The Veil Read Free

be it could be observed by a terrestrial telescope,” concludes the Islamic delegate.
    “Will anyone notice? It’s gray.”
    “It’s not gray,” Joseph says. “The imagery hasn’t been color corrected. This is its true nature—”
    Joseph makes a single tap on his tablet. The structure changes to a luminescent green.
    “When the world sees that—”
    “There could be a breakdown of social order—”
    “Which we can do nothing about,” says the Buddhist.
    “So we do nothing?”
    “Would it change anything if we did?” asks the Hindu delegate.
    “None of this makes any sense,” says the Jewish delegate. “Presumably they brought the James Webb back to life so they could show us this, but then they leave us without the means to do anything about it.”
    Joseph intercedes. “There is the Afrika.”
    All eyes turn to him, followed by an exchange of astonished glances all round. The Jewish delegate senses that Joseph’s comment is actually being taken seriously.
    “What?” he scoffs. “The thing’s only half built. Not to mention it’s mothballed at Lagrange Two.”
    A knowing smile creeps onto the Islamic delegate’s face. “But that’s the point, isn’t it Joseph. Out of sight, out of mind?”
    Joseph nods an affirmation.
    “And when all of this unwinds, as it will, the symbolism will be potent. Not to mention the irony of course. Typical of the theatre we have come to expect from the Veil.”
    “But there’s no way to finish its construction.”
    “We don’t have to,” Joseph says. “It was undergoing engine tests when the program was suspended. Two successful runs and a further long run pending, so there’s enough fuel and reaction mass on board. The primary flight systems are operational, as is the life support used by the test crew. It could make the trip.”
    “Where would we get a crew? And without being discovered?”
    “But that is not the issue,” the Buddhist says. “If we send him we risk exposing the awkward truth about the Messiah virus.”
    “Perhaps that is their goal?”
    “So we face a difficult choice,” says the Hindu delegate.
    “What choice?”
    “Whether or not to kill him first.”
    “Kill a condemned man?”
    “Exactly.”

EXHIBIT A
    The Supreme Court is jammed with people in an uproar, Chief Justice Garr having to bring order to the proceedings with her gavel. This was never going to be easy, not with the media having turned the whole thing into a complete circus. She regrets allowing so many to attend, but a lot of favors had been called in for this particular event. Garr looks to Justice Murphy, seated to her right, to respond to the remarks made by the appellant.
    “There is no denying your ability to engage in compelling dialogue,” contends Justice Murphy, “but it is not enough. It does not show you to be a person. To have feelings. To have a soul.”
    “Yet you talk to me as if I do,” replies the steady, natural voice of a young woman.
    “To facilitate these proceedings, yes. But while some may see you that way, for the most part the world does not. You were made. Made by Man. That’s where the problem lies.”
    Senator Julian Blake is delighted with the direction in which things are going. He looks across from the prosecution bench—positioned before the justices is a black, obsidian block, about the same size and shape as a forty-inch paving slab, mounted on a wheeled cart, vertical edge facing forward, with a large numeral 3 on its side, partially obscured by the remnants of exhibit labels. The third generation machine-based intelligence known as Lucy , and the subject of this final appeal hearing, is digging a hole for itself.
    A complex set of fractal patterns emanate from gold tracery embedded within the machine’s surface, seemingly reflecting its mood as it speaks.
    “God made Man. Man made me. But not in his own image. That’s where the problem lies.”
    The courtroom bursts into uproar once again. And once again Garr’s gavel