Beyond the Veil of Stars

by Robert Reed

  That was the newest name for the unseen aliens. They were responsible for twisting cold matter into these bizarre topological shapes, rebuilding the galaxy and presumably the universe. The exotic mathematics had been diluted and debased on a thousand PBS specials. Planets could exist in more than one state, and everyone knew it. Earth and its sisters in this solar system were connected by old-fashioned space. Perhaps other worlds were connected by different, less imaginable avenues.

  “People assume you’re talking to Architects. I mean the CEA is, the government is. There’s a secret launchpad on Wake Island, or somewhere, and alien ships come and go every day or every year.” A pause, then he added, “Maybe I’m a recruit, and I’m going into space.”

  The woman’s face was impassive, inert.

  “Except I don’t think it’s happened. You don’t talk to them. You’d love the chance, particularly if it means wondrous new technologies. I mean, if someone has to be first—”

  “Don’t you have any faith in rumors?”

  “Not when they smell wrong.”

  “Do they?”

  “And I don’t believe in Architects. And I particularly don’t think they give a good goddamn about you and me.”

  “Why did our sky change?”

  Cornell sipped his fancy bottled water, then smiled. “I think it just changed back to normal. This is how it’s supposed to look.”

  The surprise seemed genuine. “Really?”

  “Our sky was in the shop for repairs. What we saw before? The stars? They’re the equivalent of a test pattern. We just happened to evolve while the test pattern was up and humming.”

  A sober nod, then she asked, “Why do the moon and Mars have stars? And space itself?”

  “Dead places. A primitive, simple sky for the dead places.” He enjoyed this bullshitting, laughing as he added, “The machinery probably is doing everything automatically, the Architects long dead—”

  “And you believe that explanation?”

  “As much as any.”

  “Which means?”

  “Not particularly, no.”

  She read something on the screen, using a fingernail to underscore it.

  “I’m not that interested,” he continued. “I spent my childhood chasing saucers and fat-headed aliens, and I’ve thought up every incredible answer for myself. And believed each of them. And what I think now is that what is, is. My opinions don’t matter, one way or the other.”

  She looked up at him, saying nothing.

  “What’s my job?”

  “What do you want to do?”

  “Pay me, and I’ll try almost anything.”

  “Almost anything.” She echoed the words, then laughed while shaking her head. “First of all, I’m required to give fair warning. If we continue from this point, I’ll need signatures on several forms. You’ll need to pledge that what you see and hear is private. According to the disclosure laws formulated in 2012, you can be tried and convicted for breaking any trust with your government. Are you listening, Mr. Novak? Anything you learn from this minute, no matter how trivial, is not your knowledge to share. And the agency does have means of knowing—”

  “Sure. What’s second?”

  A grin. “That you shouldn’t believe in things as prosaic as flying saucers and little green men. And don’t pretend that you’ve imagined every possible answer when it comes to the Change, either.”

  He felt a stab of fear, watching that hard certain face.

  F. Smith pulled forms from a drawer, a neat officious stack of them, handing them over along with an electronic pen. The pen would record his fingerprints while he wrote, squirting the data into someone’s computer. “From now on, you’ll stay in a different building, in an entirely different compound…and you’ll undergo more tests…”

  “But I’ve got the job?”

  She blinked and said, “Almost certainly.”

  He signed the forms, reading as he turned the pages. It was standard stuff written in a tortured legal tongue. The disclosure laws had been intended to stem the flow of technologies to foreign competitors, not to keep knowledge from the citizens. But he needed the money, and part of him was curious, handing back the stack and asking, “What’s my salary? Assuming I make the grade.”

  She gave figures.

  And it was more than he had guessed, or hoped. Satisfaction dissolved into worry. “It’s a lot of money, Ms. Smith.”

  “Quite a lot.” From her eyes, their tilt and light, he guessed that she made less. “But I’ll warn you, and others will, too…there is an attrition rate among our participants. We have casualties. Physical and psychological losses—”

  “You mean deaths, right?”

  “A few. A very few, yes.”

  He waited for a moment, then asked, “What else?”

  “Whatever happens,” she promised, “you’ll be cared for. We aren’t monsters. We are caring, considerate people doing important, astonishing work. And we need trustworthy people with special talents.”

  Cornell felt his palms become wet.

  “Am I clear, Mr. Novak? Cornell?” She tried a smile with those straight white teeth. “Trust is something that flows both ways. Always. But you know that already, don’t you?”

  2

  Now the virtual reality tests were done openly, the entire business handled with a mixture of professionalism and nonchalance. Cornell’s attendants dressed him in a sophisticated suit and facemask, glass wires plugged into a clean white wall, then came a long wait while some kind of technical problem was solved or skipped over. All at once, with minimal warning, he saw two distinct images of some desert. Maybe Arizona, but no…it only resembled an ordinary place. Double images—one for each eye—and a distant voice, professional and encouraging, was asking him, “How do you feel? Are you all right, Mr. Novak?”

  Two images; two vantage points. He reached simultaneously with both hands, trying to grasp the trunk of a tree visible in just one eye. One gloved hand closed on air, the other on old wood polished slick by desert wind. The illusion seemed real enough, much improved over commercial virtual entertainment. A sense of touch was new. And odors, he realized, sniffing hard and a strange living stink inside just one nostril, the machinery able to synthesize smells he couldn’t quite name.

  “What color is the sky, Mr. Novak?”

  Purple, he realized. Faded but definitely purple, and what color was it suppose to be?

  “How do you feel, sir?”

  Peculiar, that’s all. It took him a few moments to realize what they were simulating. Cornell was split into two distinct bodies…or rather, his body-halves were detached in some way. He told the attendant his observation, and the response was another question:

  “Can you see yourself?”

  Clumsily turning both half-bodies, his right eye managed to see a dark figure standing beneath some stout desert tree. He lifted both hands and waved, and the figure waved, facing the wrong direction and just with its left arm. Cornell wrestled with his left side, thinking this was how a stroke victim must feel. He brought the other body around to face himself, and suddenly he could see the first body, his right-side one, standing in the open, on fine gray sand, cloudless purple skies overhead—

  “Did you find yourself, sir?”

  —and he looked upward, both faces rising.

  “Sir?”

  He saw a large cool sun. Not Sol, he sensed. This was somewhere else, and again the attendant asked if he could find himself. Cornell ignored the noise, making both bodies walk forward, converging on middle ground.

  “How are you, Mr. Novak?”

  Faces became apparent, dark and framed with dark fur, nostrils missing and big black eyes blinking. First the clear inner lids closed, then the fleshy outer lids. Each body was covered with fur, three-fingered hands still waving, and these weren’t his faces, or human. Cornell paused all at once, feeling a weakness spreading from his legs…a momentary warning before he collapsed…

  “Here’s the
bucket,” said one attendant. “In case.”

  “I won’t need it,” Cornell promised.

  The attendant was young and suspicious. “Everyone loses it. That, or we did something wrong.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Testing.” He swallowed, then said, “Observing your nervous system absorbing novel inputs.”

  Cornell was naked again. He breathed, then asked, “Where was I?”

  The attendant said nothing. Others pressed buttons, examined readouts, following some rigorous, much-practiced protocol.

  “Is that where I’m going?”

  The young man said, “Don’t you feel a little sick?”

  “No.”

  A solemn nod—this meant trouble—and he picked up two stiff cards from a nearby table. “Here’s your pass, and here’s your room key. A van is waiting at the entrance.”

  Cornell shut his eyes, remembering little details. The feel of sand; the wrong sun; the odd, lingering smell.

  “Are you dizzy? Everyone complains about dizziness—”

  “Sorry, no.” He rose and ignored the wobbling floor. “Where’d you put my clothes?”

  “Outer room, on your right.”

  Cornell said, “Thanks,” and walked a straight line, through swinging doors and out of sight. But he continued to pretend while dressing, hiding the occasional belch, the faltering sense of balance; then he made it to the van and sat near the front, alone inside it and rode through what seemed like miles of open country. Grass and little woods. Once an elk in the distance. Then he muttered, “Stop,” and began to stand.

  As if expecting trouble, the van braked and opened every door.

  Cornell vomited on the new pavement, once and then again. Then he paused to gasp, looking at the green grass and the deep blue sky, puffy clouds slowly passing in front of a setting sun.

  The facility resembled a luxury motel, built low and with different wings added over time. There was a lot of brick and warm brown paint. Three swimming pools stood empty; countless hot tubs bubbled away. A synthetic voice welcomed him by name and directed him to his room. It was large and decorated with a certain care, big potted plants amid solid dark furniture. Cornell found his clothes and other belongings cleaned and neatly arranged, everything where he might place it…which was unsettling. His bosses were showing their thoroughness, which he took as a warning, and he sighed and walked to his long window, watching a distant oak wood while the last daylight vanished. For a long while, he stood motionless, thinking about everything; then a voice said, “Hello there?” A woman’s voice. “I’m looking for Cornell Novak.”

  She was speaking over the intercom.

  “Is this critter working—?” The voice ended with a thud, as if someone was striking a microphone. Whump.

  Cornell asked, “What is it?”

  “Who are you?”

  “Novak. What do you want—?”

  “Food. I’m famished. Want to get a late dinner?”

  He was more queasy than hungry, but he assumed this was an official visit. His tormentors had something else planned.

  “Come down to the lobby,” she told him.

  “Now?”

  “Sooner, if you can.” She laughed and said, “I’m waiting,” and the line went dead.

  Cornell changed clothes, trying to imagine the person to match that deep strong teasing voice. But he didn’t imagine a woman more than six feet tall, and he didn’t picture her handsome smiling face. Thick brown hair was tied into a ponytail—enough hair for two normal women—and she took his hand, saying, “Porsche Neal.” Why’d the name sound familiar? “What do you go by? Cornell?”

  “Sure.”

  “Pretty fancy. Why not Novak? Okay, Novak?”

  He didn’t have time to respond.

  “I’ll warn you, I’m under orders. I’m your cordial hostess for this evening, ready to answer every question with a muddle. You’re suppose to feel at ease but uninformed.” A brief pause. “The bureaucrats are still making up their minds about you. But I’m a hundred and two percent sure how they’ll decide—”

  “Are you?”

  “Absolutely.” A light sudden laugh, everything humorous. “How about food? Ever eat at a world-class restaurant?”

  His stomach twisted in fear.

  “At least it seems world-class, if you’re in the mood.” Porsche led him out of the lobby, down a hallway into a deep hushed darkness. “Robot service, robot cooks. Actually, the food is average. Ruthlessly average.” In the gloom, Cornell could make out booths, tall and padded, and sometimes a face or two, or more, no voice louder than a whisper. “Over here.” He skipped out of the way of a rolling waiter, then caught up to Porsche. She had a certain walk. Strong, distinctive. A long gait, with bounce and an aggressiveness.

  “Here,” she offered; and he said:

  “You played basketball, didn’t you?”

  “Tall girls do.” A sideways glance and smile. “In my youth.”

  She couldn’t be thirty-five. “There was a Porsche Neal in the women’s league. Played for Cleveland—”

  “For six years,” she confessed, sliding deep into the booth.

  Cornell sat and absorbed his surroundings. Half a dozen people were sharing the opposite booth, packed close and their plates covered with steaming food, every face round and buttery. They were steadily eating, speaking only in passing. Words were muted. Almost inaudible. “Negative noise,” Porsche explained. “Isn’t that what it’s called? Each booth generates its own, for security’s sake.”

  Too bad I can’t read lips, he thought.

  Their waiter arrived. Porsche said, “My standard last-nighter.”

  “What’s that?” asked Cornell.

  “Steak and taters, always.”

  Looking at the boxy machine, he said, “Soup…vegetable, with some crackers.”

  Porsche grinned and said, “They had you wired, didn’t they? Those goofy virtual toys of theirs…?”

  He nodded, watching the waiter roll off.

  “Well,” she assured him, “that’s not even close, what you saw.”

  He straightened his back, waiting.

  “And we keep telling them it’s not. But they insist in believing in tests, trying to decide who belongs where. You know why?” She was talking with a too-loud voice, no one able to hear it but him. “Our project heads are clever girls and boys. Ignorant, but clever. Which is a dangerous mix, if you ask me.”

  “So what is it like, if it’s not what I’ve seen…?”

  A blink and smile, but all she said was, “Instinct is a better judge of who’s suitable. The best. I see someone, and I can guess if they’ll work out. More often than not, I can.”

  He almost asked, “What about me?”

  But Porsche anticipated the question, telling him, “You’ve got promise, Novak. Which is more than most people have in anything, if you think about it. Promise, I mean. It’s a rare commodity, don’t you agree?”

  Dinner arrived, and wine, and the allusions moved into ordinary conversation, Porsche telling basketball stories and grousing about the lousy pay for woman athletes. Cornell remembered her playing—he had watched the games on obscure sports channels—and she was the rare white girl who could drive the ball, coast-to-coast, putting on a final surge and doing an artful layup. Then he was thinking of basketball with Todd and Lane, memory lending his legs bounce and his hands touch…and he recalled a specific moment when he beat both of the Underhills with his graceless steam. Funny, wasn’t it? The summit of his athletic career came on an oil-stained driveway, a blind charge followed by a circus throw while airborne, the worn orange ball catching nothing but hoop—

  “You’re not listening,” snapped his companion.

  “I am,” he protested. “The coach kept coming on to you, right?”

  “Shamelessly.” A sip of wine, a bloody bite of steak. Her hands were big and pale, and Cornell thought to say:

  “Wherever you’ve been, it’s not outside. You do
n’t have a tan.”

  She peered at her hands, smiling. “Think not?” A nod, then she asked, “How’s the soup?”

  “Salty.” He had finished all but the last cold spoonfuls. Sipping wine, he considered his stomach and almost felt hungry again. Almost.

  “Talk about yourself. Any fame claims?”

  Cornell asked, “What do you want to know?”

  “I saw your file. Your case officer let me take a peek—”

  “F. Smith.”

  “She’s mine, too. A good lady, just a titch stiff.” A pause, a wink. “So you’re a Midwestern boy, right?”

  “Haven’t been back in years.”

  Grinning, she said, “Here’s my picture. A frame house. A nice green lawn and fence. Very middle-class, very suburban.”

  “Pretty much.”

  “How pretty?”

  He described basketball with the Underhills, then the cul-de-sac, swimming through the endless details. It was as if he’d forgotten nothing. Then he slipped into his standard, much practiced account of watching the sky change. He didn’t mention Dad or the glass disks. It was just Cornell, him and the sky, and he looked up at the perfect moment…and that usually impressed people, which was its only real worth. A badge of distinction; a fame claim, as she’d called it. But he couldn’t read Porsche’s expression, her gaze distant and thoughtful, dinner done and the last of the wine in their bellies.

  The booth full of buttery people was still eating, and eating.

  Porsche blinked, gave a wise little smile and said, “You’re tired. And they’ll call you early, so maybe we should head home.”

  He did feel drained. They rose and walked back to the lobby, then climbed stairs. It was a huge facility, and empty enough to make him nervous. But he didn’t ask questions. He turned and she turned in the same direction, and she mentioned, “Our team has this wing. The room is yours for good.” His door came first, and when they paused, Porsche gave him a long look that he misinterpreted.

  “Want to come in?” he asked.

  “No. Thanks.”

  But her staring didn’t end. He felt like he was stepping out onto the court, being sized up. A certain hardness in her eyes and mouth was intimidating as well as welcoming. How did she manage it? He was looking at her face, smooth and attractive and untanned, and at all that rich brown hair, wondering how it would feel to run his fingers through it; then she told him, “Some other time, maybe.”