Veil (46 page)

“Turn around,” Suren ordered.

“Uhhh … uhhh, excuse me?”

“Turn around,” she repeated.

The man eyed the store over Suren’s shoulder
for a moment and then rephrased. “Excuse me, what are you talking
about?” He squinted at Suren, whose face was mostly obstructed by
her large hat. “Do I know you?”

“Turn around. Show me your vPort.”

“Ehhh, o—oh ok,” he muttered and turned his
head enough for Suren to see his vPort, but without turning his
body away from her.

After she scrutinized the indicators on his
vPort’s display to verify he wasn’t being shadowed and wasn’t
shadowing anyone, she puffed out a sneer.

He detected her derision and turned his head
back to face her. He raised his eyebrows and waited for his
answer.

Once again Suren removed her hat. Once again
the act was met with a gasp of immediate recognition.

She announced herself, “
I
am the
Great Widow Tsay
. I’ve come for the memory you’re
selling
of my husband’s
murder
.”

“Ummm … ummm,” he stuttered. “I—I don’t know
what you think I—”

She put up her hand. “I didn’t ask for your
input. I want the memory you bought from my husband’s murderer. I
want it now.” With the other hand, she lifted her Veil Collar off
of her lap and held it up. “You need to go fetch me a vTech
adapter.”

“You have to understand,” he began as he
fidgeted with the adapter. He was trying to affix it to the end of
the vCable
,
which spooled from the
counter. He hadn’t attached one of those damn things, he’d wager,
in at least five years. “This is a business. I’m a licensed
businessman. It’s nothing personal and, of course, I’ll waive the
fee for you, which is significant considering … well, considering
the price. And, I’m not doing anything illegal. My company is
completely legit. I’m licensed and all my vHosts are registered,”
he proclaimed as he pointed to a wall next to the front door, where
he displayed his compulsory Veil Industry license and
registration.

“We both know selling memories of death,
including murder, is against regulations. But I’m curious, how much
did you pay for the memories of my husband’s murder?” she asked
coldly.

“Well … well … uhhh.” He struggled with every
word. He had to be sensitive and concise. He couldn’t believe
the
Widow Tsay was in his establishment. Alone. Just the two
of them. Him and the Great Widow Tsay. Maybe he could get a picture
and autograph to display in the store. “It’s not like
that
,
you see. I mean, it is, we do
sometimes outright buy memories or experiences in certain
circumstances, but mainly we try to trade. I like to see my
business as a bartering system. You know, a community. We try to be
honorable.”

She cackled and shot him an unamused look.
She allowed him to ramble on. For the time being.

“I’m a businessman, though, you know. I have
to make a living. And the gentleman who contacted me to sell this
particular … memory, well, yes he did request payment in cash. He
wasn’t interested in trading or bartering. He wanted cash. And to
remain anonymous. Those were his two terms.”

“How much money did the snake demand?”

“Ummm … ummm … well, one million. Five
hundred thousand before the transfer of the memory and five hundred
thousand immediately after the transfer. Wired to him.”

“And how much did you actually pay him?”

“He wouldn’t budge. It was one million or
he’d go somewhere else. I paid one million. I couldn’t let him go
anywhere else. And he came to me first, he knew I was—well, I am
the best. In the industry. Mind you, this was before the industry
was regulated. This was, well, back when my kind of business was
completely underground
.
”

“You mean
illegal
,” she sneered.

“Well, yes. Yes, in a way. But regardless,
the seller … well, he was just … you know, cashing in on it. On the
memory.”

“Cashing in on it,” she jeered. “Yes. Cashing
in on it.”

“Well, like I said, it’s a business. There’s
a demand and I meet it. Like any other business. It’s nothing
personal Ms—Widow Tsay.”

“Nothing personal,” she jeered him again.
“Right. Do not let my name cross your lips again, little man. You
have no right. No right to speak the Tsay name.”

There goes the picture and
autograph
.

“Everyone. Everyone in the world holds your
husband in such high esteem. He was … no, he is the most famous man
in the world. For you to be sitting here in my store. I—I can’t
even begin—”

“High esteem?” she stopped him. “Yes, oh yes,
I can tell how highly in esteem he’s held. Oh, clearly I can see,”
she tapped on the monitor. “So tell me, exactly how many people
have you sold this memory to? How many people held my husband in
such high esteem that they decided they simply couldn’t live
without sharing in the experience of his murder, straight from the
man who murdered him? The man who murdered my husband. How many
people?”

“Actually very few,” he assuaged her as he
finally snapped the adapter into place and set it on the counter.
He checked the screen behind the counter just to verify before he
continued. “You’ll be happy to know
,
it
looks like only three people wanted and could afford the memory.
So, unless the man, your—your husband’s killer—sold the memory to
another company, which is entirely possible, certainly possible,
then only four people besides him possess the memory. The three who
purchased it and the Vault. You know, the person who stores the
memory
.
The person who holds onto the
memory for me and who my customers shadow in order to obtain
it.”

“And how much did you charge
these—
people
,” there was the disgust again, “for the
experience? What was it worth?”

“Five hundred thousand. No trading or
bartering.”

“I see. So four people total? Four.”

“Yes, ma’am. And the owner, th—the killer,
you know.”

“Yes, I know. So what’s to keep people from
selling a memory they’ve purchased from you? How do you know the
three people who’ve bought the memory from you aren’t out there
selling it to other people?”

“Oh!” he laughed. “Oh, no. It’s hard enough
getting people to buy my second-generation memories. Those are
degraded as it is. I mean, they’re powerful enough to really
experience the—the experience, but once you go beyond that, once
you go beyond a second-generation memory to say a third or even a
fourth? Forget it. It’s not worth it. What you’re left with is
barely a ghost; it’s like a dream of a memory. You just can’t hold
it. You can barely hold on to it for the length of a thought. So
no, none of my customers would be able to sell the memories or the
experiences they’ve bought from me, from my company, to anyone
else. Once the person shadows the Vault, the memory they obtain is
worthless to everyone except them—except to the shadower, the
customer.”

“And this Vault. This repository. This
person
. The one who stores the memory of my husband’s murder
for you. How do you know they aren’t selling it off behind your
back to the highest bidders? A little Veil embezzlement, if you
will.”

“Oh no no no,” he waved his hand. “Regulation
solved all that. It was mandated. The Vaults have to provide their
employers with their VSNs so we can track all their Veils. By
working for us, they give up their Veil privileges. They each sign
a contract prohibiting them from entering into any Veil outside of
the employment relationship. All I have to do is look up their Veil
Security Number and I can verify for myself. Simple.”

“Simple. I see. Perhaps as simple as the
language in the Right To Veil bill that absolutely forbids any
selling of death experiences? Not only out of dignity for the dead
but because of the risks involved. Risks to your customers, no
less. Is it as simple as that law? I mean, I should know how simple
the language in that bill is, since I helped write it.”

“I guess I—I,” he stammered. “I guess after
regulation began, and all that, it must’ve slipped through the
cracks. I guess I forgot to remove it from my inventory. Mistakes
happen, you know? We’re all still learning,” he explained and
offered up a half-assed, nervous smile.

“I see. Convenient. Ok. Well, are we ready
now?”

“Oh,” he uttered. “I forgot. Yeah, we’re
ready. All I need is your VSN and then to cable into your vCollar.
I’ve never seen one like yours. I can understand why you have such
a special customized one. I’m sure it’s seen its fair share of
Veiling.”

“I’ve never used it. And my VSN is
three.”

“Three?”

“Three.”

“Ummm … well, ma’am, VSNs, I mean, as you
know, they all contain twelve digits. I can’t only enter in a
three. That won’t—”

“Eleven zeros followed by the number
three.”

“Oh, of course. Yes. Ok,” he said as he
punched in the numbers on the screen. “Makes sense. I’ve never seen
a VSN like this. Wonder who has ‘one’ and ‘two’,” he asked
rhetorically.

“Friends,” she answered flatly.

“Of course, of course. Ehhh, ok now we wait
for a response from the Vault. They’ll send an approximate time for
them to be able to network
-
in through the
nearest host and complete the transfer. Man, you’re lucky, it used
to be, back before there were vHosts nearly everywhere, sometimes
the Vault couldn’t network
-
in for hours.
The customer would have to come back.”

“Yes, how lucky of me. It’s late, what if
this Vault is asleep?”

“Oh, their vPort can recognize that and will
send back a signal if they’re networked-in while they’re asleep. If
they aren’t networked-in, I can call them. Most Vaults give us
permission to wake them anytime, especially ones who are Vaulting
numerous memories or very significant ones.”

“How convenient for you,” she replied and
rolled her eyes.

“Oh yes, yes. Ehhh. Very convenient,” he
mused after failing to detect her sarcasm. The console in front of
him beeped, and he blurted, “Oh! The Vault is available now, they
will cable into a vHost within minutes and we can start the
Veil.”

“Good, I’m no fan of waiting. Especially in
this
place, with the likes of
you
.” The disgust
rightfully felt more natural to her and she decided she should have
worn red to the store. Red would’ve been more appropriate.

Ignoring her insult, he carried on, “Right,
well I can cable into your vCollar now, and we can start the
transfer, if you’re ready.”

She handed over her Veil and he plugged in
the adapter that he attached to the cable coming from the counter.
He then punched in the key that he was provided by the Vault’s
vPort, which was generated using Suren’s VSN. After he entered the
key, the security indicators on both the vCollar and vHost changed
from red to green.

The storeowner returned Suren’s vCollar. She
pushed the button on the display to instruct the device to prepare
for a secure incoming connection. It beeped back at her. For the
first time since she was fitted for it nearly eleven years ago,
Suren Tsay put on her vCollar. She pulled all her hair over to one
side and draped it over her shoulder. With both hands, she brought
the collar up over her head and lowered it until it rested on the
nape of her neck. The platinum was cold against her skin and it
gave her a shudder. She let go of the device and it stayed in
place; it fit tightly around her neck and was supported by the arms
that extended up over her ears. It fit her as snugly as it did the
day of the fitting.

“Man, I haven’t seen one of those in so long.
You know, I think I actually prefer them to these vPorts,” he said
and thoughtlessly tapped on his port a couple of times. “They’re so
much classier. Old school style, you know?”

She shrugged her shoulders and rolled her
eyes. Before she had to bear listening to him speak any more and
before they were subjected to uncomfortable silence, the vHost
beeped once and right afterwards she heard her collar beep as
well.

“Here it goes,” he told her.

Suren braced herself. She wasn’t exactly sure
what to expect. She was waiting to feel something—anything. A buzz,
a sting, the feeling of static electricity, anything. All she felt
was a small vibration as the silicone sheet snaked up her scalp and
made its way over her hair, until it stopped at her forehead. After
a few moments, her collar beeped again, followed shortly by a beep
from the vHost. The silicone slithered its way back into the
device.

“Ok, there it goes,” he smiled.

“That’s it?” she asked.

“Well, I mean, on our end yeah,” he replied,
confused.