Thirst No. 5: The Sacred Veil

by Christopher Pike

  “Logical,” I say, appreciating his insight. “Are you suggesting they want to bargain with us?”

  “I suspect it will be more of a duel than a negotiation,” Seymour says.

  “Like Auschwitz,” I say.

  “Possibly,” Seymour says.

  “But I won at Auschwitz,” I say.

  “If you’d won, you wouldn’t be fighting the same battle all over,” Mr. Grey says. “At best you reached a stalemate with the enemy during your stay at the concentration camp, and that’s being kind.”

  “Tell me straight,” I say. “Are you working for Tarana or us?”

  Mr. Grey stares at me with his warm brown eyes. “I’m loyal to you. Only to you.”

  Damn, I could swear he’s being sincere. For the life of me I don’t know what the hell is going on.

  We reach Joshua Tree an hour before dawn and park well off the road. Matt appears confident that we’re close to our goal, but suddenly I’m not so sure. The area looks different from the last time I was here, when John was just an infant. I don’t see as many Joshua trees, and the ones near the road are not very impressive.

  Yet Matt radiates certainty. Climbing out of the ambulance, he points to a distant hill. In the glow of the full moon it looks like a levitating lake—possibly because its soil is a lighter shade than the surrounding terrain.

  “We’re almost there,” Matt says. “That’s where the game ended.”

  Seymour groans. “That hill’s a four-mile walk.”

  “More like three miles,” Matt says, searching the area. “I think we got here first. I don’t hear anyone.”

  “We’re alone,” I say.

  “What do you want to do with Mr. Grey?” Matt asks.

  “Shoot him,” I say.

  Matt is amused. “He finally pissed you off.”

  “Duh. He called Tarana. Or whatever human being Tarana happens to be inhabiting.”

  Matt nods. “All right, I’ll carry him then. But I’ll have to remove his IVs.”

  Matt turns to the back of the ambulance while Seymour and I collect a handful of water bottles and stuff them into a pack. The air is cool but bone-dry. We won’t have to walk far to get thirsty. Tossing the pack over my back, I start toward the hill.

  “What are we looking for exactly?” Seymour says. “The vimana that crashed during the Mahabharata war?”

  “I’m not sure. A lot more happened that night I spent with Karna and Duryodhana. I wish I could get over this memory block. You can’t imagine how frustrating it is. Hell, I remember everything I did for the last five thousand years.”

  “Every person you killed?”

  “Sure.”

  “Every guy you slept with?”

  I look at him. “And every woman. But seriously, Seymour, trauma alone can’t explain why I can’t recall what went on at the end of that war.”

  “Let’s try another regression. It would probably work better out here than in a Las Vegas hotel room. Assuming we have the time.”

  “Are you talking about the local vibe? That’s awfully New Age for a cynic like you.”

  Seymour shrugs. “Hey, whatever works.”

  “I’m willing to give it a try. I’m pretty sure where we stopped is where I stopped with Himmler, too. The next thing I remember is being back in that underground cell. That was where the shit really hit the fan.”

  “Did Ralph manage to get you the key?”

  I hesitate. “We’ll see. I don’t want to say anything off the top of my head and be wrong.”

  Seymour points to the hill. “If there’s a ship out here, we have to assume it’s buried. We should have brought a shovel.”

  “If it’s buried, it’s going to take more than a shovel to dig it up.”

  Seymour glances over his shoulder. Matt is still at the ambulance, trying to figure out the best way to carry Mr. Grey. The man is so weak it’s doubtful he’ll be able to hang on to Matt’s neck. Matt’s probably going to have to cradle him in front like an infant.

  I still feel annoyed at the stunt Mr. Grey pulled on the road. I have known him a lot less time than I did Shanti and yet his betrayal—if that’s what it was—has a much sharper sting to it. The only thing that reassures me is that he made the call in front of me. It was like he wanted to get caught.

  “Matt seems to know something we don’t,” Seymour says.

  I nod. “Yeah. And his mood improved the instant he beat the game. It was like something clicked inside and he was suddenly more sure of himself.”

  “Maybe the game finally managed to reprogram his brain. John told us it was bad news.”

  “What if John was using reverse psychology?” I say.

  “Are you serious?”

  “Consider. Matt’s a control freak. He’s the strongest man on the planet. But suddenly this kid comes along and tells him he can’t do something. That it might harm him. To someone like Matt, that’s worse than a slap in the face. Especially since he knows John’s not afraid of the game.”

  “Are you saying Matt kept playing it to spite John?”

  “I think it challenged Matt to examine the game. But eventually he must have seen something in it that was important to him.”

  “He realized it was a means to find a vimana,” Seymour says.

  “Exactly. Those ships the government’s building, those Fastwalkers, they’re not the real thing. But that’s not to say the Pentagon’s not trying to create the real thing.”

  “By the real thing you mean a ship that can travel faster than light.”

  “That’s only part of it,” I say. “Remember that talk Krishna gave at the campfire that night. He asked those listening to imagine a race of beings a million years older than mankind. He spoke about how advanced they would be. How attuned they would be to the Essence. That night, while he was speaking, I actually saw such a race in my mind’s eye. It was so evolved that we’d consider them gods. Just as so many of us looked up to Krishna as a god.”

  “Not as a god but as the God,” Seymour says.

  “Good point. In the past, when these great beings visited our world, we automatically saw them as incarnations of God. To the early Christians, it wasn’t enough that Christ was a great master. He had to be the son of God. The same with Krishna, to the Hindus he had to be Lord Vishnu. Yet, ironically, since Christ and Krishna were so attuned to this Essence, they were one with God. Except from their perspective they saw everyone as evolving toward their state. Neither of them saw himself as unique.”

  “Do you think such an ancient race would have the power of life over death?” Seymour asks.

  “It would have to have that power if it was one with the Essence.”

  Seymour suddenly chuckles. “Now who is getting all New Age?”

  “There’s a practical side to this discussion. The vimana we’re searching for might be more than a ship that can travel faster than light. It might be capable of taking people to higher realms of existence.” I add, “It might even be capable of time travel.”

  Seymour’s face brightens. “Like that ship that picked you up in the desert and sent you back to the Middle Ages to defeat Landulf?”

  “Yes, that definitely happened. I suspect that’s why the Nazis were so anxious for me to help them build a vimana, or else find one. Hitler didn’t want the ship to shoot down the Allies’ planes. He wanted to go back in time and fix the mistakes he’d made during the war.”

  “Sita, that’s it, that’s the answer. You’re a genius.”

  I shake my head. “It can’t be the final answer. Mr. Grey says I’m the answer. I’m the key.”

  “The key to what?”

  “The future.”

  Seymour can’t resist the taunt. “Is it wise to put so much faith in a guy who has brain damage?”

  “Don’t worry. I lost my faith in Mr. Grey when he made that call.”

  There’s a faint glow in the east when we reach the foot of the hill. My concern about the lack of tall Joshua trees has vanished. Atop
the summit are two strong-armed trees that stand over eighty feet high. It’s impossible to stare up at them and not feel that they’re protecting the spot. They look like ancient sentinels.

  And they feel alive.

  Alive in the sense that they know we’re here.

  Matt lays Mr. Grey on the sandy dirt and tucks a folded sweatshirt beneath his delicate head. “He passed out not long after we left the road,” Matt says.

  “Thanks for being careful with him,” I say.

  Matt raises an eyebrow. “You still care for him.”

  “I wish I didn’t.”

  Matt gestures to the hill. “What do you feel?”

  “Something. A magnetism across my forehead.”

  “You used to get the same sensation around Krishna.”

  “This place definitely has a high vibration.”

  “Then maybe Seymour’s suggestion is a good one. You two should try another regression. This spot might help you punch through whatever is blocking you.”

  “I thought you had everything figured out.”

  “Come on, Sita, I haven’t been that bad.”

  “You’ve been a total asshole.”

  Matt reaches over and pulls me close. He speaks softly. “The last few days I’ve had a lot cooking inside. Stuff I haven’t been able to talk about.”

  “Stuff you’ve refused to talk about. What did your father tell you?”

  He lets go and takes a step back. “It’s better if you remember it for yourself.”

  “What’s wrong with giving a girl a little help?”

  Matt ignores me and stares in the direction of the road. “They’ll be here soon. If we’re going to do it, we better start now.”

  “Fine. Where do you want to do it?”

  Matt points to the top of the hill. “Up there.”

  We climb the hill, the three of us. It’s not steep. The sand that makes up the summit is definitely different from the local terrain. Besides being a light yellow, it has a moist, chalky feel to it. I can’t get rid of the feeling the hill is artificial. That someone piled up the sand long ago.

  The two Joshua trees, separated by fifty yards, tower over the summit. They are not as tall as redwoods but they look even more powerful. Their arms continue to haunt me. I keep expecting them to move. . . .

  Seymour and I sit cross-legged across from each other, our knees touching. Our eyes meet and he begins the suggestions. I don’t recall closing my eyes but suddenly I feel myself falling. The past images come faster this time, more like explosions of sight and sensation. I worry that Seymour will feel everything I begin to feel. I fear it will kill him.

  • • •

  I stand in the center of the concrete room, chained to my original pole. My leg and arm muscles got a brief respite when they marched me underground from the wire cage in ankle and wrist chains—a dozen SS guards pointing their rifles at my head. But now I’m back to being a pinned bug. The bonds are tighter than before.

  So tight I can’t reach the flat area at the top of the pole.

  Ralph’s key could be an inch away and I can’t tell.

  My cramped muscles and burning lungs are in agony. There’s nothing I can do to relieve the suffering. I can’t even kill myself.

  Himmler enters with Major Klein and Frau Cia. They have brought their usual tools of torture. Plus a surprise—five men in suits. Curiously, three appear to be Jewish. Himmler introduces the men as scientists but doesn’t give out names.

  “They’re here to learn about the vimanas,” he says.

  “I told you all I remember. It crash-landed on the shore of a lake. I walked toward it and went inside. But the interior—I couldn’t tell you if it was shiny silver or pretty pink. Your scientists are going to have to figure out how to build their own flying saucer.”

  Himmler comes close enough to whisper in my ear. “Anton is three stories up. Locked in a room with twenty other dying men. His hands and arms, where he was skinned, are infected. He’s delirious with pain. He needs penicillin, morphine. I’ll give him whatever he needs if you help us.”

  “I wish I could,” I say.

  He nods. “You’re telling the truth. That’s something. Perhaps your memory needs another jolt.”

  “No!” I say quickly.

  “It worked last time. Why shouldn’t it work again?”

  “Anton can’t take any more. Torture him again and he’ll die.”

  “I’m not talking about Anton.”

  There is no sense in pleading with Himmler. One does not beg for a glass of water from the devil. He snaps a finger and Harrah is brought in.

  She stands before me in gray prison garb. But I see a cloth wrapped around her top beneath her standard Auschwitz issue. It’s the veil; she has turned the face of Christ toward her skin so the Nazis can’t see it. She looks at me with pleading eyes, her gaze moving repeatedly to the top of the post.

  So it is true. Ralph did manage to put the key there.

  And I can’t reach it.

  “Roll up her sleeves, use the gasoline,” Himmler says. “Sita enjoyed it so much last time, her friend should be treated no worse.”

  I’m a coward, I close my eyes. I don’t understand why God made sight the only sense that can be blocked off. Especially when Harrah’s screams start. It doesn’t seem right that the machinery of the human body can’t be shut down during a major crisis. The mind, too; I wish more than anything in that instant that I could turn it off.

  Himmler knows that, of course. That’s his secret.

  In trying to turn off my mind, I turn it on.

  I remember . . .

  • • •

  The outside of the craft is a dull orange, the inside is as red as the evening sky after a bloody day of battle. I have seen such sunsets recently.

  The interior is circular. I count three levels, each connected by a winding black staircase. I enter at the mid-level, see an assortment of chairs, couches. I assume this is where the occupants relax and sleep.

  On the top level are panels with colored lights and bright rectangles that glow with symbols that I assume are part of a language. I suspect this is the ship’s control center.

  A hum comes from the bottom floor. Here is the heart of the ship. Here are the dead men. They lie in a tangled heap beside the staircase, as if they were trying to climb out when death stole their last breath. Karna gave me the impression the men have not been dead long, but that does not seem possible. What skin they have left has turned to ash; it clings to their bones like a fungus growing on an animal that died in a swamp.

  Still, I know this is the center of power for the ship because of the glass pipes that encircle the walls. A silver fluid—I suspect it’s mercury—flows through the tubes, pulsating like blood in a vein. The rhythm of the movement seems to generate a power my whole body feels. It’s hot, hotter than fire—I can only get so near. Yet I’m confused that the rest of the lower deck is not boiling. The heat pours from the pipes, only to vanish into the air.

  I see two of the cracked-open metal cylinders that Karna told me to beware of. They lie against the wall, beside an iron pit whose top has been lifted. A black-blue glow comes from a lump of stone at the center of each cylinder. It’s clearly the material that killed the men. To their eyes the glow must have been faint, perhaps invisible, but to mine it looks like a light that has no place in our world. The glow is not conscious, no evil mind lurks behind it; nevertheless I feel if ever I were to meet a demon from the dark realms, its eyes would give off such a light.

  Moving as rapidly as possible, I shove the lumps of stone back into their cylinders and twist the sides shut. My task is only partially successful—the weapons still have cracks in them. I put them back in the metal hole from where they spilled and close the top, locking it with a bar.

  As I do so the mercury in the glass pipes accelerates.

  A wave of dizziness steals over me and I reach for the stairway. I manage to climb back to the second level but have to stop and
rest. My arms and legs feel disconnected from my brain. I know I should get outside, at least close the portal that leads to the lower level, but lack the strength. My vision blurs. I can see the door that leads to the outside but it looks a mile away. If I close my eyes and rest for a minute, I think, I should be strong enough to escape.

  That’s all I remember until I awaken to find Yaksha kneeling beside me. His expression is puzzling. Clearly he has come to kill me. Krishna made him swear to destroy all the vampires. But his face is grim.

  “Sita,” he says. “What have they done to you?”

  “Are you here to kill me?” I mumble.

  “I’m here to rescue you. How do you feel?”

  “I’ll be all right.” I try to stand, with his help, but suddenly bend over and vomit. The urge to vomit is strange—it won’t stop, not even when the last scrap of food has been expelled from my body.

  Then I see my hands, my arms. My skin has turned black and begun to peel off. “Yaksha,” I gasp.

  “We’re leaving,” Yaksha says as he suddenly sweeps me off my feet. He turns toward the door and it opens, but Duryodhana and the man with the metal box block our way. In the woods behind them I see Karna.

  “You will stay aboard,” Duryodhana commands, brandishing his sword in Yaksha’s direction.

  “Sita is sick,” Yaksha says. “I have to get her out of here.”

  “We’ll need one of them if we’re to use the weapons,” the man with the box says to his king. Duryodhana nods and speaks to Yaksha.

  “I’ll release both of you when we’re finished with this ship.”

  “I don’t take orders from you!” Yaksha swears. Setting me down, he rushes the king. A sudden piercing sound fills the ship, the same sound I heard when they came for me earlier. Only this time it’s louder and I black out.

  When I awaken Yaksha and I are chained to the central staircase. The metal is strong—I can’t bend it. However, I’m relieved to see my hands and arms have healed. I know why I have recovered.

  “You gave me your blood,” I say.

  “You were dying.”

  “Isn’t that your goal now? To destroy the last of the vampires?”