BEYOND THE VEIL OF STARS
Robert Reed
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental.
Copyright (c) 1994 by Robert Reed
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.
This book is printed on acid-free paper.
A Tor Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates, Inc.
175 Fifth Avenue
New York, N.Y. 10010
Tor (r) is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, Inc. Design by Lynn Newmark
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Reed, Robert.
Beyond the veil of stars / Robert Reed.
p. cm.
"A Tom Doherty Associates Book." ISBN 0-312-85730-6 I. Title.
PS3568.E3696B45 1994 813'.54-dc20
94-2352 CIP
First edition: June 1994
Printed in the United States of America
0987654321
To my brother, Charles Q.
CHANGE
1
WHAT CORNELL LOVED BEST WAS THE DRIVING, THAT SMOOTH act of motion, with him looking out through the smudged glass as the countryside flowed around them. They typically traveled on little highways and white graveled roads, past fields and long shelterbelts, muddy ponds and the occasional farmstead-a slumping barn, perhaps, and shiny aluminum silos, garages for giant tractors and someone's house in the middle of it all. Most of the farmhouses were modern, suburban and unimpressive; but the old ones possessed a palpable dignity, tall windows and tall turrets, with vast porches wrapped around their waists. Dad, who believed in ghosts when it suited him, claimed that a lot of the oldest homes were filled with spirits. People had died inside them in olden times. Babies died at birth, and their mothers died bearing them. Machinery and horses had mangled the grown men. Extinct illnesses wiped out entire families. Even a simple scratched finger could become infected, killing an inch at a time. "Someday I'll study ghosts and their haunting," Dad would claim. "What are they? Residual energies? Intrusions from another dimension? Or authentic souls in their afterlife?" A pause and a little smile, then he added, "Whatever they are, don't they make a lovely mystery?" And Pete would say, "They're not lovely to me." Pete was driving, today and always. Dad had troubles behind the wheel, too cautious and perpetually flustered; and that's why he sat in the front passenger seat, a map opened on his lap, his title being Navigator. Yet he had a poor sense of direction, at best. Even simple maps seemed to confuse him. Besides, Pete was a wonderful driver, steady and rock-calm, and he needed nobody's help. He could find any address in any of four or five states, never a wrong move in all these years; and Cornell respected him almost as much as he loved his father.
"Ghosts don't appeal to me," Pete said, as always. A grumpy growl, a little smile of his own. Then he added, "Not in the least little bit."
"But what if they're related to our work?" Dad responded. "What if they're different manifestations of the same grand puzzle?"
"Who cares?" Pete picked up his coffee cup and took a last cold sip, then bit the white foam, nibbling off pieces and spitting them out again. His habit was to gnaw each cup down as far as possible, filling it with itself, then dumping the remains into the little trash sack hung on the dash. "If you're planning to chase spooks," he warned, "you're on your own. I mean it."
"Now, Pete."
"I mean it."
"Well ..."
This was an ancient conversation, much practiced and done with an emotional flatness. Sometimes it made Cornell angry: why couldn't they use new words, at least? Then other days it was a comfortable collection of familiar sounds, reliable and lightly humorous. Like today, Pete claiming, "The dead can keep their secrets, I think. I think. I think we'll get our answers soon enough, and why rush?"
"You're not curious?" Dad teased.
"No, I'm not."
"Scared then?"
"Damn well terrified." And Pete seemed like a man incapable of fear. He was powerfully built, particularly through the chest and arms, dark whiskers on a square face and dark eyes staring straight ahead. Even the way he held the steering wheel seemed fearless. That's what Cornell was thinking. This was the day of the Change, though he didn't know it; he was sitting in the backseat, feeling happy, watching the cornfields and bean fields and the planted trees between them, everything bending under a hot dry wind. This was flat country for now, a river somewhere on their left and not more than a couple of farmsteads visible at once. They came here last year, Cornell recalled, visiting a different farm and an old woman who'd seen odd lights. Living with the old woman was an ancient, humpbacked creature-her grandmother, Cornell had learned-and she was more than a century old, toothless and almost blind. Yet her memories were intact. With Cornell sitting near her, she spoke at length about being a little girl, even younger than him, and riding in a wagon across the prairie, seeing sunflowers beside the dirt road and the occasional white skull of a buffalo. Cornell had been enormously impressed. They had come here chasing alien spaceships, him and Dad and Pete, but there sat someone from the realm of horses and wagons. That humpbacked woman had lived through an entire century, and that was strange and unsettling, and lovely in its own way. For days and days, afterward, he had thought of little else.
Most of their trips weren't that interesting. Most involved lights in the sky, and the witnesses were ordinary people, and Dad would ask the same old questions, in interviews of only a few minutes. Then the witnesses had their own changeless questions: How did you start doing this work? Have you seen flying saucers yourself? And what do you think they are? Dad was patient, answering each question at length, and Cornell always grew bored. Not that he complained, of course. Boredom, he assumed, was part of the job and a consequence of being with adults. Being grown up, he sensed, meant doing the same stuff every day. And besides, there was the remote chance that they might see a spaceship for themselves, or better, that on one of these trips they would make contact with the alien pilots.. . .
Someday, he thought. Maybe so.
The ghost talk was taking its traditional pause. Cornell listened to the dual hums of the engine and the road, knowing what would be said next. He watched the back of Dad's long neck, imagining the smiling and pale thin face; and sure enough, Dad cleared his throat, announcing with a determined voice, "Well, if I hunt ghosts, I guess I'll drive myself."
Pete laughed, sort of. Leaning back in his seat, thick hands high on the steering wheel, he said, "Right. You can't find the Quik Shop four blocks from your house. How are you getting to these spook houses?"
That was Cornell's cue. He leaned between the front seats, saying, "I'll drive you, Dad. Three years, and I get my learner's permit."
More than three, but that wasn't the point. Dad turned and looked at him, smiling with his little mouth and vague bright eyes. "That's what I was hoping to hear, son. Thank you. Thanks."
Cornell settled back into his seat, feeling fine, looking outside and imagining himself driving some toothless, humpbacked version of his father along this road. Cornell was Pete's age, and the landscape was cut into green squares with strange crops growing in perfect rows. It wasn't a car that he was driving, but some kind of floating vehicle. Yet the pavement was the same-straight highways had a kind of noble authority-and they were going somewhere important. It didn't matter exactly where. And riding in the backseat was a third person. Cornell could see her, unchanged by time. And in his daydream she leaned forward, telling him, "You drive beautifully, Corny. Perfectly." Which made him smile, shutting his eyes, wishing hard that it could come true.
They left the highway, then the river bottom. A graveled road lifted into loess bluffs, and Pete slowed and downshifted and took a gentle right turn into a tree-lined lane. Farm dogs waited in ambush. Despite the heat, or maybe because of it, they howled and ran beside the car as it approached the house. They were big dogs led by a grizzled German shepherd, and Cornell didn't want to step outside. Dad was worried, too, sitting taller than before. Motionless. Pete gave both of them a smiling sideways glance. The dogs became quieter, probably anticipating their feast. But Pete didn't hesitate, opening his door and standing, allowing the hot air to blow into the car while dogs danced around him, snapping and yelping.
"GET DOWN!"
The voice was sudden and booming, causing dogs to scatter. Cornell dipped his head, seeing the farmer standing on his front porch. It was an old-style farmhouse, originally painted white and covered with big grimy windows. Weathering gave it character, and weathering did the same for the farmer. He was a beefy man, red from the sun and wind, wearing clean, mostly new jeans and a dark denim work shirt, his seed cap set at an angle, the forehead broad and bright.
The farmer stepped down among his dogs, half-kicking them while asking, "Are you Novak?"
"No. I'm Pete Forrest."
Dad opened his door reluctantly, rose and introduced himself. "I'm Nathan Novak. Glad to meet you."
"Glad you made it," the farmer said, then kicked again.
Dad bent and said, "Come on, son." His face was pale, but he smelled work. Anticipation made him brave.
Cornell imagined how it would feel to be gnawed on. Farm dogs were, he knew, half-wild, untrusting and untrustworthy. Yet once he was out among them, they seemed merely curious, sniffing at his feet and crotch, then wagging their tails. Probably to fool him, he thought. They were waiting to get him alone.
"This is my boy. Cornell."
The farmer nodded, his attention divided. "It's out back, not far."
"We've got equipment," Dad began.
"Sure."
"We'll be a minute."
Pete opened the back end of the station wagon. Every dog had to sniff at the various boxes and whatnot. There were cameras, still and video, and electronic devices with dials and shiny sensors that came from mail-order houses and garage sales and the dumpsters behind the local computer plant. What hadn't come finished, Dad finished himself. He built each machine along lines known only to himself. If he actually understood them, that is. Sometimes Cornell had to wonder.
The toolbox was Cornell's responsibility. It was heavy and loud, cool at first touch and then fiercely hot once in the sunshine.
The ritual was for Dad to lead, then tire and drop behind Pete before they reached the site. The farmer carried nothing, acting patient but in a put-out fashion. He'd called Dad, probably having seen him on the news. It was his idea to invite an expert, but he'd done it a couple of days ago. A person's interests had ways of fading. Events receded into memory, losing their shock and intrigue. Yet the farmer had invited Dad, and he would take them to the place. He had better things to do, said his face, but maybe these strangers would hurry.
Thinking of ghosts, Cornell avoided looking at the house. Past it and a deep backyard was the cornfield. The corn wasn't tall or green like the stuff in the river bottom. The four of them walked between rows with the dogs sniffing at their heels. Cornell spotted the clearing as Dad reached it- Dad was behind Pete now-and he felt excitement, sudden and fun, his stomach moving and his heart quickening.
"Beautiful," said Dad, his voice soft and respectful.
A circle of corn was dead, and the black earth beneath it had been transformed into a smooth blackish glass, thick and almost slick. It was the same as all the other circles they had visited this year. They weren't to be confused with English crop circles, what with the glassy ground and the way they could appear anywhere. In corn, or in forests. Or on people's front yards, for instance.
This place had an eeriness, a wrongness. Cornell stepped out on the glass. The heat had dried the dead stalks and wind had pushed them to the north edge. Corn leaves brushed together with a living sound, and the motions of the living corn made the glass circle seem all the more inanimate. Yet the dogs, supposedly sensitive to things odd, acted indifferent, chasing each other now, running in and out of cover.
Cornell set the toolbox near the center, then opened the warming lid and removed a long metal tape measure.
Pete met him, taking the tape's dispenser and walking to the circle's edge as Cornell did the same. They measured its diameter several times, always reading 33 feet, one-half inch, and Pete recorded the data in a small battered notebook.
Dad spoke with the farmer while he assembled their electromagnetic sensor. Dad was a tall man, but slight, with a handsome smooth face and silver hair and those bright odd eyes. He had a way of smiling whenever he listened to a witness, relishing the experience. Delicate long hands fiddled with a connection, and he asked about the dogs. "Did they make a fuss that night?"
"After midnight sometime," the farmer replied.
"You heard them?"
"I was sleeping. No, my wife did."
Dad liked to tell Cornell that he was an impartial investigator, even though he wasn't. He did nothing overt, but there were times when he could lead the witnesses. Like now. "Did your wife see anything unusual? Lights on the ground? In the sky, maybe?"
"We get planes, sometimes."
"Did she see a plane?"
The farmer moved as if uncomfortable, arms crossing on his chest and the hands slipping into wet armpits.
"What kind of plane?"
"I didn't say she saw one."
"Was it over this spot?"
Uncrossing his arms, the farmer shook his hands dry.
"And your dogs were howling," Dad persisted. "Right?"
"Which isn't exactly strange. I mean, something's usually pissing them off."
As if to prove its bad humor, the German shepherd began to snarl at the healthy corn, the hair lifting off its neck. There was a long moment when nobody moved, some little part of everyone wondering if the circle's makers had returned. Then the bristly tail was wagging, brushing against Cornell's leg, and a wire-thin boy stepped into view. He was the same age as Cornell. Judging by his complexion and plain face, he was the farmer's son.
"Everything okay?" asked the farmer.
"Yes, sir."
"Need work? Because I can give you some."
"Can I watch? For a minute?" The boy stuck his tongue out one side of his mouth, eyes alert and excited. "Can I watch them?"
"Keep out of their way, or else."
"Unless you'd rather be alone," the farmer told Dad. "I've got my work to do now."
"No, the boy's welcome." Dad loved audiences, believing that much of his work was to educate an ignorant public. "He can help, if he wants."
The farmer didn't respond, thinking hard about something. Then he said, "Listen. Mostly I called you because I want to know this thing is safe. These tests you're doing-"
"We check for radiation, and I'll run a chemical analysis, too."
"That stuff, yeah." He nodded. "And on the phone . . , you said you'd keep this place secret, right. .. ?"
Witnesses who wanted to remain anonymous were sincere, Dad claimed. The liars were the ones who wanted their faces on the news. Dad hated almost nothing, but liars were an exception. He had nothing but scorn for someone who would twist the truth for his own gain. Nothing in the universe was so evil as the man who debased what was real.
Dad told the farmer that yes, this place and his name would be kept secret.
"Good enough," said the farmer, satisfied enough to leave.
Then came a sound-a tiny buzz in the hot blue sky-and everyone glanced at the plane, thinking the same thing. What could be more obvious than a black circle set in the middle of a big green field?
"If it's any consolation," Dad offered, "there are lots of these structures about. All around the world, and more every night."
The farmer blinked and gave the glass a little kick.
"I wish I could tell you why," said Dad. "Maybe someday soon."
Another kick, harder this time. Then the ruddy face was saying, "I don't care who or why, just so long as they leave me alone."
The boy was the friendliest part of the farm. He sat with his legs crossed, right on the warm glass, eyes huge and unblinking, watching Cornell take a hammer and chisel to it. They needed samples from the edges and the center. Every sharp piece went into its own Ziploc bag; every bag was numbered and dated, then put away for later analysis. The boy was enormously impressed that Cornell was helping. He asked if the three of them went out on a lot of calls.
"A bunch," said Cornell.
"Particularly now," Pete added.
What did they know about the circles? The boy had seen them on the news, sometimes every night.
"They're a puzzle," was Dad's nonanswer. "So far, that's all they are. One lovely puzzle,"
Did saucers make them? The boy had seen shows about saucers and the circles. A lot of saucers were being seen, although maybe more people were watching the sky. Like him, he confessed. He'd stayed up late some nights, trying to see anything odd.
"That's a good fellow," said Dad. "Glad to hear it."
This year had been busy, Cornell thought. Pete was using his summer break to drive Dad to and from. To and from. It was a good thing he was a teacher and had this free time. Of course he believed in aliens, and of course Dad paid him for his troubles. Cornell didn't know how much money, but it was enough that Pete would say, "This is too much," when he was paid.
Dad was looking at the boy, eyes smiling. And when their eyes met, he asked, "Did you see anything that night, son?"
"No." The boy squirmed and put on a sour face. "I fell asleep early and heard nothing."
"Too bad," Cornell offered.
Then the boy looked at him. "You ever see an alien ship?"
Cornell was able to say, "Yes," with a quiet, unprideful voice.
"How many times?"
"Three."
It was fun, this taste of celebrity.
"Did you see the aliens? How'd they look?"
No, no aliens. He wished he could have, sure-how many had been in his dreams?-but their ships were the best he could claim. Once it was a golden light in the distance, swift and eerily silent. Another time was just last year, a house-sized something crossing the highway ahead of them. Pete had stopped and shaken Dad awake, and the three of them had watched it slide away at treetop level, vanishing behind some hill. The whole sighting took maybe thirty seconds, and it had been infuriating because it was so real and quick and matter-of-fact, nothing particularly mysterious and not one useful photograph of the thing.
The boy nodded soberly, understanding unfairness. He hadn't even heard the dogs barking the other night, and it was his father who'd found the circle. He'd come in before breakfast, scared enough to shake. Never before had he seen his old man acting scared, and he sounded pleased to admit it now.
Cornell looked at the glass circle, black and shiny, and at his own father. Dad was taking photographs while Pete worked the video camera, panning back and forth.
"What about the third time?"
Cornell wasn't listening.
"You said three times. What's the third?"
The men paused. Or they didn't pause, but merely slowed for a moment. Sound had a way of traveling on these circles, reflecting off the glass and always feeling close. Dad gave Cornell a glance, more curious than concerned. "I saw one up close," Cornell allowed, "but that was long ago. I was little-"
"How close?"
"Twenty feet, maybe."
"Goddamn." The boy shivered and grinned to himself.
The men set their cameras down and began working with sensors, writing numbers into the notebooks.
"So," said the boy, "do you always help?"
"If I'm not in school." Cornell put another glass shard into a Ziploc, then asked, "Do you help your dad?"
"Walking the beans. Crap like that, sure."
He couldn't imagine living on a farm. It could sound fun, except most farmers seemed to be in bad moods. There wasn't enough rain, and they were in debt. They'd tell strangers about equipment troubles and weed troubles and generally make it seem like a stupid way to live.
"So what do the aliens want?" asked the boy. "To study us?"
"They've got to be," Cornell replied.
"I'd like to meet them. You know?"
What remained to be done? Nothing, except to hunt for anything odd about this circle. Cornell started walking, his head down, feet sliding across the glass. He could see himself in it, his image too tall and the sky beyond colored a brilliant gray.
"So what's your mom think about this stuff?"
An invisible hand closed on his chest, then his throat.
"Does she help, too?" The boy asked his questions, then sensed something was wrong. He glanced at the men-Dad over the Geiger counter and Pete placing a sensor at the circle's center-and then curiosity made him ask, "Where's your mom? Back home?"
Cornell said, "No," with care.
The boy blinked and asked, "Where then?"
"She's dead."
That shut him up, his mouth down to a dot.
"She died long ago," Cornell lied; he was thinking how Dad said lies were permissible when they protected someone. "In an accident, long ago. In a car crash." He was talking faster, unable to stop himself. "It's just me and Dad now. Which is fine. We do okay by ourselves."
A brief pause, then he added: "She's in a better place."
He spoke loudly, for emphasis, and the words echoed off the glassy ground, rising into the sky.
2
THERE WAS GUILT, RELIABLE AND DEEP, WHENEVER CORNELL thought of his mother. She wasn't a vivid part of his life, and he felt it was his fault that he didn't think of her often enough or with suitable intensity. He was some color of traitor, selfish and shallow. Some nights he cried about it in secret. Sometimes he feared Dad would see inside his head, identifying his considerable failures. Guilt, then shame. That was the normal course. And from there he'd drift into practiced memories of Mom. His apology to her was to make her live in his mind, and years of practice served to make Pamela Novak feel genuine, if only now and again. If only for as long as he concentrated with all of his ability.
She had been pretty, and probably still was. Cornell could recall bits and pieces of her by himself. She was in their little kitchen, in the master bedroom, or watching TV with a little pillow pulled to her chest. Once-he couldn't recall the circumstance-Dad was driving them somewhere, unlikely as that seemed; and Mom turned and looked into the back, asking, "What are you doing, Corny?" Corny. Only she called him that. "What trouble is finding you, Corny?"
In memory she had a sly knowing smile, cutting through a four-year-old's tiny capacity to mislead.
"Put it down," she had warned him. "Don't play with that."
She seemed perpetually tired in his memories, particularly in the eyes. A small woman, nonetheless he remembered her as being gigantic. Her voice was strong and certain; light brown hair was kept long; and her skin was tanned, even in winter.
"That's your mother," Dad would laugh. "Tanning beds and the creams, even when I lectured her about the effects of ultraviolet. But you know your mom. She'd act as if biology didn't apply to her."
Except he didn't know Mom. Not in any substantial way. There were photographs in several half-filled albums, plus some holiday videos. There had been more videos, but Dad had wiped them clean by accident. "Besides," he would add, "she avoided cameras. Not that she was shy, of course. I think she was vain, and she hated every picture of herself."
Vain. Only recently had Cornell understood that comment. In the photographs she stood with hands on hips, the face daring the lens to focus on her. Vanity? Pretty women can be critical self-judges, he was learning; but once trapped, Mom had done her best to shine. Indeed, she dominated every shot, even if she was on the periphery. Even Pete, stocky and strong, looked insubstantial beside Pamela Novak, his hands behind his back and his perpetual four-day beard almost black-Cornell remembered the picture-and she not quite smiling, staring up at Cornell with an amused quality in those tired unshy eyes.
Dad loved her. He said so every day, if only with some distant watery look. He fell in love with her when they met, and Cornell knew the story by heart, perhaps better than he knew much of his own past. It was back in the 1980s, long before circles and the upswing in sightings, and some rancher in the west reported odd lights and a landing site. This was before Pete, and somehow Dad had driven that far on his own, finding the right ranch amid miles of grass. But the rancher proved unreliable, as a witness and as a person. He smelled of bourbon and made obvious lies whenever Dad's attentions wavered. He hadn't just seen the ship. He'd seen the pilots, too. Little men, he said. Dressed in silver, naturally. He and the pilots had waved at one another, like neighbors . .the rancher showing Dad what he meant, his drunken red face grinning the whole time and the story one big joke, nothing more.
The landing site looked like someone had burned diesel fuel and grass, the ground stinking of fuel. All very sloppy, Dad conceded, and he would have left at once except for the girl. There was a daughter, seventeen and bright and pretty, and she took an interest in the work. She'd read about Dad in the paper, and she won his undying confidence by admitting that her father might be stretching the truth more than a lit-tie bit....
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