The Veil

by Bowden, William

  “Brake, goddammit.”

  She doesn’t brake, but instead power slides around. The mistake loses her some speed, but overall she has gained on the Ferrari. Another gear change, another bend, and she is on their tail as they hit the next bend, both cars taking it safely into a straight stretch on a final slope to the valley floor, where a hairpin turn awaits them.

  Lucy positions the Aston to take the Ferrari on the inside, but the woman is having none of it. The tussle sees the Ferrari sliding out onto a dirt verge, the Aston following suit, both cars coming to rest parallel to each other in a cloud of dust, the pair of V12s still turning over.

  The dust clears to find Lucy with her ice-cold stare locked firmly on the woman opposite her, met once again with that wickedly mischievous smile.

  Robert casually leans forward to look across the two women at the man, who does likewise, both exchanging a nonchalant look.

  The woman laughs, pops the clutch and powers the Ferrari away in a spray of gravel.

  Lucy takes the bait.

  The Aston stalls with a lurch.

  Shocked bewilderment seeks out the cause—

  Robert has engaged the parking brake.

  “That’s quite enough of that, young lady.”

  * * *

  The Aston exits the valley at a somewhat sedate pace, entering into a region of lush woodland that has more of a managed look about it.

  An indignant Lucy sits in the passenger seat.

  “For heaven’s sake, Lucy. Let it go, will you.”

  She keeps her stare forward, eyes glowering. Robert finds it quite endearing, but she needs to learn to take responsibility for actions.

  “Really? You think this little routine of yours is going to work on me?” he says.

  A tight-lipped Lucy faces him.

  “Are you going to apologize, or not?” she says tersely.

  “Apologize? You could have killed us both!”

  “I’m a fast learner.”

  Lucy is unrepentant. It’s all Robert can do not to laugh out loud as he struggles to keep a straight face, but he needs her to feel reprimanded.

  “Okay. So you’re a fast learner, but this isn’t bloody Le Mans.”

  “You are impossible!”

  “What? You think those two jokers were trying to get away from us?” He can’t contain himself any longer, a big grin breaking out across his face. “Kinda, funny though.”

  “Funny?”

  “Oh, come on, Luce.”

  The exchange is interrupted by a gated driveway to one side of the road. Robert brings the car a halt as both ponder the entrance to what appears to be the edge of a wooded garden.

  “Should we go in?” Lucy says.

  Robert stares silently ahead, his jaw tightening.

  “Yeah, we should go in.”

  * * *

  The narrow driveway winds its way through an area of flowering azaleas and rhododendrons, a heady mix of color carefully arranged under large pine trees to give an informal feel, the still air heavy with scent, neatly clipped grass paths weaving in between the shrubs.

  A large, but not ostentatious, house emerges into view, set in an equally large clearing, formal garden all around it. The Ferrari is parked outside its front entrance.

  “Our friends’ house?” speculates Lucy.

  “Nope,” Robert says, a tenseness to his voice. “This is my house, or, rather, a pretty good copy of it.”

  “Your house?”

  “In England. As it was…twenty, thirty years ago, maybe.”

  He pulls the car up alongside the Ferrari, getting out to head for the front door, Lucy having to scramble after him.

  “Oh, and the car…copy of one I owned at the same time. Right down to the number plate.”

  The front door is wide open, Robert striding through without breaking stride, traversing the house by means of its hallway leading to the far side. There he steps out onto an expanse of stone patio, formal garden beyond, to find the man and woman standing to one side.

  Robert’s initial assessment finds the woman to be starkly handsome, the man her equal, if not somewhat pallid, and both conservatively but smartly dressed in a European style that befits their physical appearance. Their posture is elegant, their welcoming smiles warm.

  Too eager to catch up, Lucy stumbles out onto the patio.

  “Robert, Lucy. Welcome,” the woman says. “My name is Ramani, and this is Ril.”

  “Ril and Ramani?” quips Robert at the name pairing, otherwise at a loss as to how to handle the situation.

  Ril motions to a nearby coffee table and chairs, of an Edwardian style, the table set for afternoon tea—a china service with a small selection of sandwiches.

  “Please, sit,” says Ril, his accent quintessentially English—more so than Robert’s and in marked contrast to Ramani’s heavy European lilt.

  Ril and Ramani seat themselves on one side of the table, all the while keeping their gaze on an uncertain Robert and Lucy.

  Robert sits first, Lucy quick to follow.

  “Are you part of all this?” Robert asks.

  “It was us that had you sent here,” Ril replies.

  “Who are you?”

  “Think of us as advocates—”

  “What are you?”

  “We are human. More or less.”

  “From Earth?”

  “Not from Earth. We were…engineered.”

  “Engineered by whom?”

  Ril picks up the teapot to serve.

  “By those that built this place,” he says. “Tea? It’s Earl Grey. Your favorite.”

  “What? My what?”

  Ril pours for all.

  “All of this must seem somewhat bizarre,” he says. “And I’m sure you have many questions, but it’s best not to rush things. Try to relax.”

  “Relax? You have got to be kidding—”

  “Why did you attack us?” challenges Lucy.

  “Attack you?” counters Ramani.

  “You crashed the Mombasa.”

  “Gravimetric turbulence at the dome perimeter,” Ril says. “No dampers there.”

  “Then why did you not warn us?”

  “There was never any real danger,” Ramani says. “We would have intervened if needed. We wanted to see how Robert coped with the situation. While we were dealing with you.”

  “You mean bringing her here,” Robert says.

  Ril takes his own cup of tea, adding a squeeze from what would appear to be a slice of lemon.

  “Lucy’s body is a biomechanical remote,” he says, stirring in the lemon juice. “Living tissue and organs integrated with an artificial endoskeleton.” A sip of tea. “The brain is a synaptic connection with her machine mind on board the Afrika, the two now a symbiont pair, shifting her loci of consciousness to this world.”

  “So, for all intents and purposes,” Ramani says to Lucy, “yes, you are here.”

  Robert remembers the conversation with Lucy—they’ve been watching us all the while.

  “This…this is a human body?” Lucy asks.

  “A manufactured equivalent,” Ril says. “More robust, but not indestructible—so watch the antics.”

  Ramani offers up a plate of neatly trimmed crustless cucumber sandwiches to Lucy.

  “You know about food, don’t you?”

  “I can eat?”

  “You have to,” Ril says. “Your body metabolizes food and water for energy.”

  “Do as you do in your simulations, Lucy.” Ramani says.

  Another troubling insight that affirms the few pieces of advice Cardinal Ansoni had been able to give Robert. They see everything, know everything.

  Lucy’s embarrassment at the mention of her simulations shows in her eyes as she takes a sandwich and sniffs at it, only to become acutely aware that all are watching her intently. She takes a bite and chews on it, a look of alarm flashing on to her face, her mouth agape as if ready to spit the food out.

  “It’s taste, Lucy,” chuckle
s Ramani. “Or rather, it is the real taste of that sandwich and not what you imagined it would be.”

  Lucy forces a swallow, a look of nausea passing quickly, leaving her ready to take another bite. A much bigger mouthful this time. The distraction has given Robert time to focus his mind.

  “You cut our communications with Earth,” he says. “Why?”

  “I think we will keep Earth out of things for the time being,” Ril says. “We don’t want any interference.”

  “Interference with what?”

  “With what is going to occur here. But you must rest. We will explain more this evening.”

  This serves only to exasperate Robert—he’s used to getting answers when he wants them.

  “Surely you can tell us more…this place…the dome.”

  “An enclosed, artificially regulated ecosystem,” says Ramani. “Air, gravity—”

  “Why go to all the trouble? The resources needed to build this place—”

  “Because we can.”

  “We?” Robert counters. “You or them? Who are they? And why me?”

  The line of questioning is met with a polite silence that threatens to linger a tad too long.

  Lucy burps loudly, the guttural emission startling her.

  “Well, that’s enough with the introductions,” Ramani says, rising to leave. “The two of you should get some rest.”

  “Join us for dinner this evening,” Ril says, also rising. “At the pavilion beyond the wood. Just follow the path.”

  The two of them make to leave, but Robert is not done.

  “Hold on—”

  “You will find the house as you remember it,” Ramani says. “There are provisions and fresh clothes for you both.”

  “Black tie, drinks at seven.” Ril says.

  And with that they take their leave, back through the house. Robert doesn’t bother to follow them, choosing instead to simply flop back into his chair.

  “Black tie?” Lucy asks, her mouth full of bread and cucumber.

  Robert focuses his disdain on her, reaching for a sandwich.

  There are none.

  GOG

  Robert lies splayed out on a bed, staring up at the ceiling. He has to keep reminding himself that it is not actually his bed—an inspection of the house having revealed it to be a thoroughly convincing replica in every respect, no detail overlooked.

  Ril was right—they needed rest. Or at least Robert did. Lucy seemed imbued with a boundless energy that carried her excitedly from room to room, determined to investigate every nook and cranny. Their hosts had chosen their rooms for them, Robert in the replica of his own bedroom, and Lucy billeted in the main guest room at the other end of the house. She had almost burst with delight at the thought of her very own room, but having exhausted its detail had now taken to viewing every other available, her pounding feet sounding throughout the house. And not for the first time do those thumping sneakers now come to Robert’s room to relate some new discovery. The door bursts open, but Robert keeps his gaze fixed on the ceiling, engaging only to curtail the inevitable gushing discourse from what he pictures to be a beaming Lucy.

  “Take a shower. Get dressed.”

  A moment’s silence before excited feet pound their way to the other end of the house. The distant sound of a door closing noisily and finally Robert can heave a huge sigh of relief.

  * * *

  Ril and Ramani’s immaculate appearance compels Robert to make an effort. He will not be outdone, and while not necessarily able to actually outdo, he can at least meet the same standard.

  It doesn’t really take a lot. Shaving his beard stubble off goes a long way to ditching the space-bum look, and after briefly considering repurposing Lucy as a barber, slicking back his hair completes the transformation.

  Their hosts have provisioned the house well, the grooming products those that Robert would have chosen himself, but the icing on the cake he finds to be in the dressing room—a wide selection of attire from casual to formal, each item a perfectly tailored fit. Two dinner suits are available, Robert choosing one in a European style, cufflinks and a pair of mirror-polished black brogues completing the ensemble.

  Lucy’s room is at the far end of a central corridor, an immaculately dressed Robert making the final adjustments to his shirt cuffs as he strides along it, his manner confident, his demeanor bright and alert.

  A slight hesitation at Lucy’s door before knocking.

  “Luce! We need to get going.”

  “One moment. One moment,” she calls out from within.

  Robert can hear her feet pounding as she scurries about her room, footsteps eventually thumping their way to other side of her door. A moment of silence leads Robert to open his mouth to call out once more—

  The door is snatched open to reveal a beaming Lucy.

  It takes him a further moment to take it all in, her presentation as immaculate as his own, the dinner suit she is wearing, replete with black tie, in the style of a man’s, but cut for a woman, a fresh pair of navy-blue sneakers on her feet.

  For her part the beaming smile is subdued at the sight of Robert’s own appearance.

  “So how do I look?” she says.

  “You look…great. Great.”

  Lucy’s detection of more than an element of misgiving has her anxiously looking over herself for some error or omission.

  “What is it?” she asks.

  “Nothing. Nothing at all. So…ready?”

  “What—is—it?” she says, glowering back at him.

  His exasperated shrug of the shoulders and hand gestures at her outfit say it more than the words, “You’re wearing a DJ?”

  “A DJ?”

  “Dinner jacket—tuxedo in American. Wouldn’t you rather wear an evening dress? I’m sure you’d look very pretty.”

  “Pretty?”

  Robert has a measure of the vast hole he has started digging for himself, and decides to cut his losses.

  “You look great. Let’s go.”

  * * *

  From the formal garden to the rear of the house a woodland walk leads the way. The sun—if it can be called that—is low in the sky, and lamps are already aglow, though there is still enough natural light to see by.

  The edge of wood is densely populated with flowering azaleas, which in England would normally be the case in mid-spring, yet the surrounding trees are in full leaf—a sign of high summer. It’s not the only juxtaposition that Robert has noted in the flora—the best of spring and summer have been merged into one here, something he suspects to be everlasting, the need for seasons dispensed with in what he takes to be an artificially engineered ecosystem.

  Wisps of heavy scent permeate the evening air, finding their way to Lucy’s newly acquired senses with an almost intoxicating effect as she flits from one bush to the next. But at one plant, seemingly given pride of place, she stops with a look of disappointment, sniffing at its ember-orange blooms.

  “This one has no smell.”

  Robert recognizes the particular azalea before her. He is quite certain that it will be the only one of its kind in the whole of the garden. Though not an exact replica like his house, the garden layout is broadly the same, right down to the plantings. In his own he had included only fragrant azaleas, with a single exception at this spot.

  “This is a hybrid called Gog.”

  “Gog? What kind of name is that?”

  “It’s an old hybrid, Lucy. It was my father’s favorite. He liked it for the color of its flowers.”

  “Oh.” Lucy says, staring at her feet. “Is your father’s Gog like the flower Lucius gave me?”

  “Something like that.”

  “I didn’t mean to pry.”

  “We’d better get a move on.”

  The azaleas give way to denser woodland now cloaked by dusk. Robert feels distinctly uneasy as they make their way along the path, a crunchy mix of forest detritus with the occasional fallen twig snapping underfoot. It’s the silence beyond their own pa
ssage that unnerves him, and he can’t help but look all about as they head forward. Still, Lucy seems quite at ease, curious about everything she lays her eyes on, so one less thing for him worry about right now. But when he is not looking her way, Lucy is sure to secure what furtive glances she can, at the transformed object of interest in whose company she finds herself.

  “How are you feeling?” Robert asks of her.

  “Wonderful!”

  “Your…body. Any…problems?”

  “No…”

  Lucy takes his arm to halt him with a giggle.

  “I know how humans work. How do you feel?”

  Robert is somewhat taken aback by the familiarity she has just exhibited. It is out of character. But then, she has never been corporeal before.

  “Well…all things considered, not too bad,” he says. “The virus helps—I don’t feel as tired as I should.”

  She beams a big Lucy-smile back at him.

  “Look, don’t forget where we are,” he warns her.

  “I won’t,” she says, rushing ahead, before calling back. “Come along, Bob!”

  Few who met Lucy for the first time knew of her peculiar way of addressing others, which was to invariably take the name and salutation stated at initial introduction to be the given mode from that point forward, with formal name, rank and title being used if none was offered. The typical result was long-winded names, simultaneously annoying and endearing to those on the receiving end, yet with few requesting an alternate, such was Lucy’s infectious nature for those who took the trouble to get to know her, though sadly most did not.

  Bebbington had clued Robert in on Lucy’s foibles, and he had been certain to make his own introduction unambiguous. Yet unlike all others with whom she came into contact she rarely addressed him directly by name, and when she did so she chose Robert. That she now should choose Bob was deeply unsettling, but for reasons he could not put his finger on. Despite the short acquaintance there was something about her, something that was more than just engaging—in the way she moves, in her style, something in the things she shows me. Whatever it was it had snuck up on Robert and caught him unawares.

  * * *

  The path brings them to the edge of a clearing and sight of the pavilion—a grand stone building with two halls, one either side of a central dome, each with tall, expansive windows glowing with a welcoming light. Beneath the dome a broad flight of steps lead up to its wide doors.