Stewards of the Flame (41 page)

“They’re never late. The damn government computer’s got a clock more reliable than sunrise. And my Net connection’s working fine—my bills arrive on schedule.”

“Well, I wouldn’t worry about it if I were you,” said Jesse. “Enjoy as many days of freedom as you’re allowed. It’s the Hospital’s error, after all.”

“But will they admit that, or will they arrest me for ignoring a summons? I’m wondering if I ought to check it out—”

“God, Zeb, don’t do that!” It hadn’t occurred to him that Zeb would fear being blamed for failure to show up. If he inquired about the delay, Carla’s tampering might be discovered, though she’d assured him she’d covered her tracks well. “As long as you don’t tell anybody besides me that you knew it was due, you’re safe.”

“I guess you’re right,” Zeb conceded. “Who am I to question a gift of fate? Let’s fly.”

They were airborne most of that day and the next, hopping from island to island. Zeb was tense, anticipating that each day of flying might be his last. Jesse perceived with dismay that he’d become reckless, that if it were not for his own presence, he might be tempted anew to lose himself and the plane at sea. That might have been best, considering the alternative, he thought in anguish. The Group held that nothing but the aim of saving others could justify suicide. The line between self-destruction and natural death was firmly drawn. In principle, Jesse agreed, but when he thought of Zeb, strong, vital, locked for the rest of his life within the confines of a stifling institution where the only concern for him was to keep his heart beating. . . . And in the end, the Vaults after all. There would not even be the eventual sea burial he’d expected to give him.

It was near dusk when they reached the city on the second day. Jesse had enough dual hours for licensing by now and had given Zeb a chance to take the pilot’s seat for what he believed was likely to be his final flight. Though privately, Jesse knew that no notice to report for a health checkup would come soon, Zeb still expected one to arrive the next morning. Perhaps it had been a mistake to draw it out when he couldn’t say anything to alter that expectation. The suspense might be worse than the reality to which the man had repeatedly resigned himself.

As they descended toward the water on their final approach, Zeb let out a moan of pain. “Oh God,” he mumbled, “Heart . . . knew it would quit—”

He gripped the controls, his knuckles white, struggling to hold on long enough to land. That proved impossible. With a sharp cry he fell forward, clutching his chest, and lay slumped against the yoke in front of him, prevented only by his shoulder strap from pushing the plane into a dive.

Jesse reacted fast. He hauled back hard on the copilot’s yoke, at the same time putting on power. The plane shuddered, almost stalled, as it grazed the water. Then it lifted and began to climb. He could not turn from the controls to see, but he knew Zeb hadn’t lost consciousness. Pain filled him, radiated from his mind with the magnified force of emotion. It didn’t matter that Zeb wasn’t a trained telepath; in a situation such as this, Jesse’s own sensitivity more than compensated. The man was in agony. But there was no underlying fear. In spite of the pain, Zeb was feeling almost relieved at the thought that he was about to die in the air after all.

Reducing throttle, Jesse trimmed the nose of the plane lower, focusing on flying until he got enough altitude to level off. When he was sure the area was clear of traffic, he switched on the autopilot and leaned over, reaching between Zeb’s legs for the handle to push back the seat. After managing to get his feet off the pedals, he felt for a pulse; it was faint, irregular. Zeb’s eyes were closed and he was breathing erratically. There was nothing he could do for him as long as they were strapped in. He was not sure that there was anything he
should
do. Certainly Zeb would not want to go to the Hospital, not when he’d never again be allowed to leave it. Maybe, Jesse thought, it would be best to keep flying for awhile. . . .

But the moon wasn’t up yet. In a few more minutes it would be too dark to land. He had no choice but to do so, hoping no one would be near enough on the pier to see Zeb’s condition. Somehow he’d have to get him to a hospice.

The landing was rough; Jesse was too preoccupied to concentrate on touching down smoothly. The jolt as they hit the water revived Zeb to point of speech. “Jesse,” he gasped as they taxied in. “Don’t . . . call the ambulance. Please don’t.”

“Are you sure?” Jesse asked, knowing the answer but feeling obliged to verify it. “You might die if you’re not treated quickly, Zeb.”

“I . . . know. Maybe it’s . . . just as well. Never be locked up, not before going to the Vaults, anyhow.”

You’re never going to the Vaults!
Jesse wanted to say. Now he could prevent that, at least. It was unlikely that Zeb would recover without immediate treatment. But it was his choice to refuse it, and to make that choice was a basic human right.

For a moment he considered taking off again and going directly to the Island; there would be moonlight by the time they reached it. The Group would surely accept a body, even without prearrangement. But he could not be sure that Zeb would die before they got there, and he could not take him to the Lodge while alive. In theory, he was not even authorized to take him to a hospice, but to hell with that. He couldn’t stay all night in the plane with a dying man, certainly. He would have to get him into one of the safe houses across the street.

Not the one Ian was in, of course. No outsider must know of Ian’s involvement, and in any case, there was a policy of not keeping more than one hospice patient in the same place. He hoped the house next door was empty at present; if it wasn’t, Zeb would have to be moved later. For now, there was no alternative. But he did not see how he was going to get him there. Zeb was in too much pain to walk. . . .

Yet, Jesse thought, he was supposed to be able to relieve others’ pain! Could he possibly do that? He had practiced it only in the lab, with Group members. Healers could do it for outsiders, but it had been acknowledged that he had no talent for healing. All the same, he had to try. Even without the need for walking, he’d have had to—he cared too much for Zeb to let him suffer.

Gripping Zeb’s hand, he reached out as he would to a fellow telepath, making an effort to share what the man was feeling. All at once, the pain came. It nearly swamped him. Instinctively he recoiled, almost slipped into the mind-pattern for pain control—but then, pressing his free hand against his own chest, he let himself experience it.
Zeb, oh Zeb, it doesn’t have to hurt so much . . . I can ease it if you let your mind merge with mine. . . .
He knew his skill wouldn’t be sufficient to guide someone who was terrified, but Zeb had no fear of death. Only the physical sensations had to be handled.

His left arm was on fire, the hand clutching Zeb’s . . . the arm through which he’d learned to deal with pain . . . but no, it was Zeb’s arm, wasn’t it? The pain of a heart attack was often felt in the left arm; that must be where it was coming from.
Zeb, just let the arm float, it doesn’t matter, the chest pain doesn’t matter either, we won’t suffer anymore. . . .
For an instant they were in full contact. Jesse was in control; he felt the pain abate as he shifted into the state where it did not bother him. And he knew that Zeb was following.

After a few minutes of deep breathing he unfastened his seat straps, then Zeb’s. “Zeb,” he said softly, continuing to project the mind-pattern, gradually allowing it to become automatic enough for him to talk. “It’s not so bad, now, is it?”

“Seems to have let up,” Zeb agreed. “I still feel it but I’m—used to it, I guess. I don’t think it’s going away.”

“No. But could you walk a little way?”

“I’m shaky as hell, Jesse. Sick to my stomach, too. I can’t get home. Have to wait till I feel better—or else, till it’s over. Here in the plane’s as good a place for that as any.”

“I know a better place. Some friends just across the street.”

“They’ll call an ambulance.”

“No, they won’t.”

“It’s the law, Jesse. They have to.”

“Trust me, Zeb!” The pain was really bad; he still felt it, although he himself was no longer suffering from it and for Zeb it was partially attenuated. “Come on, lean on me,” he said. “We’ve got to go
now
.”

He managed to get Zeb out of the plane and, holding most of his weight, started slowly along the lighted pier. God, if anyone should see—this wasn’t a world where pretending Zeb was drunk would be helpful. If he was found with a man so obviously sick when he hadn’t phoned for help, he would indeed be in violation of the law. It was near dark on a moonless evening, however. There would be no air traffic now, and it was late for strollers along the esplanade.

All at once, the silence was broken by the sound of sirens.

“God! They’re coming for me,” Zeb burst out.

“They couldn’t be,” Jesse assured him. “I didn’t call, and nobody else knows you’re sick. No planes have come over; we couldn’t have been spotted.”

“But if they drive by here, they’ll see.”

This was all too true. Desperately Jesse looked around for something they could sit on, as if they’d been merely enjoying the view of the stars, perhaps. There was nothing. The sirens were coming closer. As they approached, he did the only thing he could think of—he grabbed Zeb and threw both arms around him, turning him face to face in what he hoped would look like a lovers’ embrace.

The ambulance drove on past.

But there were more sirens coming, more vehicles. At first terrified, close to losing his focus on the pain he had to control, Jesse let out a breath of relief. They were fire trucks! Looking to his left, in the direction they were headed, he saw that a house half a block down was on fire. The serial arsonist, apparently, was still active.

“It’s our lucky day,” he said. “Nobody’s going to notice us; anyone around will be watching the fire. So come on, while we’ve got a good chance.”

Supporting Zeb, who was gasping for breath but able, with effort, to walk, they crossed the esplanade and street, then stumbled around the safe house onto its back porch. There were no lights in the windows and Jesse dared not knock. He could not be sure there were never outsiders there. The only thing he could do was leave Zeb concealed and go to the back door of the adjacent house, where, he hoped, Kira would have arrived to stay with Ian. If she wasn’t there, it would be some other Group member, perhaps one he didn’t know. He did have a password, and if worst came to worst, Ian could identify him—but Peter would not be happy if he disturbed Ian. Peter wasn’t going to be happy anyway when he heard about the risk he had taken.

To his relief, it was Kira who answered his knock. “Jesse!” she said in surprise.

“I’ve got Zeb Hennesy out in back next door,” he said. “He had a heart attack in the plane, and he doesn’t want the ambulance.”

“What have you told him?” she asked brusquely.

“Nothing! Nothing except that the people here won’t call the Meds. God, Kira, surely you’ll take him in—he’s dying.”

She frowned. “It’s a terrible thing to say, but I hope you’re right. The rules aren’t meant to keep out dying people—the problem is what we’ll do with him if he recovers. That’s why we don’t reveal our safe houses to anyone who hasn’t been examined.”

“I’m sorry, Kira, but there wasn’t anywhere else I could take him. We barely made it this far. He’s in a lot of pain. I—I relieved it some, but now—”

“You were able to do that for an outsider?” She seemed surprised.

“Well, he’s a pretty close friend. Maybe that makes a difference.”

“It does. An emotional tie makes a big difference.” Kira sighed. “I suppose you had no choice about bringing him here. Do you vouch for him, Jesse?”

“Yes. He hates the Meds; even if he does recover, he’ll never betray us.”

“All right. Go back and do the best you can with his pain while I get the key.”

Jesse went back to Zeb, who had collapsed on the steps, obviously in intense pain again. He put an arm around him and repeated the process of sensing it, letting himself feel it fully, and then trying to project the shift in consciousness toward not minding. It was harder this time; he perceived that the pressure of crisis had helped before. Kira would do it much better than he could. “Hold on, Zeb,” he said. “A friend is coming. She’s a retired doctor. She’ll make you feel better, even if she can’t cure you.”

Kira came with the house key and together they got Zeb indoors and into a clean bed. He was slipping in and out of consciousness. “Have you got what you need to examine him here?” Jesse asked.

“I’m doing it with my mind,” Kira said. “Telepathy, plus my healer’s senses combined with my background in cardiology. You were right; his heart is damaged past repair. He hasn’t long to live.”

“There’s no way you can—heal him?”

“No, no more than I can heal Ian. All a healer does is enhance a person’s deep self-healing power. Zeb no longer has that power; he feels it’s his time to go.”

“Can he hear us?”

“Not at the moment. I’ll bring him around in a little while; I need his consent to keep him here.”

“It’s damned ironic,” Jesse said, “for it to happen now. He’s worried about his heart for some time, and feared the summons from the Hospital that’s due—but Carla just fixed it so that it’s not going to come.”

“You didn’t
tell
him that!”

“Of course not. He still thinks it’s coming any day. That they’ll send him to a residential care unit when it does.”

“Then it’s not coincidence, Jesse. The unconscious mind controls these things. I can tell that he’d rather not recover—now I know why.”

Jesse protested, “As I’ve heard it, the residential care units are full of people waiting to die. Certainly the nursing homes on Earth are; it’s often talked about. So the unconscious mind is hardly a reliable control on how long anyone lives.”

“It is when the body’s not interfered with.” Kira told him. “It’s nature’s provision for dying when the time comes. But the drugs the Meds use override its influence on biochemistry, which is one of the worst tragedies of their system as far as old people are concerned.”