Stewards of the Flame (23 page)

“Me? I never tried street drugs even as a kid,” Jesse stated, not sure whether this was a situation in which you were supposed to say that, or one of those in which you’d hesitate to admit it.

“There’s something you’re not counting, isn’t there, Jesse?”

It took a moment or two to grasp what she meant. Then, feeling stupid, he confessed, “Well, I did get drunk sometimes.” Of course Peter would have told her; the reason for his detention on Undine was a matter of public record.

“On purpose. To alter your perception of reality.”

“Yes. I don’t think I’ll ever want to again, Kira.”

“Not with alcohol, not after we’ve shown you better ways. But the desire to alter perception is a universal human impulse, Jesse, and there’s nothing wrong in it. There have been cultures that handled it relatively well. The modern culture of the Meds, which has dominated at least since the twentieth century, isn’t one of them. It is schizophrenic—on one hand it promotes fulfillment of that impulse through a vast variety of potent medications prescribed for every conceivable instance of human dissatisfaction with life, and then it wonders why people turn to substances of their own choice in pursuit of the same goal.”

“I never thought of it that way.”

“Most people don’t,” Kira said. “Hypocritically, Med culture condemns people for the very error it has instilled in them from birth: the idea that controlling perception through chemistry is a good thing. And then it turns around and subjects them to still more drugging, which aims to correct that error while simultaneously reinforcing the same misconception.”

“Well, but medical drugs are different—”

“From illegal ones? Good God, Jesse! You don’t think legality has any real connection with the principle involved, do you? That’s entirely a political matter, even on Earth. The public is led to make certain drugs a scapegoat while consuming many that are equally damaging—and even those can’t be obtained by personal choice. The monopoly on drugs, including prescription drugs, is the means whereby the government-endorsed medical establishment maintains control over people where ostensibly, it lacks the direct police power it has obtained here.”

Jesse frowned. “There’s a line, though, isn’t there, between mind-altering drugs and others?”

“All psychoactive medications produce altered states,” Kira told him. “That’s what they’re for—antidepressants, for instance, alter the way people perceive the world. And many other medications affect the brain and thus produce unintended cognitive ‘side’ effects. Mind-altering drugs aren’t limited to those that interfere with rationality.”

“Is rationality what separate good states from the bad ones, then?”

“No. Some states that interfere with reasoning ability are aberrations—psychosis, for instance—but others, such as dreaming, are normal. And still others, if induced in the right way, have legitimate uses.”

“Are you saying that even drastically altered states aren’t harmful in themselves?” He should feel reassured by that, Jesse thought. He didn’t. Moment by moment, his wish to avoid such states was growing. He longed to be away from the lab, out in the fresh air where he could think clearly, gain time. . . .

“They can be. Some people’s minds aren’t stable enough to get out of such states; others are prone to violence. Peter takes care not to recruit anyone who’s susceptible to the dangers.”

No wonder the Group needed a professional psychiatrist—and Peter was good at the job, Jesse reminded himself. He could be trusted not to mess with people’s minds in unsafe ways, couldn’t he? “I don’t see why entering such states this way isn’t just as risky as doing it with drugs,” he admitted.

“If you’re thinking that neurofeedback technology like ours could cause harm in the hands of an incompetent instructor, or one with destructive aims, you’re right,” Kira agreed, “which is why we’d keep it hidden even if it weren’t illegal. But as long as both participants have been proven qualified, it’s not dangerous.” As the shapes of her feedback swerved away from his, she went on, “The bad thing about drugs, apart from the damage they do to the body, is not the states of consciousness they produce but the fact that they force such states on people not equipped to handle them. And they deprive even capable users of volition until they wear off—that’s where the hazards lie.”

“And from what I’ve heard, bad trips can recur without taking more of the stuff,” Jesse said, striving to keep part of his attention on the display.

“Yes—which goes to show that the mind itself is what produces states of consciousness; drugs merely open the door. So if you can control your mind, you can get in and out of various states by volition alone. Shamans have been doing it for millennia, but for us it’s easier because of the feedback.”

“I don’t see how just making patterns with my brain can do that,” Jesse declared.

“The visual patterns are only symbols, remember—just as the metaphors used in traditional spiritual practices are symbols. We associate them with the way our brains are operating. The actual instruction comes from the teacher’s unconscious mind to the student’s.”

The two feedback patterns before him now matched, Jesse saw. He felt strange, as if he were hearing Kira’s voice from far away, but it wasn’t an unpleasant feeling. He was very calm, breathing slowly and deeply, and the nameless terror he’d felt had abruptly vanished. “How soon will I get into a new state of consciousness?” he asked.

“You’re in such a state right now,” Kira told him. “I’ll prove it to you—but keep watching your pattern, don’t let it diverge from mine.” She called out, “Michelle, put the heart monitor on-screen, please.”

He had wondered why they continued to use the heart monitor when he wasn’t being stressed by pain. Now, below the matched mind-patterns, its characteristic graph appeared. The rhythm of the beats was regular, the way he’d seen them in countless vid dramas. He tried not to think of the dramas in which heart rates flatlined.

“We don’t use this particular technique with anyone who has heart problems,” Kira said. “Peter has access to the Hospital’s files. We know you’re okay, since you’ve just had a very thorough physical exam.”

Well, Jesse thought, at least something useful had come of it. And then he thought, did Peter subject me to that exam because he planned to recruit me? But how could he have known he wanted to before I’d spoken more than a few words to Carla?

“Your attention’s wandering,” Kira said. “Focus on your brain feedback; keep it steady.”

Jesse complied. “Now,” Kira went on, “speed your heart up. Imagine that you’re running, racing perhaps, and your pulse rate’s going up—”

Unbelievably, it worked. He could see the spikes of the rhythm contract.

“Now slow down,” said Kira. “Stop running, rest. Relax and let your heart beat slowly, more slowly . . . but not too slow. Don’t slow it any more.”

“This is unreal,” Jesse murmured. “People can’t control their hearts just by thinking about it.”

“Yes, they can. Yogis have controlled their hearts, and more, for centuries. But it took them time and effort to learn. You do it instantly right now because, through matching mind-patterns, you’re already in the appropriate state of consciousness.”

“But surely I can’t keep on doing it. Not without watching the feedback.”

“Eventually you can, after you’ve had more practice.” Kira frowned. “Normally we don’t introduce heart rate control this soon in the training. Peter was very specific; he said you were to learn it immediately, that we were to focus on it before anything else and get it out of the way. He didn’t tell me why. When I protested that it might be too stressful for a beginner, he assured me that you’re up to it. But I think one reason he chose me as your instructor was my knowledge of cardiology—just in case anything were to go wrong.”

Is this a game? Jesse thought, seeing his heart rate accelerate again as a chill spread through him. Is she trying to shake me up, or is she really worried?

“I’m sorry,” Kira said quickly. “It’s not a game; I spoke thoughtlessly. Still, sooner or later you have to face the fact that it’s scary to have control over your own heart. Peter’s decisions are usually wise and never unwarranted. If he chooses not to tell me what’s back of this one, I’m sure he has due cause.”

Deliberately, Jesse gave his attention to the visual patterns, reminding himself that it was okay to fear his control might slip, that instead of fighting that he must let it happen . . . and on the monitor, he watched his heart slow and then stabilize.

“You’re getting the hang of it,” Kira said reassuringly. “In time, you’ll learn to control more kinds of stress responses, and you’ll learn to get into states of consciousness without external assistance.”

“And this will protect my health?” It seemed too simple to be true.

“Ultimately, yes, after it becomes unconscious. Of course it won’t work if you just do it once in awhile. You have to train yourself to react this way, instead of the instinctive way, automatically—when you’re actually under stress. Not just major stress, but ordinary ongoing worries and frustrations. That’s the hard part.”

It would be, Jesse realized. But it was why they all seemed so carefree, despite all the real worries they faced. He was not sure he could ever reach that stage. On second thought, it was not at all simple. He didn’t see how to even begin.

Wanting to change the subject, he said slowly, “If psychoactive drugs produce altered states, then the ones they use in the Hospital . . . on people who commit serious crimes, I mean . . . wouldn’t our training enable us to overcome the effects?”

Kira shook her head. Soberly she told him, “It might, to start with, but that’s one experiment the Group’s not going to try, any more than we’re going to kill ourselves to find out if there’s an afterlife. Those drugs cause physical damage to the brain, just as electroshock and psychosurgery do. They’ve never been given to one of us, so we don’t really know how long a trained mind would retain control—volition depends on the brain, after all, even though it’s not physical in itself.”

“Not
physical
?” Puzzled, Jesse questioned, “What is it, then?”

“You may as well ask what telepathy is,” Kira told him, “and we don’t have an answer; we only know what we can do with it. Though in some traditions, healing and other forms of psi have been attributed to energy vibrations of some sort, that’s simply one of the metaphors—one we don’t use, because we don’t encourage the notion that anything physical is involved.” She got out of her chair and detached the sensors from his body. “Enough training for today. Now go out and run, or something, to clear your head.”

~
 
25
 
~

Jesse indeed felt a need to exercise after the training sessions. Running on the beach at low tide, as well as the swimming he’d begun to enjoy, was a welcome diversion from the things going on in his mind. He had also, belatedly, realized that the work of maintaining the Lodge was shared on an informal basis. No one had asked him to pitch in, but floors didn’t sweep themselves, nor did fuel appear magically for the fireplace. So now, after a short run, he set to work replenishing the woodpile, finding it pleasantly exhausting to swing the axe.

That night he woke in the dark with a backache nearly killing him. Oh hell, Jesse thought, is this going to start again? He’d had it on shipboard a few times for no apparent reason. Fleet medics had examined him and found nothing wrong. It came on suddenly and then, over several days, gradually diminished. This time, he supposed, he’d thrown his back out chopping wood, though it was odd he hadn’t felt it happen. The pain was worse than usual. He did not get back to sleep.

In the morning he dragged himself to breakfast, unable to stand erect but determined not to let the agony show. People looked at him, then carefully looked away. “What’s wrong, Jesse?” Kira asked, showing less sympathy than he expected.

He told her, feeling somewhat sheepish. Everyone in the Group was healthy, after all—nobody ever displayed the slightest sign of disability. And knowing what he now knew, he could not even say it was because they were all so young!

“Rest today,” Kira told him. “We don’t have to go to the lab.”

All morning he lay on the beach in the sun, wondering why his joy in the place had evaporated. It wasn’t that he wanted to be elsewhere. He didn’t even feel restless, as he had the three days before. But his uneasiness had grown. His back continued to ache fiercely. He didn’t bother to move when the others went up for lunch. Then clouds formed, the first he’d seen on the Island, and before long a drenching rain forced him indoors.

By evening, he could scarcely walk. He settled on the cushions near the fireplace and Dorcas brought him a plate. She didn’t seem very concerned about him, nor did the others. It was unlike them, Jesse thought—there was usually so much empathy within the Group. Now they were withdrawn, seeming, almost, to be deliberately avoiding eye contact, though their conversation was friendly enough. Had his dark mood put them off, or did they simply scorn human frailty? His back hurt more than ever, but he’d be damned if he was going to mention it to anyone.

Finally, after several hours, Michelle spoke up. “For God’s sake, Kira,” she said. “Put Jesse out of his misery! If he hasn’t caught on by now, he never will.”

Everybody brightened, their warmth suddenly restored. He’d indeed never catch on, Jesse thought—not to the thinking of these people; the surprises in their reactions were unending. “What have I done wrong?” he asked humbly.

“It’s what you haven’t done,” Greg told him. “Jesse, think! You have been going around all day in so much pain that we’re worn out from sensing it. And we’ve been wondering why. We’ve been waiting to see how long it would take you to put two and two together.”

“I don’t see—” he began, and then it hit him. A backache was no different from induced pain. He had been resisting, hoping it would go away, despite the vivid lesson he been given in how to alter perception.
Let go!
he told himself.
Let it hurt! It doesn’t matter. . . .