Stewards of the Flame (11 page)

With dismay, she’d jerked back to the moment. She loved Ramón, but now she loved Jesse too. And she sensed that he was in danger. If the calm, self-possessed Peter feared for his own strength . . .

Peter took her hand, pressed it. “I’ll be honest,” he said. “You’re better off knowing than wondering. It’s going to be very rough for Jesse. He has the wrong kind of background; he’ll try to be stoic and succeed too well. Ian told me what happens in such cases, but I’ve never witnessed one. I know what I’ve got to do, but I’m not looking forward to it.”

“If—if it would help for me to be present—if I could support him—”

“No. You’d give too much support; you haven’t the training to hold back. Besides, he would want to be a hero in your eyes, which would only make things worse for him—and damned hellish for
you.
It will be bad enough for the instruction team; the people who’ll be on hand tonight aren’t equipped for what they’ll see.”

She cringed. It had not occurred to her that Jesse would experience more severe pain during the test than she herself had, although she could now see why it would turn out that way. And it was because of her that he would have to. Yet he might otherwise choose to quit, and to quit would destroy him. . . .

Now, as the plane droned on above the water, Carla shared Peter’s burden: the caring, the responsibility . . . and also the undercurrent of fear.

~
 
13
 
~

Peter appeared at the door of the bunkroom late that night, still wearing the bright blue sport shirt he’d had on earlier. “I’ll take you downstairs now,” he said, as casually as he might have proposed another swim party.

With relief, Jesse accompanied him. He’d been told to skip dinner, to be in his room until contacted; then he had waited hours. He’d expected an escort from the lab, either a technician or . . . what? Sheepishly, he admitted to himself that he’d pictured some sinister-looking professorial type. His imagination had been overworked by the wait, which he now realized might have been calculated. He’d felt foolish apprehension about pain he knew perfectly well he could cope with! He wondered why a group with serious purpose bothered with such charades, which seemed rather sophomoric. Secret labs, human experimentation, trial by ordeal—what did they take him for? If these people were as perceptive as they seemed to be, surely they knew he would not be deterred by melodramatic stage trappings.

The Lodge was quiet. Though the people he’d met had gone back to the city, there must be lab personnel present. Either they’d arrived during his wait, or they had been underground all along.

Peter led the way to a cramped elevator, inconspicuous within one of the storerooms that separated the kitchen from the common room. They entered; its door closed, but it did not move.

“We need a pledge at this point,” Peter said with sudden seriousness.

“All right,” Jesse said. “What do you want me to pledge?”

Peter spoke slowly, giving weight to the words. “That you freely consent to testing of your potential. That you agree to training that may prove disturbing. And that what happens from now on, what you learn of what we are, will not be revealed to anyone outside the Group. Not on any world, ever, whether you’re in with us or not, no matter how you may feel about us then. Give me your hand on it.”

They gripped hands silently, and it was as if more than a handshake passed between them; Jesse felt something he couldn’t define. We’d be sealing this with blood if it ran true to form, he thought. Underneath, he knew he was making light of it only because its gravity embarrassed him. “This is all?” he asked. “Not even witnessed?”

“If you weren’t sincere, I’d know,” Peter said. “Don’t ask me how. The others trust my evaluation.”

The elevator descended. Below was another storeroom; boxes and bins of provisions were piled against the walls, leaving room only for the narrow door to a walk-in freezer. They entered it, the cold piercing Jesse’s thin shirt. The hatch swung shut behind them. Peter swung a rack of frozen poultry aside. Behind it was a second door, and beyond that a short, dimly-lit hallway with rough stone walls.

They paused before what Jesse assumed must be the lab entrance. “We have an infirmary and hospice facilities down here,” Peter said. “I’ll show you around someday, but tonight we’ll use just one room.”

“You’re involved in this lab business personally,” Jesse perceived with surprise. Of all the occupations he could have guessed for Peter, this seemed the least likely, although he supposed it was natural that Carla would have friends among other psych technicians. “I’m not quite clear on what your position is here, Peter.”

“I’m in charge,” Peter said. “By profession I’m a psychiatrist, though I don’t see the job in quite the same light as the Meds do.” At Jesse’s look he went on, “Yes, I work at the Hospital in the world outside. It’s unpleasant work, since I despise many of their methods, but it gives me a chance to salvage some good people. I ordered your discharge. The power to do that is worth compromises.”

So that was it. No doubt Peter had read his file; they were more thorough than he’d supposed.

Yet why the lengthy delay, if Peter and Carla had been working together from the beginning? If even Anne had known then that Peter could discharge him legally? Jesse frowned. “I owe you thanks,” he said. “It must not have been easy; I was officially under the care of a Dr. Kelstrom, I think, though he never saw me.”

“I did see you,” Peter admitted, “via a camera.”

Outraged, Jesse protested, “
You’re
Kelstrom? But then—”

“I could have released you sooner, spared you the worst of what was done to you. Would you have had grounds for the decision you made tonight if I had?”

As Jesse pondered this, Peter added, “Carla wasn’t told what I was planning; it put a great strain on her faith in me. There was no lack of candor on her part.”

“I’m glad. It’s not that I don’t forgive you, Peter—still I’m not sure I like being manipulated.”

“It will never be done to your disadvantage. But I warn you that sometimes during our training, similar tactics are necessary. And since the training can be disorienting, I’ll need to relate to you as therapist as well as instructor. Okay?”

“Okay,” Jesse conceded, wondering why he felt so convinced that it
was
okay, that Peter’s tactics would always turn out well—as well, perhaps, as his bold advice on learning to swim and to scuba dive. “You act in your professional capacity, then, within the Group?”

“I’m head of our research and of training. I’m also a member of our Council; we’re informal about it, but you should know.”

Startled, Jesse began further rearrangement of assumptions. Peter looked far too young for such a role. For him to be a practicing psychiatrist was one thing, out of character though it seemed—but head of research? A policymaker in a clandestine organization, when he’d seemed so boyish and carefree?

No, not carefree. It went deeper than that. Any dissident in this society faced big problems, Jesse reflected; it had been hard to believe the Lodge offered escape even before he’d learned its true nature. There was something more special in these people than he’d seen at first. Whether or not they could control their bodies, they did have control of their feelings—not forced, artificial control, but the ability to turn off worry at times when nothing could be gained by it . . . to live the present moment fully despite real concern for the future. That was why they seemed so alive to him.

Strange that so many such people could turn up in one small colony; strange too that they would accept a misfit. Had they mistaken him for one of their own kind? he wondered. Had he put on as good a facade as that, and if so, could he keep it up indefinitely?

Very grave now, Peter turned and said, “I’ve had to move fast with you, Jess. I’d seen enough psych data to skip long evaluation on our part—”

Oh, God, Jesse thought. The truth serum interview . . .

“It didn’t go into your file,” Peter told him. “I conducted it alone; the voice you heard was synthesized. We respect our people’s privacy.” In his relief, Jesse didn’t notice at first that this remark was specifically focused on a concern he had not mentioned aloud.

“It’s a bit of a gamble,” Peter went on, “to go ahead with this procedure without giving you more time to judge us. It will be impossible for you to get through it without wanting to very badly. You need to know that what we have is worth wanting.”

An odd way to put it. He’d have expected them to focus on what was worth
doing.
For him, it was enough to want Carla, who would be unlikely to enter a relationship with an outsider. Yet apart from that . . . had it not been mere foolishness, the longing this place had aroused in him? Did Peter anticipate some such reaction? On the verge of affirming it, Jesse stopped, suddenly terrified by the thought of admitting wishes he had not fully acknowledged in himself. There was surely no chance that he, a Fleet officer, would fail in a trial of the nature described, yet still . . .

The door before them had a keypad, seeming out of place in the rustic-looking hall. Peter punched in a code, adding, “I’ve got to be rough as hell on you, Jess. Be aware that you have a great deal to gain.”

Or to lose, Jesse thought. There could be no going back now, not even if Fleet would accept him. He could never again teeter between empty routine and the release of off-duty drinking—he’d seen too much to be satisfied by either. Feeling himself flush, he resolved that he’d be damned if he’d let any test they presented faze him. Quite literally damned. There would be no hope left in his life.

He stepped forward. The room they entered was small, bare, and featureless except for two well-padded contour chairs, fixed to the floor. They were equipped with ominous-looking headpieces similar to the one that had been attached to him in the Hospital, Jesse noted, cursing himself for a nervousness he had thought he’d outgrown years ago. The green-tinted walls were glaringly blank except for a high interior window above a door in the one to their left. There was a light behind it.

“Sit down, Jess,” Peter directed, indicating the closest chair. It was an order—accustomed to command, Jesse instantly sensed the change in tone. This man was in command here. It was as if he had stepped onto the bridge of a ship.

Jesse sat without comment. The chair was low and quite soft, with wide armrests. “Take your shirt off before you lean back,” Peter said. “We’ll be using sensors, and we need the sleeve out of the way too.”

Obeying, Jesse glanced around the room, puzzled by its lack of lab-type equipment. Peter followed his gaze. “There’s a control booth behind you,” he said. “You’ll find the neurofeedback facilities impressive. First, though, we’ve got to deal with the less pleasant part.”

He sat on the edge of the second chair, holding Jesse’s eyes with his own. There was none of his usual sparkle in them, the high spirits with which he’d proposed that jumping into deep water might be fun. Abruptly Jesse became aware that tonight would not be fun. Whatever was going on here, it wasn’t a charade.

“The mind has far greater capability than Med science recognizes,” Peter said. “Our Group’s committed to exploring its limits. We do things you’d call impossible if I were to describe them to you, good things—though most members of this culture would find them . . . upsetting.” His voice was sober, but at the same time reassuring. “The payoff’s bigger than you’ve been told, for you personally as well as in terms of our goal. But the training is difficult. Not everyone is able to benefit. I believe you will be, but before you get in too deep I have to find out for sure.”

“Okay,” Jesse agreed, intrigued. This was no contrived ordeal. Whatever was done to him would be purposeful, and his experience with Peter told him that it would be managed with consummate skill.

“The protocol’s more complex than it seems on the surface,” Peter said. “It reveals a lot, both about the mind in general and about the subject’s personal aptitudes. But it does involve pain, and I can’t yet tell you all the reasons why it has to. For one, that’s the only safe stressor we can use to get data about certain reactions. The stresses our proven people meet are hazardous. Pain isn’t. With pain, we can reach limits fast, and more importantly, we can put a fast end to the stimulus. There’s no risk of harmful aftereffects.”

An outright tolerance test, then, Jesse thought, finding the idea not wholly unwelcome. In this he could compete with the young colonials, probably surpass them; it would be worth a few bad moments to prove that to them and to himself. Himself? God, he thought, had it been as long as that since he’d met any real challenge? Had Fleet stifled even his inner confidence?

“It will be worse than you think,” Peter said, as if reading his mind. He rose and moved behind the chairs, returning with a small cart full of electronic gear. “I can tell you’re discounting warnings, and since I’m a believer in informed consent, I need you to take them seriously.”

“Hell, Peter, you can’t make me afraid of you,” Jesse said. “Not as I would be of someone who meant me harm.”

“No,” Peter agreed frankly, “but I can make you afraid of your own reactions, which is what most fears boil down to in any case.”

Not wanting to follow the thought, Jesse declared, “Whatever you do will be anticlimactic after the buildup you’re giving it.”

“There’s not much danger of that,” Peter said. “There are twists you can’t anticipate. Lean back, now, and take deep breaths while I set things up.”

It was a more complicated arrangement than Jesse had been expecting. He knew various lab methods for testing pain tolerance that did not involve all this, certainly not the bulky, tight-fitting headpiece, much less the heart monitor he glimpsed beside him. He followed Peter’s instructions silently, determined not to betray what he was beginning to feel.

“No questions?” A smile broke through Peter’s composure, incongruous now, yet without any trace of cruelty or coldness. It was as if some tremendous, glorious secret lay just under the surface . . . and it had always been that way, Jesse realized. With all of them, even before he’d begun to trust them consciously. He wanted to share that secret. Whatever stress they might subject him to would be trivial beside the prospect of doing so.