Seen And Not Seen (The Veil Book 1)

by Bowden, William

  Not a human being in sight, but before the Afrika is ready it will need human engineers to complete it, the limits of the Embies’ abilities having being reached. The Pegasus is how they will get there and after them, the crew.

  A means to transit engineers and crew could have been far more mundane—and considerably cheaper. But Robert knew he had to sell the endeavor to a skeptical world somehow and although Congress had balked at the cost, it was still a drop in the ocean compared to what they would end up spending. Senator Blake was having none of it—and why should he? None but a few knew of the real reasons why and he was not one of them.

  So Robert had set about making the Pegasus a thing of wonder, that an unsuspecting world could be misdirected by sleight of hand into believing it was all worth it. But you can only go so far with toy models and picture books.

  While most of the Pegasus interior has yet to be fitted out, the flight deck is largely complete. An orange-suited, white-helmeted figure occupies the pilot seat with Sharanjit Toor leaning over him, double checking his flight harness; Robert seems oblivious to her presence, silently gazing out at the track heading away from the Pegasus.

  “You don’t have to do this,” she says.

  “Yeah, I do. Have a little faith, Shaz.”

  Robert’s detached demeanor arrests Toor. She shoots a worried glance at a grim-faced Landelle standing at the cabin door.

  * * *

  Far away in Washington, Justice Garr is one of millions around the globe watching the event as it is broadcast live. A reporter gushes superlatives as scene after scene is presented of the Cantor Satori skunkworks, the gathered media, the engineers and technicians—and of course, the Pegasus, now seen up close for the very first time. An engineering marvel.

  “Looks like Robert Cantor is back to his old self, folks,” the reporter concludes.

  Despite Garr’s desire to keep Robert out of the public eye, and her initial instinct to tear a strip off of him for doing just the opposite, she had to concede the effectiveness of the game play.

  “Your move, Senator.”

  SHOW TIME

  Toor and Landelle leave the Pegasus, with technicians sealing the hatch from the outside. The access gantry retracts and the space plane is moved forward along the track, exiting its hangar for the first time. It glides to a silent stop some one hundred meters down the track, a blast ramp rising behind it.

  Media correspondents pack a viewing gallery. Mission controllers busy themselves. Landelle and Toor look on, both ashen.

  Robert sits alone on the flight deck, staring blankly forward.

  Klaxons sound three times.

  A deathly silence shrouds the desert plain.

  No ceremony, no countdown—the first set of rocket sled motors light up with a deafening roar. Immediately the Pegasus is away, riding the sled at a brusque pace.

  A second set of motors light, bringing a jump in pace. A kilometer of desert sweeps by, trackside cameras autonomously panning as the Pegasus zips past. Misting around its flight surfaces heralds a sonic boom that seconds later reverberates around the mountains. The space plane’s own engines light with a crackling thunder.

  Under the g-force of acceleration Robert already has his hands resting on the controls. All that is required is a slight adjustment to the wrists of each hand and the horizon ahead lowers—the Pegasus lifts away from the sled.

  The mission controllers are on their feet in a single unified gasp, a sea of concerned faces.

  “What the bloody hell is he doing!” says Landelle, “It was only supposed to be a run to the end of the track!” She looks at Toor, but she is wide-eyed and speechless, her hands squeezing the life out of a hand rail before them.

  * * *

  Senator Blake is perched on the edge of his desk, before him a large wall display showing the Pegasus space plane lift gracefully away.

  A muted intake of breath.

  IDENTITY

  Lucius Gray arrives at the containment facility in a rush, his expression awash with concern. The nurse greets him, guilty-faced.

  “I only left her for a short while. The front desk watched over her on the cameras—they thought it was just normal play.”

  Lucius brusquely enters the observation room, the concern on his face washed away by astonishment. Right on his heels Felton rushes in only to be stopped short by what he sees.

  “How long?” Lucius asks the nurse.

  “Only ten minutes or so.”

  Inside the sealed containment room, laid out on the floor, are the one hundred sixty-nine pencil drawings, neatly arranged such that their patterns match up. They form a large mosaic portrait of a right hand, palm facing, with a prominent brown spot under the index finger. The complete image is formed solely from the hand’s own lines, the illusion perfect. Apio sits nearby happily playing with her toys.

  “Is that who I think it is?” asks Felton.

  Lucius isn’t listening—he’s hurriedly making a video call.

  Justice Garr answers, “Lucius. I’ve been meaning to call. How are you?” Her brow furrows to reflect Lucius’s own, “What’s wrong?”

  * * *

  Amid the confusion of mission control, Landelle takes a video call of her own. A stern Garr confronts her.

  “Secure Robert Cantor immediately.”

  * * *

  The Pegasus sits serenely at the end of its landing tracks in the middle of a Nevada salt plain. A convoy of service and security vehicles rounding on it shatters the silence.

  Landelle scrambles up a hatch ladder leading into the belly of the plane, followed by Toor.

  They make their way forward to the flight deck.

  Empty. No Robert, much to Landelle’s exasperation.

  CAT AND MOUSE

  Garr views the contents of the containment room for herself.

  Felton is apprehensive. He’d been aware of Justice Garr’s relationship with Lucius and what the two of them had gone through. It was in Lucius’s agency file. But he hadn’t anticipated her involvement and her authority in this matter is decidedly complicated.

  “Which agency did you say you are with?” Garr’s eyes do not leave the child.

  “You know I can’t tell you that,” replies Felton.

  Garr breaks her gaze away to find Lucius, her manner briefly informal, “Interesting company you’re keeping. Thank you for sharing.” For Felton she resumes her status as a justice of the Supreme Court, “Then tell me who the hell they are.”

  “They call themselves The Veil,” says Felton.

  Garr barely manages to suppress a scoff, “The Veil? What kind of name is that? Who are they? Terrorists?”

  “Agencies like ours the world over have been engaged in a game of cat and mouse with them for over decade. We have no clear idea of who they are or what their agenda is, though they do have a penchant for the theatrical.”

  “How concerned should we be?” asks Garr.

  “They have demonstrated unprecedented levels of access to all kinds of facilities, but leave no trace. They state no manifesto and make no demands. When they do communicate, it is solely through the Faiths.”

  “The Faiths?”

  “In this case, the Catholic Church.”

  Garr stares at Felton with utter bewilderment.

  “Their modus operandi is one of subtle suggestion. Manipulation, not direct involvement. Sometimes they act in our interests, sometimes not. They play all sides.”

  “And this?” Asks Garr.

  “In our interests. We think. They warned us a biological threat would be placed at the United Nations. The manner of it would suggest that they planted it there themselves.”

  “How is that in our interests?”

  “They are showing us what someone is up to. As to who and why…” Felton returns his gaze to the containment room, Garr and Lucius following suit.

  “Arrange a meeting,” says Garr.

  “They refuse all direct dialogue, Justice Garr.”

  “If you
don’t ask, you don’t get, Dr. Felton.”

  THE VEIL

  The area surrounding St Patrick’s on Fifth Avenue is quiet, a sign declaring the cathedral closed to visitors. Not that there would be many at this early hour.

  It’s the first chance Lucius has had to talk privately. With the gentlest of touches he halts their progress on the steps leading to the cathedral’s main entrance.

  “Alka…”

  She turns on him, sadness and anger in her eyes, “No, Lucius. Not that. Not now.”

  Garr steps on. A moment to compose himself and Lucius follows her.

  The two of them share a look of trepidation as they enter. It is gloomy and deserted, save for the robed priest who greets them, his face pale and drawn.

  “Alka. Lucius.”

  A solemn Garr returns the greeting. “Joseph.”

  “They are here,” the priest says. He gestures down the nave before slipping back into the gloom.

  Lucius and Garr make their way past the rows of pews, their footsteps echoing around the cavernous space. They arrive at the transept, unclear as to which direction to take, both pondering the north and south transepts in silence.

  A figure emerges from the shadows. Female—but covered all over by a cold, white flame. Then another—male. Both slowly circle around Lucius and Garr. The flames are clearly a gimmick—body surface projections. As the figures move the flames reveal tantalizing glimpses of the individuals that they conceal.

  Garr is having none of it. “What have you done with Robert Cantor?”

  “Why, nothing,” replies the male figure with a self-assured voice. “He remains his own man.”

  The two figures maintain their precession about Lucius and Garr.

  “Then what do you want?” demands Garr.

  “We seek only to leverage his position,” says the female figure.

  “And what position might that be?”

  “All the world’s a stage, the men and women players,” says the female figure.

  “And everyone’s watching,” says the male figure.

  The riddles exasperate Garr, “This is ridiculous! Who are you?”

  The figures do not reply.

  “The warning you gave. You said that the child was a biological threat, but we found nothing,” says Lucius.

  “Then look again,” says the male figure.

  “We cannot do this for you,” says the female figure.

  “Cannot or will not?”

  “Will not.”

  The figures break from their circular path to approach Lucius and Garr.

  “You need to discover the truth for yourselves. It is the only way you will see it for what it is,” says the male figure.

  The female figure comes close to Lucius, “For our part we wish to remain behind The Veil, except to show you that which is not seen.”

  Lucius nervously inches away from the apparition, “The use of a child is beyond reproach.”

  The male figure faces Lucius square on, “But you would agree with the symmetry, Dr. Gray. The world’s richest man and its poorest child?”

  Garr has had enough. She rounds on the female figure standing in its path, “Whatever it is you want, diplomacy is the only way forward. Direct dialogue.”

  The female figure closes in on Garr. She stands her ground.

  “Governments are transient authorities, the Faiths are not. But,” concedes the female figure, “next to the Faiths are the Judiciary. We will talk with you.”

  The two figures step back from Lucius and Garr. The transept darkens.

  A huge projection of the Earth from space appears beneath their feet. The viewpoint drops rapidly toward Africa, toward the Sudan, resolving into rough terrain. They arrive at the remnants of an overnight desert caravan camp, now projected all around them in three dimensions. Lucius and Garr look about worriedly—the projection is very convincing. All too quickly their eyes find a solitary starving child next to her dead mother. They look with horror to the two figures.

  “She is seen and not seen,” says the male figure.

  “It’s Apio,” says Lucius.

  “Before she was taken,” says the male figure.

  “Taken by you?”

  “Not by us. Not from here. We took her later.”

  “Innocent prey for those elements of the human race that would take mankind down the darkest of roads,” says the female figure.

  THE PENDULUM SWINGS

  Robert Cantor cuts a lonely figure as he walks along the dusty verge of an empty road somewhere in the Midwest. An off-the-peg suit and brogues have clearly seen several days of use, but despite his appearance an old pickup truck pulls up alongside him. An unheard discourse and Robert has a ride.

  The nonchalant old-timer drives and a nonchalant Robert sits in the passenger seat, not a word passing between the two. And that’s just fine for the both of them.

  After a short while they pass alongside a vast expanse of ripening wheat. Robert’s head is turned and he cannot avert his gaze.

  * * *

  The old-timer drops Robert off in a small town toward dusk. As the pickup continues on Robert looks shyly about. The few people there are pay him no special attention other than a polite nod of a greeting. The town is poor and he is not that out of place.

  His eyes find two children—a little boy and girl holding hands, all but rags for clothes. They stop in their tracks and stare at him intently. The boy is particularly intrigued as his sister whispers knowingly into his ear. A look of recognition from the pair of them.

  Robert quickly turns away, alarmed at the possibility of having been observed. But seemingly it is just the children who have an inkling of his identity. He shuffles away.

  Scouting a moonlit garden he finds a wide swing seat tucked away in unkempt growth. Unloved, but a fine bed for the night. He lies along the length of the seat, his arms as pillows, and gazes up at the stars. A particularly bright object races across the night sky, reflecting in his eyes. The Afrika’s orbital construction site.

  * * *

  Robert picnics on a modest breakfast from a lunch box. A freshly made sandwich, an orange and a flask of coffee. He lounges on a grassy knoll, the sun rising before him over a pristine field of wheat.

  He tears off a piece of sandwich and pops it into his mouth. A gentle chew to savor it while pouring some coffee into a tin cup and then a swig to wash the morsel down.

  A gentle breeze rustles the wheat, a wave ripping across the green-golden sea. Robert’s eyes light up with delight. He tears off another piece of sandwich, bringing it to his mouth. He stops short, as if examining the morsel, but his gaze is distant. The happiness fades to sadness and his eyes forlorn. His gaze remaining fixed, the morsel slips from his fingers. A tear fills his eye before spilling out to rivulet down his cheek. His hand flops to his side and a crushing despair descends upon him.

  * * *

  A dense, heavy curtain of rain cloaks the night, the roar from the river below generated by a tumult that crashes over the rocks it has carried there over the centuries.

  Robert wears an expression of utter despair. Arms at his sides, he stands on the steel beam of a bridge. The rain drenches him, rivulets coursing down his face, streaming from his sodden clothes. He shakes with the cold.

  The headlights of an approaching vehicle illuminate the scene. It comes to a halt with a display of reds and blues; a state trooper patrol car. A door opens to the chatter of a police radio. Torchlight plays over the structure, quickly finding Robert.

  “Hey!” the trooper calls out.

  Robert stirs back into reality. He unbalances, wet brogues slipping on the steel. Grabbing a strut he steadies himself, aghast at the sight of the river below, and pushes himself back off the beam and down onto the road.

  Behind him the state trooper approaches, hidden behind the torchlight, “Turn around!”

  Robert turns to face the light, squinting into its brightness, his face revealed. The trooper stops short.

&n
bsp; “Jesus.”

  Alarm jumps onto Robert’s face and he takes off, bounding into the night.

  INTO THE ABYSS

  Garr watches the muted newscast—the images and titles say it all. The interview with the state trooper at the bridge, speculation over Robert Cantor’s state of mind.

  On the other side of her desk a purse-lipped Lucius Gray leafs through a thick dossier. He stops on an unseen page, his eyes widening a tad, accompanied by a little grin. Out of the corner of his eye he catches Garr staring at him and the grin fades back to the pursed lips. He closes the dossier, its cover page from the F.B.I. and titled ‘Robert Cantor.’

  “Nothing specific in here. Robert Cantor is bipolar N.O.S. but any psychology student could have told you that.” He tosses the dossier onto Garr’s desk, where it lands with a decisive thud.

  “Mania dominating for months at a time, punctuated by short periods of shallow depression, making him seem driven and somewhat eccentric.

  “N.O.S.?” asks Garr.

  “Not Otherwise Specified. Means he doesn’t fit typed bipolar—other behaviors manifest. Socially withdrawn, shy, awkward with others.”

  “And now?” asks Garr.

  “Something has caused the cycle to flip. Now we have a short burst of mania followed by an extended period of withdrawal, culminating in deep depression.”

  “Is it stress? The Senate hearings, the Afrika Project?”

  “Cantor’s the kind of man who thrives under pressure. And the kind of man who would relish a fight with the likes of Senator Blake. Besides, he has huge popular support, though I doubt he’d give a damn if he didn’t. No, this is something else. Something eating away at him. Something he can’t internalize. Like a guilty secret.” Lucius doesn’t notice Garr shifting uneasily in her seat.

  “And his current state of mind?” she asks.