The Veil (17 page)

Red goes to green.

Forward brace and one good yank outward.

A triplet of stars is born over the Earth. Three tiny suns ejecting vast amounts of super-hot plasma behind the Afrika. For every action, there is a reaction. F =MA. The leviathan is away under full thrust.

The Pegasus lights its own engines to keep pace.

Gravity, of a sort, takes hold of Toor. With nothing
under
her to brace against she hangs off the flight console with one hand as the other readies the flight computer to receive a set of thrust vectors plotting a safe path far away from the Earth.

Panchen’s strained voice is in her ear. She punches the numbers in—a sequence for the Star Light drive to execute, throttling each of its fusion drives in turn so as to adjust the Afrika’s trajectory.

Push to commit.

Command accepted.

“Now get the hell out of there!” Bebbington shouts in her earpiece.

“I can’t keep us aligned much longer,” says Panchen.

Toor is in the grip of the Afrika’s thrust, now at a full gee, and she is spent. The thrust gravity has put the air lock below her—she should would have to climb down, and there isn’t time. She settles for the commander’s seat, silencing the klaxons from the console before her. Only the distant strains of the ship’s superstructure remain.

“Pull away,” she says quietly.

“Sharanjit!” Bebbington shouts. “Get your ass back here
now
—”

“Zoe, pull away. Do it now.”

* * *

The Mombasa has kept a safe distance, though not so safe that it couldn’t get to either vessel if it needed to. But Robert can see there is nothing to be done. Panchen will make the right decision. He knows she will—

“It’s time, Lucy,” he says, only to find her in a trance-like state, her eyes glazed over.

She snaps back to lucidity.

“Wait here,” she says.

Her avatar projection flicks out of existence.

* * *

Bebbington has opened a comlink direct to the Afrika—
the Veil be damned
. His face pops up on the central console, full of silent desperation.

Sharanjit has a warm smile for him.

“I wish we could have had more time together, David. But this is the way it must be.”

“Sharanjit…
no
.”

But he knows, just as Robert does, that they are out of options. He had melted the ice queen’s heart only to now lose her, the finality of the moment robbing him of a happiness he’d not known in his life before.

For her part Toor had repelled most of the advances that had come her way over the years—and they had been numerous given the striking looks bestowed on her by the Messiah virus, the few she did indulge necessary to satisfy the demands of a body rejuvenated. They had been young men who knew nothing of her real age, men she had nothing in common with.

But she and David Bebbington were of the same birth year, two souls following their own paths through a shared lifetime, brought crashing together. And in him she had found some familiarity that bred an unexpected fondness, a feeling she was not going to let pass her by, it having been, such as it was, a distant memory.

Despite being certain of her assessment, Toor had found a degree of encouragement to be required, Bebbington having had made no move of his own, seemingly laboring under the illusion of an unrequited outcome, much to the consternation of Panchen for whom the match was so blindly obvious.

When finally love blossomed, it did so easily for both, much to the relief of everyone close to them.

At first it had been a little awkward around those who did not—and could not—know. She easily looked less than half his years, and such an age gap was frowned upon by the polite society that prevailed outside of power, wealth, and celebrity. Worse still, they were frequently taken to be father and daughter, something Bebbington delighted in teasing her about, Toor’s revenge to note in their physical relationship the lack of a certain vigor to which she had become accustomed.

The revelation of the Veil changed everything. Though not lifted for the Earth, it had been lifted for them, the truth of their bond for all to see. And just when she needed someone the most, so he was there for her, at her side when she was returned to a family who had thought her long dead, just as he was when the dream took her to the Emerald City, and Robert Cantor.

“Take my love with you,” she says, staring, as best she can, deep into his eyes, reaching out to cut the comlink. “And remember me always—”

A ghostly Lucy flicks into existence right next to her.

“You’re leaving,” she says, grabbing hold of a startled Toor’s arm, the grip firm, the presence
real
.

She drags Toor from the seat, wrapping her arms about her as they drop through the ship.

An instant and they are at the main airlock, defying gravity, Lucy pushing them both in, slamming Toor’s back against the outer hatch.

“A gift from Ramani,” Lucy says, producing Toor’s helmet and shoving it over her head.

She keeps Toor pinned against the hatch.

“Make it count.”

Through her visor Toor can see the airlock control panel—it’s complaining that the inner hatch is still open—

Some great fist punches her away from the Afrika, arms and legs flailing in front of a bent body.

SLAM—
it all but knocks the wind right out her. She’s in the Pegasus airlock recess grabbing at the hand holds by reflex action. A moment and she is stable, looking out at the Afrika, a torrent pouring out of its main airlock, streaming through the phantasm that stands there.
Lucy. Thank you.

“Go! Go! Go!” yells Bebbington over the radio link.

The Pegasus rolls away, its main engines already at maximum thrust.

Toor hangs on for dear life, the drama all about reflected in her helmet visor—a burst of brightness—the Mombasa lighting its engines.

Behind her the airlock slides opens, an invisible hand pulling her in.

Despite the ordeal Toor heads straight for the flight deck, with only a quick kiss for a shaking Bebbington.

Still in view the Mombasa is dropping away.

“What are they doing?” says Panchen. “We won’t able to reach them.”

“Go back to what you know, Bob,” Toor says. “It’s there waiting for you.”

* * *

Mission control are glued to the big board, not so much as a whisper from any of them. The immediate drama over, Landelle returns her gaze to the rolling news channel—and sees all for what it is.

“They’re not fleeing the cities,” she says, turning on Blake. “They’re fleeing the
light
.”

* * *

Most simply didn’t make it, getting caught up in the ensuing gridlock. But there were those that did and somewhere in California a small group of a hundred or so has found a suitable spot with clear skies—and no light pollution, aside from what they create themselves with an array of personal mobile devices upon which they watch the events unfold.

“They’re coming!” a voice calls out. “They’re coming!”

The sea of screens blinks out, as all eyes are raised to the heavens, a hush falling.

A bright star—more brilliant than any other celestial object—rises up from the horizon.

A father grabs his young son’s head to point it in the right direction. His kid sister has already seen it, the twinkle reflecting in her eyes, her mother’s lips whispering into her ear.

“
Remember.
”

As the star races across the sky it separates into three points of light—the Afrika, the Pegasus and the Mombasa. If this had been any other event, it would be the Afrika’s Star Light drive grabbing all the attention. But it isn’t. Instead, the eyes of the world follow the smallest of the three points of light as it descends to Earth, reflecting on all that they have witnessed and wondering as to what is yet to come.

Not least among them is the lone man perched on the edge of his desk in the Oval Office, knowing no more and no less than any other human being on the planet, the image before him a glowing ball of re-entry plasma followed by the gaze of a NASA high altitude tracker plane.

JULY

The jet fighter climbs through the mountains of cloud seeking its quarry, and is quick to find it—the Mombasa at twenty thousand feet, its velocity shed.

“Trim looks good,” the pilot radios. “No sign of re-entry damage. Flight level and steady.”

She takes her plane along the port side, to get a clear view of the flight deck.

“You seeing what I’m seeing?”

“We see what you see,” replies Landelle, the relief choking her voice.

Onboard the Mombasa, Robert has a thumbs-up for them.

* * *

Having spied Robert and Lucy, the jet fighter pulls back. They’ve no communication with it and even if they did Robert wasn’t about to alert the pilot of his next move.

“Are you ready, Robert?” Lucy asks.

“I am, Lucy.”

“Well, alright then. You have control.”

The first sign the jet pilot has that something is up is a slight wobble. Before she can process it the Mombasa drops away, its aero rocket engines igniting.

“They’ve gone to manual—”

Thousands of miles away in mission control, Tobias Montroy throws in the towel.

“Where’s he going? I mean…
where?
”

For their part Garr and Landelle having nothing, save for a knowing smile from each.

Robert Cantor is twenty minutes from the English coast, and he is going back to what he knows.

* * *

Landfall is by way of the Devonshire coast line, a popular tourist destination in the month of July, now deserted. From there Robert navigates by the towns and villages of his childhood.

Those quick enough to realize rush out hopeful of a glimpse, from homes and churches, schools and village halls—wherever they had chosen to gather—hurrying their children before them.

A young family scramble up a hillside. The father falters, his wife catching him, both urging their young son on. The boy makes it to the top just in time. They had guessed right, the Mombasa tearing by, the jet just seconds behind.

* * *

The countryside passes underneath, reminding Robert of the tour Ril and Ramani had given them. The distance covered overland is not that dissimilar, but in the dome of the Emerald City the Mombasa could be refueled.

“Three minutes’ fuel remaining,” Lucy announces.

“I’ve an itch, Lucy,” says Robert. “And I want you to help me scratch it.”

“Pardon me?”

“Don’t try this at home, kids.”

Robert pulls back hard on the stick, and gives the vertical thrusters everything.

The Mombasa tilts up on its haunches, the vertical thrust slewing it to a hard stop, the wrong-footed jet screaming past.

Out of sight of their pursuer, Robert takes the Mombasa down low, Lucy making her feelings about Robert’s antics
very
clear.

“
Sixty seconds
of fuel remaining.”

They slide over a small wood, the trees below billowing in the downdraft, approaching its edge. Beyond is that which Robert has sought out, certain of its presence in this locality. A field of shimmering wheat, golden in the July sun.

The high-pitched whine of the Mombasa’s engines filling the valley fades away to nothing, leaving the lander sitting on a patch of rough grass to one side of the wheat field, the only visible structure being a small church some distance away, and with no sign of any occupancy. They are alone.

Robert releases his hands from the controls, finding them to be shaking.

A military helicopter flies overhead, an aging tandem rotor Chinook.

“You haven’t long,” Lucy says to him. “A few minutes perhaps.”

“Thank you, Lucy.”

And with that he is out of the pilot’s seat, making his way through the cabin, past Lucy’s MBI unit, stumbling out into the morning sun.

Lucy watches him from the flight deck.

“You and a field of wheat,” she says to herself. “Who’d have thought?”

Heavy boots thump their way up the access ramp, Lucy turning to greet their owner, only to find the need to suppress a giggle at the sight before her, not wishing to embarrass the young man, as that would be rude, and she is her father’s daughter.

“Hello,” she says with a warm smile. “My name is Lucy. What’s your name?”

* * *

Robert finds himself at the edge of the wheat, not clear as to how he came to be there. In his hand is his phone—he’d picked it up without even thinking. He tosses it to one side, and steps forward, his hands caressing the ears of corn, oblivious to all about him, savoring the moment he has been granted.

The moment ends with a figure crashing through the wheat. He sees her and he does not see her. She is terribly young. A pretty girl with a gun.

The army cadet can’t help gawping at Robert before turning outward to take up her station, a semiautomatic carbine held firmly across her small frame, the man she guards once the most infamous in all the world, and now something entirely different altogether.

But it is not for her to ponder such things, for she has a moment of her own. The rest of her unit had been deployed to the big cities with the regular army to keep public order. A few had to stay behind as token reserves and she been picked for the same reason she always gets picked—because she was the smallest.

So when the call came in there had just been the five of them on standby at RAF Chivenor. Herself, the boy from the TA who had hurt his arm, and the three retired pilots with their airshow Chinook.

The rest had been chance—in the right place at the right time. Doubtless the local constabulary would be here soon enough, and her moment would be over. But for now he is hers—

She sneaks another peek at her charge.