Stewards of the Flame (42 page)

“I’d say the worst tragedy is that Zeb can’t live out his old age in freedom.”

“Yes, certainly. But since he can’t, it’s understandable that he doesn’t want to live it out in prison, not when he’s been an active man with no interest in vids or reading.”

“Kira,” Jesse said reproachfully, “that sounds as if you’re condoning suicide. I thought the Group believes it’s wrong.”

“We do. But why is it wrong, Jesse?”

He pondered it. Neither he nor the Group had religious objections. Peter had endorsed Jesse’s own assertion that it seemed like cheating, that suffering was no excuse. He could not say why he felt this so strongly.

Kira said, “You don’t believe refusing medical treatment is the same as suicide, though that’s what the Meds would claim. You didn’t try to talk Zeb into going to the Hospital, yet you wouldn’t have let him ditch his plane on purpose.” Whether she’d absorbed this thought from his mind or Zeb’s, Jesse was not sure. “So underneath,” she continued, “you do understand that there’s a time to die. And it’s the unconscious mind that makes that decision, Jesse. Suicide is wrong because to accomplish it, one must defy one’s own unconscious mind, one’s inner integrity. Someone who
really
wants to die doesn’t need to take action. It happens naturally, as it is happening now with Zeb.”

“It didn’t happen that way with Valerie.”

“And what she did would have violated her true self if it hadn’t been for her wish to save Peter.”

“You mean that as long as a person’s alive, he or she unconsciously wants to be—whatever that person may think consciously.”

“Exactly. If ongoing medical treatment isn’t messing up the process, that is. But of course,” she added, “the reverse isn’t true. People can die without wanting to, and those who seek treatment voluntarily are apt to need it. That’s why we have healers.”

Zeb stirred, and Kira turned her attention to him. “Been dreaming I was home in bed,” he murmured.

“You are in bed,” Jesse said, taking his hand. “I’m here, Zeb.”

“You didn’t call the ambulance?”

“No. We won’t ever call it. This is my friend Kira, and she’ll find somebody to stay here with you.”

“The pain’s almost gone. But I’m—weak. Don’t think I can get up.”

“You don’t have to get up,” said Kira, “and you won’t suffer from pain anymore. But Zeb, you might die. In the Hospital they could give you a new heart. Would you rather die here than go where they’d put you afterward?”

“Sure I would! But they won’t let you keep me here, wherever this is.”

“They won’t know. No one will know—we can’t even tell your family, if you have one. Do you?”

“I’ve got a sister. If she can’t get me on the phone after a few days, she might call the Hospital. Then they’d search.”

“If your sister calls the Hospital, Zeb, she’ll be told you’re in the Vaults. You won’t have a chance to say goodbye to her. Is that okay with you?”

“Yes. Has to be. But what if I’m not dead by then?”

“The Hospital will think you are,” said Jesse. “But when you do die, you won’t be sent to the Vaults. I’ll take your body in the plane and bury it in the sea.”

Zeb struggled to raise his head. “Can’t let you risk that, Jesse,” he said, “but that you’d offer—” Tears welled into his eyes.

Kira said, “We don’t approve of the Vaults. We don’t send anyone’s body there.”

“Who
are
you people?”

“We can’t tell you that. And you must promise never to tell where you’ve been or what we’ve said, even if you recover.”

“Sure . . . I promise. You’d be in a hell of a lot of trouble if anybody found out.”

“We would,” Jesse agreed, “so I’m trusting you, Zeb.”

“Jesse—you’ve been more than just an offworlder all along, haven’t you? I could tell there was something about you . . . something you weren’t saying—”

God, had he been as transparent as that? Zeb was the only outsider he’d known well since joining the Group, and though he had tried to keep his thoughts to himself, shielding them hadn’t been easy. He had wondered how the others managed it for a lifetime, working side by side with outsiders.

“It’s all right, Jesse,” Kira said. “Zeb wouldn’t have been conscious of questions if you hadn’t helped with his pain. That sensitized him to your mind.”

“I won’t ask questions,” Zeb said. “I’ll just say thanks . . . while I can. I can’t thank you enough for any of it, Jesse. For taking the plane, or for—this.”

“Just sleep,” Jesse said. “I’ll stay here for now. Kira has to leave, but tomorrow someone else will come. You won’t be alone.”

In the next room, he pulled out his phone and called Carla. He could not tell her where he was—Group secrets were never mentioned on the phone—but he made clear that she shouldn’t worry about his absence.

As Kira opened the door to leave, the smell of smoke blew in. “I forgot to tell you,” he said. “A house down the street’s burning; the arsonist has struck again.”

“I don’t like it,” Kira said. “There have been too many in this neighborhood, for no reason, and who can say where he’ll hit next?”

“Well, tonight, at least, I’m glad it was close,” Jesse said, “because it was the diversion we needed to get here from the pier. Is it true, I wonder, that fate watches out for us?”

Seriously, Kira replied, “So far it seems to have been. Peter talks a lot about fate; I think he really believes in it. But we can’t rely on it for protection, Jesse. You took a risk tonight—you had to. Just don’t ever do it without real need.”

~
 
45
 
~

It was taken for granted that Jesse would be the one to fly Zeb’s body to the Island for sea burial. That would be his normal role as a friend even if he had not promised Zeb to do it personally. Neither Carla nor Peter was happy about it, but they knew better than to argue. Carla’s fear for him was understandable. Peter’s continued to perplex him. Why should Peter be more concerned about his safety than that of anyone else in the Group?

Zeb lingered for a while, and in the daytime Jesse stayed with him. Other caregivers took his place at night. Sometimes Zeb felt pain, and again Jesse eased it, finding that with practice his skill was increasing. “Kira,” he asked when she came to check on Zeb’s condition, “is it just because I know him well? Or could I someday—develop talent?”

Kira smiled. “It’s a matter of empathy. You feel it for Zeb because he’s your friend. A person born with the gift of healing starts out feeling it for everyone.”

“Oh,” he said, disappointed. “Then I guess I’m unqualified.”

“Not at all. You were a loner all your youth, and Fleet reinforced that tendency. Now telepathy has opened your mind to feelings you’d never so much as imagined. You have a long life ahead of you, Jesse. You will grow.”

Tending the dying, unpleasant as it was in some ways, did give Jesse insight, as he’d earlier been told that it would. Dying naturally in old age was not terrible. It was indeed unlike premature death. Zeb, though free of pain, was ready to go and unafraid. He’d had a good life and it was over; there was nothing left for him to cling to. Whether he envisioned anything ahead—anything that might be symbolized by flight into the wide skies he had loved—Jesse was not sure. They didn’t talk about that, but he saw Zeb’s eyes light up at times, as if he were looking forward and not back.

And whatever else might be said of such a death, it was better than the horror of the tubes and machines, the eventual entombment in the stasis vaults, from which Zeb’s own unconscious mind had arranged escape. Jesse tried not to think about what Peter had warned was coming—the closing of that option even for aged Group members. They couldn’t
all
end up in the Vaults, not after years of believing they could prevent it. . . .

During one afternoon Kira relieved Jesse while he took, and passed, the examination for his pilot’s license. Whereas the transport of Zeb’s body was expected to be a solo flight, he could not get a body from the safe house to the plane alone, and there was a chance that whoever helped him would need to come along if he was observed and had to leave in a hurry. Not that he wouldn’t be charged with something far more serious than carrying passengers without a license if they were caught; still he felt it was wise to get the exam out of the way. He was not too sure of his ability to close his mind to unconscious telepathic sensing. Facing an official examiner later, with a guilty conscience about the illicit cargo he’d carried, would be harder.

The flight was likely to be that night. Because it was not expected that Zeb would live until morning, Carla had made an excuse to trade shifts with another technician so she would be free to go to the Island a day early if necessary. She could not bear the idea of not getting there soon after Jesse arrived. Thus she went back to work soon after dinner, and Jesse decided to sleep at the safe house instead of waiting for the summons that was almost sure to come. That would avoid the problem of transportation—to take a water taxi now would be okay, but they did not run past midnight, and to call a cab in the pre-dawn hours would look suspicious. Besides, he would like to be on hand during Zeb’s last moments anyway, he thought. If Zeb was conscious he would want him there.

It was dark when he got to the dock and took a close look at his plane to avoid the need for preflight checking later. He was surprised at how nervous he felt. It was just a flight! The moon would be up, and he had made solo night flights before. No one could possibly know he had a body aboard, and anyway, there would be no other planes near him after he was in the air. The only danger lay in getting the body into the plane. Peter, who was next door visiting Ian, had agreed to help him. As was usual in the Group, they would carry the shrouded body across the esplanade concealed in a cargo container from which it would be removed within the plane, to lie straight across the back seats, prior to takeoff. This last was the tricky part; when anyone was around to observe, the helper had to come along and do it in the air before rigor mortis set in. But tonight the dock was deserted. There was no reason to expect trouble.

Jesse took deep breaths, calming himself, using the skills he’d been taught to lower his blood pressure and slow his pulse. Then he walked slowly back along the dock toward the house across from it.

And froze, sick with fear, his heart racing again. The house was burning.

Smoke rose from the roof of the kitchen, the room furthest from Zeb’s. Through the window he saw a faint glow, not open flame, but a sure sign that fire raged beyond.

His first thought was that Zeb was probably still alive, and that to burn to death, helpless in bed, would be a horror past contemplation. Then too, tonight’s caregiver—Ingrid, he thought—might be asleep if Zeb hadn’t awakened and rung for her. Or worse, she might have been overcome by smoke. He ran toward the back door, which in anticipation of his late-night arrival had been left unlocked, conscious only of the need to rescue them.

But as he ran, another thought came to him. Ian, too, lay helpless in bed. He was in the house next door, the one on the side away from the fire. If this house was allowed to burn, that one might also catch—and even if it didn’t, the firefighters would evacuate it. Kira and Peter were there. It would do no good to warn them; they would not leave Ian and they couldn’t carry him out unseen. A cab wouldn’t arrive soon enough for them to leave before the fire was noticed. So no matter what they did, all three of them would be arrested. Ian would be taken to the Hospital and soon, to the Vaults. Kira and Peter, having called no ambulance for him, would be convicted of attempted murder. They might even be charged with murder if they were suspected of having known Zeb was next door on his deathbed, especially since Peter was a staff doctor. In any case, for both to be involved would prove conspiracy. And if even one of them was given truth serum, the entire Group would be exposed.

The fire must be put out before it spread. If like the other arsons, it was an electrical fire, it couldn’t be fought at its source with water. Jesse knew he could not extinguish it alone, or even with Peter’s help. He had only one option. His hands shaking, he pulled out his phone and pressed the emergency key to summon the fire department.

They would come quickly—he heard sirens in the distance before he even reached the door. He hoped Zeb was already dead, or at least wouldn’t live long enough to know that there would now be no sea burial. There was a chance he could save Ingrid. He ran to her room first and found her barely conscious; carrying her out the back door into the fresh air, he shook her alert. “Go next door!” he yelled. “Tell Peter to hide Ian and stay inside.” He could not wait to see if she was able to.

He rushed back into the house, choking on smoke himself. Mercifully, Zeb’s heart had stopped beating. There was nothing to be done for him. But, Jesse realized suddenly, Kira’s fingerprints and those of other caregivers must be all over the place. The arson investigators would discover them; with the city nervous about the serial arsonist, they would be very thorough. There would be questions about how a body happened to be in what was ostensibly an unoccupied house. And medical examiners would discover that Zeb had not died from smoke inhalation.

There wasn’t time to wipe everything clean of prints. Yet if Kira was arrested Peter would not be the one to handle her case; her friendship with him was known. She’d be drugged by other doctors, and would reveal everything. Jesse froze. At all costs he must draw suspicion away from her. The blame for the death must fall on him alone. That meant there could be no escape for him even if it were physically possible. Which it wasn’t—an ambulance was already out front; finding the door locked, the crew would be at the back before he could get away. The fire trucks were close behind them. If he tried to leave by the front door, he’d be seen.

In desperation he stared at Zeb’s body. It was still warm; could they revive it, put it in stasis? Quite possibly they could. Cremation would be the next best thing to burial at sea—and besides, he had to make sure there would be no cause to question anyone but him. He made no conscious choice; he simply acted. Pulling the body off the bed, he grabbed it under the arms and started dragging it toward the burning kitchen.