Stewards of the Flame (3 page)

Jesse grimaced. “Instruments poked into bladders, you mean? Catheters shoved up arteries into hearts? I tried to tell myself they couldn’t really slip, but—”

“They can and do, especially in the hands of student medics. It’s not dangerous, you understand. We’re skilled here in repairing damage.” She sounded bitter.

“You mean I needn’t be afraid they’ll kill me.”

Carla turned white. “No,” she declared with strange intensity. “That’s the one thing they will
never
do.”

He frowned. Something was wrong in this place, something more than the hospital’s gung-ho policies and its obvious violations of patients’ rights and privacy. “You seem to share my skepticism,” he said to Carla. “Yet you said ‘we’ as if you get checked like everyone else.”

“We aren’t given a choice.”

“God! Is that what’s meant by the health laws someone mentioned?”

“That’s part of it.”

“I guess maybe I don’t want to know the other part,” Jesse admitted, wishing only to be light-years away.

“Believe me, you don’t. You’ve got enough to face right now.”

He saw she was really troubled. “Don’t worry, I can stand another day of this, Carla,” he said with such cheerfulness as he could muster. “Internal organ biopsies can’t hurt more than the spinal tap and the bone marrow sampling.”

“That’s not what I’m thinking about. I wish—I wish I could get you out of here before they start the treatment phase.”

“What? Oh, you mean the aversion therapy. I can stand that too,” he declared grimly. “They can’t keep me nauseous all the time, after all; I’m supposed to associate it with drinking.” Presumably, he thought sardonically, I will forget all about associating it with having my guts turned inside out for the inspection of assembled interns. “So it won’t be bad compared to this—just brief episodes.”

“Do you know anything about the theory behind aversion therapy, Jesse?” Carla asked, seeming reluctant. She drew a chair to his bedside, sat close to him; he was aware of the sweet, fresh scent of her hair.

“Well, it’s a standard conditioning technique, I guess. Behavior modification. They make you drink and then punish you, so you’ll connect suffering with the act of drinking.”

“No. The induced nausea isn’t punishment; it works on the principle that makes animals reject poisonous foods. We have a built-in genetic mechanism for avoiding things that make us sick when we ingest them. Ordinary aversive conditioning, using shocks, isn’t nearly as effective.”

“But it doesn’t always work, at least not permanently.”

“Because we have minds that override associations. Humans know, underneath, that alcohol doesn’t produce nausea. A person has to be awfully suggestible to be fooled subconsciously, even for a little while.”

“That’s some comfort,” Jesse remarked, trying to make light of it. “I don’t think I’m the suggestible sort.”

“Definitely not. Your psych tests show you’re not. And the Meds know that, of course. Aversion therapy’s standard procedure, but they’re aware that it has a worse record here than on worlds where submission to it’s voluntary. That’s a problem they’ve been trying to get around.”

“Well, they might try eliminating the force.”

“The Meds? Never; that’s contrary to their goal of curing everyone.”

“Much as I’d like to prove them wrong, Carla, I want to get out of here—and
stay
out. So I’ll pretend to be ‘cured.’”

“Never getting drunk again would be wise, certainly. But are you ready to give up social drinking, too?”

“Well, temporarily—in public, anyway. But I’m not an addict, after all. I can drink small amounts with meals.”

“I’m sure you can. But the authorities here won’t recognize that. Being drunk just once is interpreted as susceptibility to addiction; they don’t rely on DNA data, which has proven unreliable for predicting behavior.”

“Then why isn’t liquor banned entirely?” This had been puzzling him; it seemed the kind of world where prohibitions would flourish.

“There’s no need for a ban. Alcohol really isn’t a problem here. Anyone drunk enough to cause trouble is treated, and that’s the end of it—except there’s a small amount of recidivism. Medical science hopes to eliminate that.” Carla paused, then added painfully, “You’ve been chosen as the guinea pig, Jesse.”

That figured. He was stranded, friendless, and strong enough to withstand unlimited therapy—no wonder they were verifying his health. “Tell me what they’ll try,” he urged, steeling himself.

“You’ll be given drugs that cause real sickness when combined with alcohol. Not just nausea—heart symptoms, difficulty breathing, and so forth.”

“But that’s an ancient technique! They were doing that on Earth as far back as the twentieth century. It doesn’t work on anyone who won’t keep taking the stuff.”

“You won’t have to take it. They’ll implant an internal device for timed release, just as they do to treat chronic diseases—a much more sophisticated one, of course, than the cheap near-surface implants used on most worlds.”

“It’s
permanent
?” He swallowed, repelled not so much by the loss of drinking pleasure as by the thought of unauthorized tampering with his body’s reactions.

“Effectively so, unless you leave this world and have it removed. They’ll bring you in for frequent maintenance checks.”

He might not get a chance to leave, Jesse thought grimly. Not soon, anyway. “What’s experimental about this?” he asked, thinking the pieces didn’t quite fit. Implants were not experimental. Besides their medical uses such devices were routinely used for contraception; he’d had one since adolescence, though unlike female contraceptive implants it was not of the drug-dispensing type. He’d always wondered how women put up with those.

“The dosage,” Carla informed him. “It’s been tried with low, safe doses, but some addicts become inured to them and drink anyway. You will be made seriously ill, to a degree that would be risky if ambulances weren’t constantly on patrol. There’ll be an implanted microchip transmitting heart and tracking data constantly so that they can find you anywhere, just like anybody else on the planet who’s not in perfect health. One taste of wine and you’ll truly need to be hospitalized.”

“Isn’t that overkill, even in the case of real alcoholics?” he protested, knowing as he said it that protest was useless. Overkill was the name of the game here. The hospital seemed to run the entire colony.

“It is,” Carla agreed, “and so it’s controversial. All sickness is considered evil here, to an extent you probably can’t imagine. It is rooted out. No natural form of discomfort is left untreated. But side effects of treatment aren’t counted as bad; they’re tolerated to minimize future risks.”

“I’ve always doubted the reasoning behind that practice. Better a small risk of illness than a lifetime of sure misery.”

“The authorities don’t see it that way. They claim the right to decide what’s ‘minor’ compared to the reduced risk. In this case, though, the effects can’t be called minor by anybody’s standards, so it’s taken a while for the substance abuse people to get the go-ahead.”

Jesse frowned. “Politics, maybe? Eliminate drunkenness at any cost before somebody gets the idea of banning liquor after all?”

“That’s about the size of it,” Carla said, “though the main political consideration is the points they’ll score by proving it can be done. In any case, the Administration has agreed to stamp out substance abuse at the risk of more serious illness. The hope, of course, is that it won’t come to that; the implant is supposed to act as a deterrent.”

“I expect it will,” Jesse said dryly. “I’m not going to chance getting picked up by an ambulance again. I wouldn’t, even without the implant.”

“A real alcoholic might, though. Even apart from craving liquor, he wouldn’t mind the Hospital itself. Your view—and mine—isn’t typical; most people view this as a place of refuge. The Meds’ policies aren’t widely opposed.”

“If that’s the case, why do they expect any deterrent effect?”

“Because the illness itself is so awful—and you will experience it repeatedly before you’re released. They’ll make you drink while they adjust dosage, and then more after the implant’s in place.”

Jesse tried not to let his feelings show. “I guess I’ll survive that,” he assured her. “It doesn’t worry me as much as the implant does—and a heart monitor implant, too? Broadcasting my location day and night?” Perplexed by the strength of his repugnance he went on, “I’m not sure why I mind so much. It’s not the end of the world if I can’t drink socially. I could give it up easily if I chose, so why does the idea of having to seem so bad?”

“It doesn’t,” Carla said with conviction. “You mind losing your privacy to a tracking device, of course. But more than that, it’s the manipulation of your body that’s horrible. The violation. It’s—obscene.”

“Some of the tests were,” he agreed, surprised that he felt able to speak of them to this charming young woman. “I never before asked myself why white coats on the assailants should change anyone’s perception of what’s otherwise classed as rape.”

“It’s custom, not logic. People who submit by choice tune out their natural feelings toward such things.”

“I suppose it’s medically necessary, sometimes.”

“That’s a matter of opinion. Where it’s warranted by serious symptoms, the choice may be wise—but even then, tuning out’s a mistake. Doing that leads, step by step, to what we’ve got here.”

He looked quickly at her, seeing how grave she was. It was more than a matter of sympathy for him. Something deeper was involved. She evidently had not tuned out her own feelings, and they matched his, not her society’s. “You’re not a medical professional,” he said, sure of this.

“No, I’m a data technician, though I assist with some kinds of psych therapy.”

“Why do you work in this place?”

Carla hesitated. Finally she said, “The world is the world. One way or another, we’ve got to live in it. Here, I’m useful, if only to victims like you.”

“Worse things are done to some of them,” Jesse observed.

“Yes.”

“Electroshock, psychosurgery—things like that?”

“Yes, sometimes. And various drug protocols that are comparable.”

“Am I in danger, Carla?”

“Not because of alcoholism. If you should be diagnosed as hostile—”

“Oh, God. Either I submit or they make me submissive, is that it?”

Carla nodded. “In theory, yes. There are sometimes—alternatives.”

Again Jesse looked at her, taking in the attractiveness not only of her body—though that did attract him—but of her face, her whole manner. She was poised, serene, yet at the same time warmth glowed in her. Warmth toward him, and heat too, against a system she clearly disliked. She was involved, caring—he
knew
.

“You said you wished you could get me out,” he reflected. “Is that possible?”

“Maybe. I have friends. It’s been done before.”

“I don’t want you to run risks on my account.” He realized that this was true. He was not in any serious danger; Carla might be. She could lose her job, or worse, she might be judged unstable. . . .

“I’ve never been caught,” she assured him, smiling, “and I’ve done worse things, by Hospital standards, then restore clothes to a diagnosed substance abuser. I’ve gotten people out who were doomed to the Vaults.”

“The Vaults?” Jesse was chilled, not merely by the ominous-sounding term but by the tone in which Carla spoke it.

“Forget I said that,” she said hastily. “We’ve got to leave now, if you want to. The shift’s about to change.” She rose to retrieve a sack that she had set by the curtained entrance to his cubicle.

It contained his Fleet uniform. Jesse sat up; she was already committed, had come prepared, and he certainly did want to get out of the place. “What happens to you if we do get caught?” he asked.

“Never mind about me. Attempted escape will count against
you
,” Carla said soberly. “You’re under Dr. Kelstrom’s care, so normally I wouldn’t worry—but he’s not himself right now. I can’t predict. All the same, I’ve got strong reasons to trust him. I’m sure the worst that can happen is that the implants will proceed as scheduled.”

Jesse pulled himself out of bed and dressed quickly, ignoring his various aches, which seemed to have lessened considerably during the past half hour. Attempted escape, she’d said, as if this were a true prison—did Carla herself view the hospital that way? Why had the colonists here given it so much autonomous power?

They ventured into the corridor. Carla gripped his arm, steadying him. “Walk normally, head up,” she said. “We won’t be noticed until we reach the checkpoint at the lobby entrance. The security officer coming on duty there is my friend.”

As she’d said, the shift was changing; the hallways and elevators were crowded. Uniformed hospital personnel mingled with people in street clothes. A black silver-trimmed Fleet uniform was a bit conspicuous, Jesse felt, yet no one paid any attention to him. Probably there were hospital visitors mixed with the employees. Like colonists everywhere, they seemed healthy, and neither happier or unhappier than average. They didn’t have the look of citizens repressed by force.

As they left the elevator at ground level, Carla held back, waiting for the tall redheaded security officer to take her seat. People were thumbing a plate at the exit barrier; there was an ID check! Jesse, fighting panic, glanced at Carla in dismay. Surely she must have known . . .

“Put in your thumbprint as if you expected the computer to pass it,” she said, in a low but calm voice. “Anne will hit the alarm override. She knows what to do.”

Carla moved forward and joined the line, Jesse close behind her. She smiled at the redhead. “Hello, Anne,” she said. “Will we be seeing you on the Island next offshift?”

“Wait just a minute, will you, Carla?” Anne replied, motioning Carla back. The man in front of her had gone through. Jesse had no choice but to press his thumb firmly against the plate, holding his breath while the computer scanned its print.

The alarm began to scream.

The gate locked. Jesse stumbled back, almost colliding with the people in line behind him. Carla, beside the desk, had frozen in shock. If for an instant he’d thought she had betrayed him, he knew better when he saw her face. It was pale with dismay and bewilderment. Anne was evidently not as good a friend as she’d believed.