Veil vk-1

by George C. Chesbro

  Veil dreams.

  Dawn will break in two hours; Veil's plane will leave at three. Through the night Veil has walked the streets of Saigon, fording garish rainbow rivers of neon, flinching at the sound of disembodied groans, screams, sighs, grunts, and whispered invitations that reverberate in his ears like gunshots.

  Veil does not rest like other men, whom sleep renews through dream-discharge of terror, rage, frustration, and forbidden desire; dreams do not flash across the surface of his consciousness to cleanse his mind. Like now, Veil hangs suspended in dreams like a diver in a clear sea roiled by things that sometimes soothe, but more often rend. He is still more than a year away from learning how to control, to roll away from, his night journeys, and physical exhaustion is the only thing he has found that will sink him to the bottom of the sea and give him peace; violence is his most potent narcotic.

  It has been this way all his life, and there has never been anyone to understand. The fever that burned his brain made him irrevocably different from other children, as it now sets him apart from other men. Bright, a fast learner who excelled at athletics, Veil was also tormented and hyperactive; filled with rage and terror, he was unpredictable, often uncontrollable, dangerous. Peers and adults feared him, for good reason. It was inevitable that he would come to the attention of the police and the courts.

  The Army, to which he escaped and which accepted him at seventeen, was his salvation. In the service of his country, Veil found redemption—for, with the acquisition of discipline, precisely those qualities of fierceness and physical strength that made him a threat to others outside the armed forces, became a valuable asset to those in command inside. He was first in his basic training group, first in advanced armored training, first in Officer Candidate School, first in his training group with Special Forces, where he was recruited by the Central Intelligence Agency. Within six months he was fighting in Vietnam, where he discovered that combat left in its wake welcome, renewing oblivion.

  With the meeting in the jungle clearing, all this has changed. His period of indoctrination in Tokyo has left him increasingly disturbed at night, and no amount of exercise seems to help. He is fearful of the future, does not know if he can carry out his new assignment, does not know if he can remain sane without war.

  "Hey, soldier. Want girl? Clean girl. Virgin. Twenty dollar."

  The pimp's voice has come out of the shadows of a doorway. Veil keeps walking, stiffens as someone grabs his arm.

  "How about boy, soldier? Clean boy. Also twenty dollar."

  Veil looks down at the cowering, trembling children the Vietnamese has dragged in front of him. He feels short of breath, as if he is plunging into a vacuum, hears an agonized groan that he realizes comes from his own throat. Veil knows this boy and girl, knows their names, has played with them and told them stories about America. They are Hmong children, members of the tribe he left six weeks before.

  "What you say, soldier? You be sport. You take both. Thirty dollar for thirty minutes."

  Veil stabs at the eyes of the Vietnamese, then rolls away from the dream.

  Chapter 9

  ______________________________

  Veil awoke with a start, momentarily disoriented by the intensity of his dream-memory. Then he remembered where he was. He took a number of deep breaths, then sat up on the swaybacked Army cot and looked at his watch. It was four-thirty. The warm, late-afternoon sunlight that lanced through the leaves of the surrounding trees filled the room with strange, shifting, chiaroscuro patterns of light and dark; branches swayed in a gentle breeze and scraped against the sides of the wooden building with a pleasant sound like wire brushes on a snare drum.

  The nutty smell of rich, fresh-brewed coffee that permeated the air came from a Silex pot set on a hot plate across the room. Next to the hot plate was an array of toilet articles in their original packaging. Veil rose and poured himself a cup of coffee, carrying it and the toilet articles into a small bathroom where he shaved and washed himself. He refilled his cup, then opened the door and stepped into the adjoining office.

  Sharon Solow was seated at the keyboard of a large computer console at the opposite end of the spacious office. To her left was a sheaf of papers to which she would occasionally refer as she tapped on the keys. Tiers of symbols that Veil did hot understand flashed sporadically across the console's display screen. Sharon was dressed now in a white lab coat worn over a plaid skirt, flesh-colored stockings, and low-heeled black pumps. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail that arced gracefully away from her neck and cascaded down almost to the small of her back. There was a faint aroma of expensive perfume, and Veil felt a curious sense of intimacy at the sight of the woman working, unaware of his presence.

  The walls and ceiling of the office were painted a flat white, and the only decoration was an enlarged black-and-white photograph mounted on the wall above and behind the console. It was an eerie and beautiful photo, captured by a camera that had been positioned half in and half out of a vast body of water. The surface of the sea was absolutely still and flat all the way to the horizon. Beneath the surface, just barely visible in the murky depths, a fish had been caught in the middle of a half turn; in the distance, not much larger than a speck even in the blowup, a lone gull soared high in the cloudless sky as it rode thermal drafts. There were two levels of existence, two different creatures inhabiting the same world, but separated from each other by a membrane at the cusp of air and water that was at once dimensionless and as impenetrable as eternity.

  Finally sensing Veil's presence, the woman turned in her chair, nodded, and smiled warmly. "Hi," she said easily.

  Veil felt a tug in his chest as he gazed into the blue eyes that still, even in entirely different light, appeared to be streaked with silver. "Hi. Thanks for the coffee. It's excellent. I like the Solow Hilton."

  "I'm glad. I thought you might like some coffee when you woke up. I brought the pot in about a half hour ago. Did I wake you?"

  "No. Would you like a cup?"

  Sharon shook her head. "You must be starving. If you'd like, I'll have the commissary send something over. If you can hold out, I've ordered dinner to be delivered at seven. Jonathan should be here by then."

  "I'll hold out, but I'd expected to talk to Jonathan before then. Do you know where I can reach him?"

  "He'll be sleeping, Mr. Kendry." Sharon said with just the slightest trace of a frown. "Besides the obvious injuries, the plane crash damaged Jonathan's adrenal system. He won't slow down, and he won't take medication, but he's very prone to exhaustion. Being up all night will have taken its toll. He forces himself to get by on six or seven hours of sleep, but most men with his condition would sleep eleven or twelve out of every twenty-four."

  "Pilgrim's quite a man."

  The woman raised her eyebrows slightly. "He certainly is. I have a strong suspicion that he feels the same way about you."

  "Did he tell you anything about my situation?"

  Sharon's hair rippled like wheat-colored water as she again shook her head. "I've seen Dr. Ibber's file on you, of course, and I've read the transcript of your intake interview; I was supposed to carry out some preliminary psychological testing on you. But I expect that what I've seen is just the tip of the iceberg. Jonathan called me yesterday morning soon after you'd left. At least Jonathan thought you'd left. He said there'd been some trouble." She paused, smiled wryly. "Jonathan just casually mentioned in passing that he was sure you were a CIA agent, thought there was a good chance you'd sneak back, and he wanted a place for you to hide where only the three of us would know where you were."

  "He didn't say anything else?"

  "He told me I didn't want to know the rest, which meant that he didn't want me to know the rest."

  "And you didn't ask?"

  "No." "You seem to have an excellent working relationship," Veil said carefully.

  "Yes, I'd say we do."

  "Would it be presumptuous of me to ask if your relationship extends beyond that?"


  "Yes, it would."

  "Then I apologize, Doctor."

  Sharon smiled, winked mischievously. "But I'll answer, anyway. Jonathan and I are just good friends." Suddenly the smile slipped from the woman's face; her eyes went slightly out of focus, and her tone became distant. "Jonathan's in love with a woman no other woman on earth can compete with."

  "She must be some lady."

  "Oh, that she is," Sharon said in the same curiously distant, flat tone. "She's Death."

  Veil's first reaction was that the woman was making some kind of macabre joke—but if she was, her face gave no indication of it. Veil waited for her to say something else, but Sharon seemed lost in thought. The silence in the office grew awkward.

  "Excuse me," he said at last, starting to retreat back into the storeroom. "You have work to do, and I've interrupted."

  "Oh, no. Stay if you'd like, Mr. Kendry." The bright sheen in Sharon Solow's voice had returned as quickly as it had vanished, and her eyes were once again in focus. "You're probably curious about what I'm up to over on this mountain."

  Veil leaned against the doorjamb, folded his arms across his chest and grinned. "More than a bit, Doctor."

  "All right, let's start with the technology; aside from our hospital equipment, this computer is just about all the technology there is—and I don't really need this. Our work here just doesn't lend itself to machinery."

  "It's subjective."

  "Almost totally." Sharon nodded toward the papers, then the display screen. "Right now I'm collating the weekly anecdotal reports from some of our residents, whom I'm sure

  Jonathan has told you are in various stages of terminal illness."

  "Yes. Jonathan gave me some idea of what you're trying to do. If you'll pardon me for saying so, I'm not sure I see the point. It seems to me that you're like a film editor who works on nothing but final sequences."

  "Indeed," Sharon replied in a firm voice, "but many films have been saved by the final sequence; those last frames can bring everything together and illuminate all that has gone before."

  Veil thought about it, nodded. "All right."

  "Then, of course, there's always the possibility that what we call death may not be an end at all—only a transition."

  "And Lazarus People may have already made that transition and come back to tell about it?"

  Sharon seemed vaguely surprised. "Jonathan obviously trusts you a great deal to talk about Lazarus People so soon."

  "Why?"

  "It's a sensitive subject because it has so many obvious religious overtones. We don't approach it from that angle at all, but Jonathan is always afraid that outsiders will think that the Institute is running some kind of elaborate ashram over here."

  "I suppose he figured you'd eventually tell me about them, anyway. In any case, it seems to me that their reported out-of-body experiences could be nothing more than elaborate hallucinations triggered by trauma and shock."

  "You're right, of course. But if they are hallucinations, they're remarkably consistent. Also, even though an out-of-body experience is the most dramatic characteristic of Lazarus People, there are others—all part of what we call the Lazarus Syndrome. For example, no matter how neurotic they may have been before, Lazarus People tend to emerge from their near-death experience with very integrated personalities. They begin to think in universal terms, and it's almost impossible to manipulate them with the words and symbols leaders use to manipulate so many of the rest of us. Lazarus People no longer fear death. On the contrary; even though they've become passionately life-affirming, they actually look forward to death. This duality in attitude is what we call the Lazarus Paradox."

  "Impressive. Are there any other characteristics of these Lazarus People?"

  "I'm not boring you?"

  Veil smiled. "I'm really very interested in you and your work, Dr. Solow."

  Sharon flushed slightly, but continued to meet Veil's gaze. "In that case, I'll have to tell you more about both. There seems to be generally heightened consciousness and sensitivity in all aspects of life. Lazarus People seem to recognize each other on sight, with nothing being said. It's positively uncanny."

  "Mental telepathy?"

  Sharon laughed and raised her eyebrows in mock distress. "Bite your tongue, Mr. Kendry. That is a term we never use around here. Please confine yourself to words like 'consciousness' and 'sensitivity.'"

  "Agreed."

  "Good," Sharon said, her tone becoming more serious. "In that case, I'll tell you about one of the eeriest characteristics of all. For want of a better term, we call it 'soul-catching.'"

  "Which is?"

  "Some Lazarus People—not all, by any means—seem to experience a premonition of extreme personal danger."

  "I'm not sure I understand."

  "Let's suppose a Lazarus Person is about to be mugged on the street, or hit from behind in a barroom brawl. Some of these people report hearing a soft bell tone, a chiming sound, inside their heads a split second before the knife is drawn or the bottle swung. The Lazarus People who've experienced it swear that 'soul-catching' has saved their lives."

  Suddenly Veil felt disoriented—short of breath, as if the woman's words had been a blow to the stomach. He had heard no chiming, but he had a distinct premonition of danger; the danger was not physical, and he did not believe it stemmed from the woman, but it was there nonetheless, coming from a source in the past, present, or future which he could not identify. He quickly looked away to hide his reaction.

  "Mr. Kendry?" Sharon continued after a few seconds. "Are you all right?"

  He slowly exhaled, then turned back and forced himself to smile. "Why don't you call me Veil?"

  Sharon stared at him for a few moments, concern in her eyes. Veil continued to smile at her, and finally Sharon smiled back. "Very well—if you'll call me Sharon."

  "Jonathan doesn't take near-death studies very seriously, does he?"

  Sharon's smile vanished, and her voice became flat. "Is that what he told you?"

  "It's the impression he gives."

  "Well, he's understandably nervous about outsiders possibly misunderstanding the purpose of work as ambiguous— 'soft' is the term he would use—as near-death studies."

  "Then why does he put it under Institute aegis in the first place? He's given you a whole mountain."

  "I suppose that's a question you should put to Jonathan," Sharon replied in a careful, neutral tone.

  "Are you a physician? Ph.D.?"

  "Both."

  "Doctorate in psychology?"

  Sharon nodded.

  "What was your specialty before you became involved with near-death studies?"

  "I've always done this kind of work. I'm a thanatologist—a specialist in death and the dying." Sharon abruptly swung around in her chair and tapped a few keys on the computer console. A wavy line plotted on a grid flashed on the screen; a red arrow indicated a sharp spike three-quarters of the way along the length of the line. "This may interest you, Veil. This is where we think Lazarus People have been, in a manner of speaking. Did Jonathan mention the Lazarus Gate?"

  "Yes. A bright portal of light."

  "Well, this is what we believe the EEG of a person at the Lazarus Gate looks like. It's the pattern of brain waves a person will exhibit just before the out-of-body experience begins. This is a computer simulation, somewhat simplified."

  "How did you come up with that?"

  "Hospital records. A tiny percentage of people who've had near-death experiences and were later discovered to be Lazarus People were hooked up to electroencephalographs when they went into a state of clinical death. By going back over the EEG tapes, comparing them with anecdotal reports and feeding the results into a computer, we come up with this simulation of the Lazarus Gate. Of course, it's strictly a theory. A guess."

  Veil felt another, stronger premonition of amorphous danger as he stared at the bright display screen. "It would be interesting to put somebody to sleep, manipulate his brainwave patterns to
match what you've got there, then see what he has to say when he wakes up."

  Sharon laughed easily. "Oh, I'm sure it would be an intriguing story—and we probably could 'put' a person here with chemical and electrical stimulation. The problem is that the person wouldn't be asleep; he'd be dead. Notice the flat amplitude of the EEG pattern before and after the spike. We might be able to get a subject to the Lazarus Gate, but there's no guarantee we'd ever get him back again. It's not an experiment that's ever likely to be done."

  "Has anyone ever actually passed through that 'gate' and come back?"

  "Not that we know of," Sharon said hesitantly, after a long pause.

  "You don't sound too certain."

  "I'm certain."

  "What do you think is beyond the Lazarus Gate?"

  "We have no way of knowing, Veil. I suspect nothing; just death. I'm really not interested in religious matters, except in the way religious belief may effect people's attitudes and behavior as they approach death. I don't see how any kind of consciousness, call it a 'soul' or whatever, can exist independently of the electrochemical plant—the brain—which generates it. Brain tissue immediately begins to deteriorate with the

  onset of biological death. What we're examining is a moment in time in which consciousness—and subsequent behavior among the living, the survivors—may be radically changed. My concern is with exploring what the near-death experience can teach us about life."

  Veil waited for Sharon to continue, but her pale, silver-streaked eyes now seemed to be staring inward, as if at some image in her mind that was beyond words—or beyond his comprehension. Finally she tapped a key on the console; the brain-wave pattern associated with the Lazarus Gate winked and disappeared.

  "If you'll excuse me, Veil, I think I will go back to work now," Sharon continued at last, her voice very soft. "I'd like to finish collating these reports before Jonathan gets here."

  "Of course. Thank you very much for the tour."

  Sharon did not reply. Veil studied her back for a few moments, then stepped back into the storeroom and closed the door. He lay down on the cot, put his hands behind his head, and stared at the ceiling.