Stewards of the Flame (49 page)

“But that’s crazy!” Jesse burst out. “He wasn’t in the same house as Zeb’s body.”

“No,” Peter said, “but that’s not the way he told it to the authorities. Furthermore, he convinced them that he set the fire himself, expecting it would be blamed on the arsonist who set the others.”

“He lied to save me?
Why?
He didn’t know me—he met me only once.” But, Jesse recalled, in that one brief meeting Ian had
seemed
to know him. He had declared that he trusted him, and earlier he’d seen him in a dream. . . .

“That’s not the strangest part,” said Reiko, the first of the others to recover her voice. “I don’t question Ian’s wisdom. If he chose to go to such lengths to save you, Jesse, he had good reason. But why did it work? We are all accountable when people die in our care; we have always known we’d face murder charges if we were caught. The authorities wouldn’t have believed you were innocent merely because Ian claimed to have been in on it. Why didn’t they hold both of you?”

“Ian didn’t confess simply to letting Zeb die,” Peter said. “He stated that he killed him intentionally, out of mercy, because he’d talked to him earlier in the yard between the two houses and learned that he hoped for death. He said he smothered him with a pillow and started the fire to cover up the crime.”

“A mercy killing?” Kira protested. “But Zeb wasn’t suffering, and in any case Ian couldn’t leave his own bed. Besides, euthanasia’s against everything we believe, everything he taught us. He would never have said that.”

“The authorities know nothing of our beliefs,” Peter pointed out, “nor did they know Ian was bedridden before he called them.”

“I admitted responsibility for Zeb’s death,” Jesse protested, “so even at best I’d be considered an accomplice. And that implies conspiracy—”

“Ian was careful not to imply it. He testified that he’d never met you and that Zeb had said you expected him to recover. He claimed to be overcome by guilt at having let an innocent man be blamed for more than destruction of the body. The supposition now is that you didn’t know what Ian had done, that when you entered the burning house and found Zeb dead, you assumed his death was your fault and burned the body in the hope of not being caught. And since the only evidence that you set the other fires was the belief that you’d set this one, you’ve been cleared of serial arson.”

“That’s great, but what made Ian think the authorities would swallow such a story? The doctors who questioned me weren’t easy to fool. Why didn’t they give him truth serum?”

“Because he turned himself in and seemed remorseful. He was given merely a brain scan and polygraph test, which he passed easily by controlling his physiological reactions. Dr. Warick examined him personally and pronounced him sane, as of course he was.” Peter’s voice dropped; barely audibly, he added, “You were diagnosed as mentally ill because you didn’t grasp any need to prevent Zeb from dying naturally. To kill someone in cold blood, on purpose, is a much more serious crime.”

“Intentional killing while sane is
aggravated
murder,” someone said. “The penalty for that—”

“Yes,” Peter said, fighting back tears. “Ian agreed that conditional on Jesse’s release, he wouldn’t dispute the charge. Did you think he died just from the stress of confessing?”

Carla had been getting paler and paler; Jesse, sensing her mind, held her tighter. “Oh God,” she pleaded, “Not like Ramón! Please, not like Ramón—”

“Nothing less could have saved Jesse,” Peter told her gently. “He did what he had to do. He believed it was the action his dream foretold—as perhaps it may have been.”

Kira, usually so composed, was weeping. “Had they no mercy?” she murmured. “They couldn’t release him, of course, but he was a hundred and thirty years old and he was already dying. Couldn’t they have waited for death to take him?”

“It’s surprising that they didn’t,” Peter agreed. “For them to have sent such an old man alive into stasis will hardly win political support for the Administration, criminal though they believed him to be. A lawyer might have got him an exemption despite the agreement he’d made, but he refused to let me call one. I suppose he thought delay might jeopardize the deception.”

Carla whispered, “You
knew
, Peter? The night before Jesse was released, you knew this was going to happen?”

“He was brought to the Hospital the previous night, yes. I knew by morning, and I could do nothing. He ordered me to make no effort to stop it.”

For long moments they all were silent as the horror welled into their minds and was telepathically shared. How, Jesse wondered, could he live with this? Ian had been the head of the Group since its inception, its focal point. It would have survived his natural death and burial, but to know that Ian had gone conscious to the Vaults, that his body still functioned there, while he himself was free . . . he couldn’t possibly prove worthy in his own eyes, let alone those of the other members.

And yet . . . Ian must have been in the Hospital the night of the dream . . . the dream where they’d walked hand in hand. Ian had known then he, Jesse, would be released, had known his own death was imminent. Was it possible that it
had
been telepathy? Had Ian come to him while he slept, as he himself had later gone to Carla? Had there been a real message in that dream, not just mixed-up images from his memories—some clue to what Ian had expected of him?

Finally Peter spoke again. “I was there this morning,” he said slowly. “Ian’s last request was for me to be with him at the end. He wasn’t afraid, any more than he’d feared the natural death that would have come soon anyway. And his last words were very strange. ‘You never really understood,’ he said to me, ‘and for the Group’s sake I couldn’t tell you. I still can’t. But know that this won’t matter in the end.’”

“Never understood what?” asked someone.

“I can’t say,” Peter confessed. “What could he possibly refrain from telling me for the Group’s sake, when he knew that I’d have to lead?”

“The part about his execution not mattering is clear, at least,” Reiko said. “It can only have meant he believed that the Group will not be weakened by the manner of his death—that we will go on.”

“Of course,” said Hari. “We will carry on as always. Ian
was
sane, and he must have had stronger cause for what he did than a desire to save one man from destruction. He had some hidden purpose, even if we don’t know what it was.”

“One man?” Kira burst out. “Are you a fool, Hari? Don’t you see that Ian did what he did not only for Jesse but for Peter, whom he loved? It was agony for Peter to drug Jesse, and to keep on destroying him gradually, day by day—after that, to see him every workday for the rest of his life, long after Jesse himself had been reduced to the point of not caring—it would have broken Peter! He would never have abandoned Jesse, yet his self-esteem would have been eaten away. Ian knew that, and knew, too, what it would do to the Group for such a weight to fall on its leader. We need look for no hidden purpose beyond that.”

God, Jesse thought. He’d known how painful it was for Peter, but had not grasped what that would mean in the long run. And to Peter, it could happen again, if some other member were caught and condemned; there would be no second escape for him. How could the Group go on as usual, knowing this? How had they ever imagined that it could? To be sure, Peter didn’t expect it to, not after they were all microchipped. . . .

“I know Ian did do it partly for my sake,” Peter agreed, “or at least he would have, if he’d had no other purpose. One of the reasons I didn’t want to tell him of Jesse’s arrest was that I knew he’d feel pain at the thought of what I would suffer in the years ahead.”

“So I assumed at the time,” Kira said, “which was why I too tried to keep it from him.”

“But in fact,” Peter went on, “there
was
a hidden purpose. There is a secret Ian and I shared. It wasn’t meant to be revealed in this shocking way, but there’s no longer any time to spare—the situation now demands that we act quickly. Ian gave his life to save the Group, not just two of us. And we must dedicate ourselves to fulfilling his hope for our future.”

~
 
54
 
~

Expectantly, the people in the circle fixed their eyes on Peter, who stood tall in the firelight, his weariness and sorrow overcome by the need to inspire his listeners. “Tonight the Group must make a decision that will change our lives forever,” he said. “Ordinarily I’d bring it to the Council privately first, but Ian’s close friends have a right to hear more than I intend to say at the funeral.”

Under the circumstances, Jesse decided, that included him. He made no move to leave. Carla, nestled against him, was crying softly; his heart ached for her—and for Peter. He wondered if they could ever again live as if they were carefree.

“As you all know,” Peter began, “in his last weeks Ian had a recurring dream that convinced him he mustn’t die before performing some action he could not specifically foresee. Ultimately he believed that freeing Jesse was the action required of him—not only for Jesse’s sake and mine, but because he’d had an earlier dream, one he confided only to me.”

“Was that what he referred to in the note he left?” Kira asked. To the others she added, “When I got back to the house and found Ian gone, there was a handwritten note. He asked me not to search for him, and at the end he wrote, “Tell Peter that both dreams were true.”

“Yes,” said Peter. “For many weeks we’d believed the first dream was precognitive, and had acted secretly on that belief, only to be faced with apparent evidence that it was not really prophetic. That fate was not as favorable to the Group’s cause as we’d been given reason to think. Even apart from what I was forced to do to Jesse, I was in despair—”

“You, Peter?” Reiko asked incredulously, the others echoing his surprise.

“I was,” Peter confessed. “If you’re to understand what Ian and I planned in secret, you must now face facts that we’ve not wanted to face. I don’t know how many of you have allowed yourselves to be conscious of these facts. Ian was increasingly worried about our future as his death approached, and discussed it with me. However, against one of the Group’s most fundamental policies, we discouraged general awareness of the truth. We felt that as long as nothing could be done about it, no purpose would be served by spreading gloom. Some of you may have wondered why I’ve appeared less than eager to assume leadership—”

“Oh, no, Peter,” said Reiko. But Kira, nodding, looked troubled. “I misjudged you,” she said slowly. “It seems it’s a heavier burden than I guessed.”

“We’ve come to a crossroads,” Peter said, “where to continue as we have in the past will mean our end. The Group has been growing, and for years we have known that it can’t continue to grow safely. So far we’ve succeeded in hiding natural deaths through hacking, but the more there are, the riskier that becomes. Sooner or later the Hospital will remember a patient who hasn’t been accounted for, and will check further than the database. Or someone will get suspicious about the healings, or the front groups, or even our ages, and will track us down. Once that starts, none of us are safe. We’ve lasted this long only because there’s been no investigation.”

“We all know that,” said Hari, “but we put it aside. We’re pledged to live past fear. There’s no point in worrying over what can’t be changed.”

“I’d wondered, though,” said Jesse. “Being from offworld, I saw right off that what we do can’t go on forever. Yet you all seemed so confident—”

“Your outside perspective was valid, Jesse,” Peter said, “though I couldn’t tell you so until we were ready to act.”

“Was it why Ian considered me important, then?”

“One of the reasons. It was true that we needed an offworlder’s evaluation. But the main consideration was the role you played in his dream.” Peter paused, then went on, “Before I go into that, I must explain to everyone here what I’ve already told you and Carla. A threat now hangs over us that makes the problems of our existence virtually insurmountable. Friends, before long we are all going to be microchipped, as Jesse already has been.”

Over exclamations of surprise and outrage, Peter continued, “The Hospital staff has been pushing for this, and has now succeeded in getting an election scheduled. The public will gladly vote it in—most people will welcome the idea of never for a moment having their heart condition and whereabouts unknown to the ambulance crews. The present concern over keeping track of potential criminals, which has been engineered by the Administration, will be the clincher. There’s no chance that the measure won’t pass.”

“God, Peter,” said Reiko. “How can we conceal hospices and healing houses if that happens? How can we die naturally and stay out of the Vaults when our own time comes?”

“We can’t,” said Peter bluntly. “We can’t hold large meetings, either. The front group can’t continue, and it’s doubtful that we could train the few recruits we might find without it, even if we could continue working with neurofeedback—which won’t be safe when heart rates are being monitored. And in any case, we can no longer conceal my friendship with people who come here. That means that I won’t be allowed to handle their cases if any past crimes come to light, even if we break no laws in the future.”

“The uproar over arson was engineered by the Administration?” Hari demanded. “How?”

“I have no proof beyond the fact that the press releases were calculated to stir up fear and not much effort has been put forth toward solving the crime,” replied Peter grimly. “But I wouldn’t be surprised if those fires were started by someone on the inside. There was no intention of harming anyone, of course. All the houses were temporarily unoccupied except the one we were using in secret—and how could an arsonist have known that without access to their telemetry data? What’s more, only a technically skilled person could have rigged the wiring, which is why they thought they could pin it on Jesse. When I hinted that I might suspect something, he was turned over to me immediately without examination by other psychiatrists who might have found him innocent, and Warick didn’t interfere with the case as much I’d feared he would.”