sudden exertion. He hoped he'd reach the pump rooms before he passed out – before they all passed out, never to awaken again.

/>   ~ * ~

  Myril stood alone in the central chamber of the great pump room. The hum of equipment shivered through the air around him. The machinery was sealed – they had rituals for its maintenance, but none had any idea where they'd come from. They had been studied, and their principle had been duplicated in smaller, less efficient models, but there was nowhere in all the cities that such large machinery could be manufactured, tooled, or designed. The pumps were able to take the thin, weak air of the planet's atmosphere, combined with the small amounts of exhaust the city created, and the expelled breath of the citizens, and draw the essential elements from it to create breathable air. In short, each and every one of the pumps was a miracle.

  There had been attempts over the years to include engineers in the care of the pumps, but Myril, and those who'd come before him, had stood their ground. There was no need of an engineer. What they did to maintain the huge machines was precise, intricate, and detailed. It did not require understanding. It was ritual, and ritual was the domain of the priesthood.

  Myril knew what the engineers would do. They'd be perfectly capable of maintaining the machines, but they would be equally incapable of turning off their minds as they worked. They would be analyzing the mechanisms, drawing them when they returned to their workshops, experimenting and trying to recreate, or even improve on what they'd seen. They would, in short, not respect the miracles for their own sake, but would only see them as stepping stones toward some selfish gain – some attempt to prove themselves smarter and more clever than anything that came before.

  It was the failing of their people…of their city. They had been given every gift they needed. They had food, they had air to breathe, and they had the means to continue – if they stuck to the rituals and the teachings that had kept them safe – to continue as long as their faith held. The failed roads were lessons, but they had not gotten through. The fiery chunk of debris, for all its appearance of alien technology, was a warning. Myril thought it was a warning to the rest of the planet – that Urv had failed. Why else would The Protectors have dropped it on them? They had to have known what would happen – thus it was exactly what was meant to have happened.

  What The Protectors had not known was the depth of corruption the city had sunk to. They had not taken into account the airships, and the patches, the seals and the airlocks. Even if the veil had been punctured, and the pressure lost, most of them would have survived one way or another, locked away in the various buildings and traveling about in protective gear until they managed to evacuate.

  The interior of the pump room was dark. The only illumination was along the panels where Myril's priests checked the readings daily. There were meters for each pump, gauges and valves. The readings had to be precise, and if they required adjustment, the instructions were meticulous. The valves were moved only in miniscule increments, observed, measured again, and on until everything read exactly as it had read every day since the machines were put into service.

  It was comfortable. Knowing that things were the way they had always been, and that they would – or at least could – remain that way forever gave the citizens of Urv peace of mind. It gave them a platform of stability upon which to build their lives. When they met at The Temple on the morning of the tenth day of each month, they listened to the stories. They heard the tale of the veils, and how they had been wrapped around the planet, and the city, and the roads to keep them safe.

  No one knew who had built them, or placed them. All they knew was what had been left. Instructions, rituals, and protection. They had been given a way of life that could sustain them into the future, and, just as their scriptures warned, it was not enough. If they did not remain diligent in their faith – if they allowed the rules to be bent, or broken, then all of it could crumble, and their civilization would perish. It was happening all around them, and they went blithely on, ignoring what was right in front of their faces.

  Myril strode along the banks of gauges. He reached out and ran his hand over the polished metal. He traced the numbers behind the glass faces. As he passed each control panel, he recited the numbers – the readings that should be on each and every dial. He'd known them by heart for many years. He always carried the scripture – it was required – but if every copy of it were destroyed, he would still know what to do. He would still be able to keep those pumps supplying life to Urv – by faith.

  And he could make them stop. He knew every proper adjustment – every step of the ritual. He also knew the warnings. He knew what could cause the most damage, what could ruin the air, or stop it completely. He knew how to complete what the flaming debris had begun, and he knew that it was up to him to do it. There was no other way – his faith was strong, but that of the city had failed.

  He pulled his arm back slowly, the metal bar gripped tightly in his hand. Before he could swing it, the doors opened, and two men tumbled through. One he recognized immediately – it was Ozymandes – one of his own. He smiled at the young man. Then the smile died on his lips. The second man was Euphrankes Holmynn – and behind him, blasphemy compounding blasphemy, came his woman. There had not been a woman in the pump room in all the years of its existence.

  Myril held his ground and brandished the pipe.

  "Stay back!" he screamed. "Don't interfere. This is the only way – the way it is meant to be."

  "No, sir," Ozymandes said, stepping forward. "The pumps – the veils – their purpose is to protect, and we serve the veils. You can't…"

  "I must," Myril said. He turned and began to swing the pipe in a hard, fast arc toward the nearest gauge.

  "Stop him!" Euphrankes cried. He dove forward. Behind him, he heard Aria grunt with some effort, but he didn't turn. A moment later, he saw something bright and glittering arc through the air over his head. As the pipe struck the valve a glancing blow, something struck Myril as well, crashing into the side of his head. He tried to swing the pipe again, but it fell from his fingers and he dropped to his knees. Moments later Ozymandes was at his side, pulling him back, and cradling him at the same time.

  "Get help!" the boy cried. "We have to get him help."

  Euphrankes nodded.

  "Aria, go!" he cried.

  "What about you?" she asked.

  He was staring at the valve. A slow drip of – something– was puddling on the floor beneath it.

  "You have to help Myril," he said, moving forward slowly. "I have to fix…that."

  They all stared, just for a moment, and then Aria was running back toward the door and Euprhankes knelt in front of the ancient technology, his mind whirling. He only hoped he was up to the task.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Beads of sweat beaded on Euphrankes' forehead as he stared at the ancient mechanism. The gauge that Myril had struck was leaking. He didn't know exactly what it was leaking, but whatever it was had begun to pool on the floor in front of him. The gauge attached simply enough to a brilliant copper pipe. The pipe, thankfully, was intact, and it appeared that the gauge itself twisted on over the end of that pipe, which was threaded.

  Euphrankes whirled. Everyone had departed, except the young priest, Ozymandes.

  "The rituals," Euphrankes snapped. "Do they mention what to do in case of a leak, or a drip?"

  Ozymandes shook his head. "They are very specific to each task. None of the rituals I have performed address event the possibility of a malfunction."

  Euphrankes cursed under his breath, and the young priest frowned at him.

  "Are there parts?" Euphrankes asked. "Pieces that have been secreted away, or hoarded? I need two things to make this right. I need another gauge to replace the one that's broken, and you and I have to figure out how to cut off whatever is pressurized in this pipe long enough to replace it."

  Ozymandes turned, surveyed the room, and shook his head. He was about to speak, when he stopped cold. Euphrankes would have sworn someone had thrown cold water in the man's face.

  A moment later, Ozymandes was running toward the back end
of the room. Euphrankes took a last look at the puddle on the floor, and the broken gauge, shrugged, and followed. There was nothing he could do unless they found something to stop that leak.

  Ozymandes had stopped in front of a wall of cabinets. They were inset into the wall, so there was no way to tell their depth from where Euphrankes stood. Each was locked, but the priest already had a ring of keys in his hand. He searched through them, as if looking for something unfamiliar, found what he sought, and held the key up triumphantly. He knelt at the last locker on the right hand side of the wall, inserted the key, and pulled the door open wide.

  Inside, stacked from the bottom to the top, were sealed metal cases. Ozymandes stared at them, concentrating. Euphrankes stepped up beside him.

  "What are they?" he asked.

  Ozymandes turned.

  "I have no idea," he said. "That's why I'm counting on them being spare parts. This is the locker we have been warned never to open. It is one of the first things an acolyte to The Temple is told. They give you a ring of keys that will open all of these lockers. They tell you what is in each. Some have the rituals in them. Others are empty, and still others just hold day–to-day items like lights, batteries, and warm clothing. This one, though," he patted the open door, "is different. They make a big deal of giving you the key to it – but then they tell you never to open it – on threat of banishment or worse, it is never to be touched."

  "Nobody ever opens it?" Euphrankes asked. "There's no list – no inventory so the elders could check and be certain their secret – whatever it is – is safe?"

  "It is never opened," Ozymandes repeated, as if just realizing what he'd done. "Never. I don't believe even the High Priest knows what is in here."

  "We have the door open, and we still don't know," Euphrankes pointed out.

  Startled, Ozymandes reached for the first of the metal cases. He pulled it free, and the two of them knelt together, unfastened the catches, and opened it. Inside was what appeared to be a valve of some kind. Not the part they were after, but encouraging all the same. They resealed it and checked the next box. After a while, they stopped resealing boxes and just stacked them to the side. They found a length of pipe, mechanisms the purpose of Euphrankes could only guess at on such cursory examination, bolts, hasps, and – finally – they found three identical boxes, each with a brand new shiny gauge matching those on the pumps.