Stewards of the Flame (45 page)

“He’s my patient,” said Peter. “I have the right to proceed with him as I see fit. The fact that he committed murder and burned one house is not in question; whether he set more fires or not will make no difference to his treatment. I prefer to hold off on truth serum until I’ve had a chance to evaluate him.”

“It seems to me that you were insufficiently cautious when he was under your care before,” said the woman. “His record shows that you overrode the recommendation of the substance abuse department when you discharged him from the Hospital. You perhaps underestimated the danger he posed to society.”

Oh, God, Jesse thought. If they turned him over to anyone but Peter . . .

“He posed no danger to society at that time,” Peter declared. “He had done nothing worse than get drunk.”

“Which shows a weakness of mind that was evidently exacerbated by the loss of his captaincy in Fleet. He was left without an occupation, at loose ends, on a world where he has no ties. I should think you might have foreseen the result and called him in for weekly checkups. If you had, Zeb Hennesy might be alive and we might have been spared a disastrous series of arsons.”

“The public is suffering from mass anxiety,” added the second doctor, “that won’t abate until we announce that the arsonist is in custody—”

Peter, in desperation, broke in, “Let’s not forget that if it weren’t for that anxiety, the government wouldn’t be calling an election to approve universal microchipping.”

Warick eyed him, frowning. “I thought you were against the extended use of monitor chips, Kelstrom.”

“I am. But I lost that fight long ago, and I don’t want to see my patient made into a scapegoat now that stirring up the public over the issue of crime control has served its purpose.”

“Are you suggesting that any of us deliberately—”

“I saw the inflammatory press release. I know the Administration hasn’t pursued the hunt for the arsonist with as much vigor as the public assumes.”

There was dead silence. Warick glared at Peter as if he too were considered dangerous, and Jesse sensed that Peter, despite his long-standing dislike of the man, was startled by this reaction. An odd tension between them had developed instantaneously.

“No doubt it would now be convenient to let people go on assuming that crime is rampant,” Peter continued, seeming to convey more than he was saying in words. “But by God, Jesse Sanders isn’t going to be delivered up to the media as an example. Not while I’m in charge of treating the criminally insane—which is a job I don’t recall any of the rest of you wanting to take off my hands.”

Peter must be damn sure they wouldn’t do so, to risk such a gamble, Jesse thought. What if it failed? He was dizzy with fear, sick to his stomach. If he was given truth serum by anyone else, he would helplessly betray both Peter himself and Carla. That must not happen. He’d give his life to protect them, as Ramón and even poor Valerie had done, if that were possible . . . he’d prefer death in any case to slow destruction of his brain. . . .

“All right, Kelstrom,” said Warick, ignoring frowns from his colleagues. “We’ll adjourn for now. But keep in mind that your handling of this case will be observed and your records will be open to inspection. You have an unfortunate tendency to use less aggressive treatment than a diagnosis warrants. Remember that we aim to provide therapy, not merely give custodial care to patients who retain delusions.”

Jesse shuddered. To him the psychiatrist said, with genuine sincerity, “I’m truly sorry that science has as yet no way to cure your mind fully. It’s possible that you’ll never be able to understand that you’re sick. But we can at least relieve you of the thoughts we know are troubling you. In some societies you would be punished for your crimes. Here, we know them to be merely the result of illness. I promise that you’ll receive the best care this Hospital has to offer.”

~
 
48
 
~

The doctors rose and left the room. Orderlies unstrapped Jesse and took him through a different door. As it clanged firmly shut behind him, he glanced back, seeing that the only exit through it involved not merely a keypad but a retinal scanner. He did not believe he would be given occasion to exit.

The small white room to which he was taken was, he supposed, his permanent cell, although no doubt some euphemism would be used for it. Its window, like the one in last night’s room, had bars. The view through it showed merely the blank wall of the next unit in the far-reaching Hospital complex. So much for any hope he might ever see the sky, Jesse thought. There was a narrow bed, a chair, a low cabinet for staff convenience, and plumbing facilities—nothing else. He wondered if he’d be given any clothing other than pajamas and a robe such as he’d worn to the hearing.

He was very frightened. It had been obvious that Peter would be forced to order him drugged, even if not in a permanently damaging way. And it seemed all too possible that other psychiatrists, perhaps Warick himself, might get control of his case at some future time if not now. If they did, he would be unable to avoid exposing everyone . . . how could the Group have believed the precautions were adequate? But of course nothing like an arson investigation had been foreseen.

The hall door opened and Peter came in. His face was grey, drawn. It was the first time Jesse had seen him look his true age. “We can talk quietly for a few moments,” he said. “Only a few. Then . . . I’ll have to start you on medication. When it’s had time to take effect I’ll add truth serum and examine you in private—but don’t worry, I won’t ask the wrong questions. If necessary I’ll edit the recording before anyone else hears it.”

“Thank God it’s you, Peter. For a while I was afraid I might be facing the real thing.”

Peter dropped his eyes, then with evident effort raised them. “Jesse—did you think I’d have some way of faking the long-term treatment?”

“Why yes, unless Warick interferes.”

Steadily Peter said, “I can’t save you, Jesse.”

In shock, Jesse whispered, “Not at all? You mean not even from . . . brain damage?”

“The pharmacy nurse will be present and the medication is computer-dispensed. If I tried to fake a dose even once, I’d be taken off the case, and it would be worse for you if administered by someone else.”

“You—you’re going to give me a damaging drug
yourself
?”

“I wouldn’t be on hand to provide telepathic help if I ordered a nurse to inject you while I hid in my office.”

Jesse swallowed, and did not reply.

“There’s no way out, Jess,” Peter went on painfully. “If I let another doctor take over, he would probe after you’re . . . defenseless. The hypnotic protection I gave you will hold only as long as no one suspects it.”

“Oh, God, Peter.” This was unreal. Peter had subjected him to ordeals so many times—it was impossible not to feel that this, like the others, would turn out okay . . . he had plunged his hand into flame on Peter’s command, and had not been burned. . . .

“Yes. The hellish part of it is that you’ve trusted me not to harm you. Believe me, if I could spare you this I’d do anything, pay any price—”

“Not if it meant harming the others. I wouldn’t want you to. What I trust you for now is to see that I don’t implicate Carla.”

Peter nodded. “Yes, of course. The next hundred days or so will be crucial. Later on, though, it won’t matter what you say; it will be dismissed as mere loss of touch with reality.”

“Does the drug do
that
? Cause dementia, confusion of imaginings with real life?” Appalled, Jesse felt his knees weaken; he sat gingerly on the edge of the bed.

“No,” Peter assured him, “but the Meds believe you’re sick to begin with, so after you’ve been here awhile, they’ll view you like any other mental patient whose memory is unreliable. Anything you say against me or Carla will be called paranoia.” He too sat down, pulling the chair close. “We haven’t much time left,” he warned. “The nurse will show up any minute, and then I’ll have to proceed. She mustn’t notice anything out of the ordinary.”

“You’ve done this before?”

“To violent patients, yes. I abhor it. This particular treatment isn’t justified for anyone. But actual killers do need to be treated; many of them really are ill. And schizophrenics who are violent haven’t stable minds to destroy, at least I tell myself that. I try not to think of what they might become if I were given a chance to heal them.”

“Peter . . . it doesn’t work—instantly, does it? Will I be able to think straight for a little while?”

“It acts fast, but at least ten days will pass before any permanent harm is done. That used to take much longer before they ‘improved’ the stuff—on Earth, drugs like this have been forced on mental patients for centuries, but in many cases the damage was reversible.” He spoke bitterly. “It’s not meant as punishment, you know. In theory, you will be relieved of all anxiety, and will live out your life in happy unconcern, like an innocent child.”

“But in reality?”

“I won’t lie to you. It’s extremely unpleasant at first. I won’t describe the effects because that might become a self-fulfilling prophecy. Your training will help you cope for a while, but you mustn’t let anyone see that the drug’s slow to affect you—if you do, I’ll be compelled to increase the dosage. Later . . . I can’t even imagine what it will be like for someone with a mind such as yours—”

“Peter, I haven’t the courage for this,” Jesse confessed, realizing with horror that after all the ordeals, all the past triumphs that had made him trust himself, he now wanted only to die.

“Nor have I,” Peter said. “But losing it wouldn’t help either of us. All we can do is make the telepathy last as long as we can.”

He leaned forward and took Jesse’s bandaged hands between his, pressing gently; the remaining pain in them intensified briefly, but after several minutes it ceased. “I’ve healed your burns,” he said, “though we can’t let that be seen yet. Olivia will unbandage them when it’s time. And you’ll have other visitors from the Group. Someone will come every day—always.”

For the rest of my life? Jesse thought in despair. It could be
years,
years when he might not even recall that there was a Group. . . . There was only one thing in Peter’s power to give him, and that, he could not ask for, knowing that it would be denied. The Group’s rejection of assisted suicide was unconditional. He wondered if the volitional control he’d learned might extend to the stopping of his own heart.

To Jesse’s shame, Peter sensed the thought and reacted. “There’s something I’ve never told you,” he said slowly. “When you first came to this world, Ian had a dream in which you were involved. And so he and I have believed that you—well, that you had a destiny in the Group, a role on which our future might depend.”

“You mean one of his paranormal dreams? Precognition?”

“He thought so, yes. He’s never sure until after the fact, but this was especially vivid, and parts of it have already been borne out.”

“That’s why he said he trusted me,” Jesse said, recalling how uncannily sure Ian had seemed, despite having met him only briefly.

“Yes. To tell you the details now would only give you pain. But if you suffer brain damage, the dream cannot have meant what we felt it meant. And so I must say either that it did not—that the faith I’ve placed in beneficent fate has been false—or that there’s hope, Jesse. I see no possible way of escape for you. I don’t dare tell Ian what’s happened because he might not survive the blow. Yet . . . his dreams often do come true.”

“I’ll try to . . . hope,” Jesse said. “Forgive me, Peter, for what I was thinking.”

“You’re going to be all right,” Peter told him. “No matter what happens. There’s so much we don’t know about the mind—we can’t say the brain is everything. We know it
isn’t!
We know ESP isn’t physical. We receive knowledge in altered states that can’t come from the brain. You may lose no more than the ability to communicate with us—”

A nurse—not Olivia, but an older woman—appeared at the door. Soundlessly Peter continued,
What if . . . you don’t lose even that? I never did this to a trained telepath before. . . .
He rose and took a syringe from the tray offered by the nurse, prepared it. Jesse took control of his body, breathing deeply, calming his racing heart. For as long as he could, he would use the skills he had been taught; he would stick to the commitment he had made.

Now God help us both
, Peter said silently, and plunged the needle into Jesse’s arm.

~
 
49
 
~

The worst thing in the hours after Jesse’s first injection was that he could not stay still. Sitting, walking, lying down—it made no difference; he felt compelled to move, yet movement offered no relief. He paced back and forth, back and forth, in the tiny room, longing to stop but finding that his legs moved of their own accord. Many times he threw himself across the bed hoping to rest, only to find himself rising within moments, unable to relax for even a short time. His skin crawled. He felt like screaming. And a nameless terror, different from his dread of mental destruction, grew and grew until he was sure that he was already insane.

Peter came to him several times before his shift ended, telepathically projecting what healing he could. That helped for a while, but did not last.
This is a common side effect,
Peter assured him.
Don’t blame yourself if you can’t overcome it alone.

After a long time, when dawn brightened the window, he calmed his mind enough to recognize the emotional part, at least, as the sort of groundless panic Kira had taught him to cope with. He visualized the mind-pattern he had learned from her, holding it in consciousness so vividly that it shut out all else, and finally, for a while, he slept. But in the morning the physical sensations were as strong as ever, and he resumed pacing, helpless to control the restlessness of his body. When Peter appeared with the pharmacy nurse for his second injection, he almost fought back in anger; only the thought that violence might bring other psychiatrists kept him from it.