Stewards of the Flame (57 page)

She waited, cold herself with a sense of deep foreboding.

“We can’t let the government find the lab, Carla,” he said. “Even though we’ve taken our records out, it’s full of contraband. They would wonder where we got the infirmary equipment. They’d inform Fleet that we’re criminals if they discovered it before the starship leaves orbit. Or they could trace it to the friends on Earth who smuggled it to us. Our offworld contacts would be arrested, would suffer for helping us—and those who know what we plan to do might be forced to reveal our destination.”

“Oh, God. I never thought of that. But we can’t prevent—” She broke off. Of course they could prevent it. There had long been a secret way to blow up the lab; that was common knowledge in the Group. It had been arranged years ago by a member with access to mining explosives. The blast would take the whole Lodge down. Peter had come here today not to close the Lodge, but to destroy it.

Carla put her arms around him, hugged him, and realized presently that she was holding him up. “Peter, it’s okay,” she whispered. “I know how much it will hurt. But think of what’s ahead of us! Think of where we’ll be tomorrow—the journey we’ve looked forward to so long.” She was surprised to see him overcome to this extent. Painful though the act would be, he had always been so strong. . . .

To her horror, Peter collapsed at her feet. He was barely conscious.

She knelt beside him, feeling for a pulse. It was weak. This was not mere emotional distress; it was some kind of illness! But Peter was never ill. No one in the Group got sick; they could control their physiological responses well enough to prevent that. There were no infectious diseases on Undine anyway, and things like hidden heart problems were ruled out by the mandatory health checkups.

With her healer’s senses, Carla probed Peter’s body. She was not as adept at healing as Kira or Peter himself, but she’d had experience enough to know the basics. There was simply nothing wrong with him. It was as if he’d been drugged. . . .

Drugged. The dinner at the home of Dr. Warick, who was aware of his suspicion about the arsons. The wine, probably. It had to be that. He’d been given something with delayed action—something that would not affect him until late enough in the day not to endanger him while flying.

Warick didn’t want to kill him. The aim was merely to keep him out of the way until after the election. But he couldn’t stay semi-conscious as long as that . . . so a rescue must have been planned. He’d said he was going to the Island. They would send an air ambulance, keep him sick in the Hospital for as long as Warick chose.

Long enough for the starship to leave without him.

It would not wait for stragglers; that had been made plain. Anyone not at the spaceport by tomorrow noon when the last shuttle lifted would be left behind. Peter could not bear that! He couldn’t endure abandonment on Undine even if it weren’t that he’d be penniless and guilty of financial crimes which, if he was identified as the ringleader, might even lead to his execution.

And the Group probably couldn’t survive without him, not on a raw new world where only the inspiration he could offer would keep them going. People with paranormal talents tended to be introverts. Ian had searched a long time before finding someone with both the gifts and the charisma required for leadership. Besides, Peter alone was qualified to provide the psychiatric help some individuals in the next generation—who, unlike their elders, wouldn’t have been selected for personal fitness to cope with emerging psi powers—might well need. Though this had not been openly discussed, Carla knew it worried him. The success of so small a colony would depend on his ability to deal with potential misusers of those powers.

She sat on the dock with his head in her lap, in despair as to what to do. She could not revive him. If the drug had affected only his body, she might have been able to, but it had evidently been a psychiatric drug that crippled his brain past the possibility of assisted self-healing. The best she could do was ease the pain of his headache, which his own mind was too debilitated to manage alone. If only she were a pilot! She had handled the seaplane’s controls occasionally when flying with Jesse, but she couldn’t take off or land. There was no way she could get Peter back to the city.

She dared not phone anyone. Warick would be expecting that. He would assume that whoever was with Peter would phone for an ambulance. When that didn’t happen, he would have other phone messages to and from the Island monitored, guessing that Peter had caught on and had told his friends. He might not be sure how soon the drug would act. It was likely that he would wait, not send the ambulance before trying to learn whether anyone knew—wasn’t it? If they came tonight, if Peter was taken to the Hospital, there was no chance whatsoever of getting him out by tomorrow morning.

But what chance was there anyway of reaching the spaceport? It was Peter’s offshift; he wouldn’t be missed at work for days. No one in the Group would miss him in time to get to the Island and back. Even Jesse wouldn’t . . . Jesse would be expecting them to come, waiting anxiously for them—and he’d wait in vain.

For the first time it dawned on Carla that if she didn’t call someone, she too would be unable to reach the starship. Jesse would go to the new world without her. They would never see each other again.

He’d have to go, of course. Without a Captain, there could be no new world. The Group would be taken to Liberty and be stuck there, destitute in a colony little better than Undine, for the rest of their lives. He wouldn’t condemn them to that, hard though it would be for him to board the ship if she and Peter were not there.
Oh, Jesse,
she cried silently,
what shall I do? I can’t bear not to go with you! I can’t live if I’m left behind on this world! And there’s no chance for Peter either if I just let time slip away—it’s not as if I could get him aboard by giving up my own chance. . . .

Unless . . . was it possible that Jesse would fly over? He might. He had planned to fly today, and might take a last look at the Island. He wouldn’t land; seeing no reason to, he wouldn’t let himself be tracked here even on this final day. But once he was overhead, telepathy might reach him. The distance wasn’t much more than they’d been communicating over for days. It was a long shot, but he
might
come. . . .

She had a choice, then. Either she could call for help, ensuring her own freedom to get to the spaceport but eliminating Peter’s, or she could wait with the very slim hope that Jesse might come unsummoned and save both of them. Carla bent her head in agony. It was an impossible choice. She couldn’t give up Jesse! Yet she couldn’t fail Peter, either—she couldn’t face the idea of his waking in the Hospital and knowing that she’d betrayed him . . . betrayed the Group. . . .

Oh, God. There
wasn’t
a choice. To call might indeed betray the Group—for what if Warick gave Peter truth serum in order to find out how much he knew about the fires? That might have been his intent all along! And once he learned of their criminal activities, he’d have legal grounds to stop the emigration. So at all costs she must prevent rescue by the Meds until enough time had passed for the starship to get away.

If they came, could she hide Peter somehow? He wasn’t suffering, though he was unable to talk and was apparently unaware of anything around him. She should move him off the dock anyway, or at least get blankets to cover him; it was going to get chilly as dusk came on. And there was the matter of destroying the lab. That had to be done before she left here, and if an ambulance came she wouldn’t have opportunity. Besides, after the building exploded maybe they could hide in the ruins; maybe a rescue crew would assume they were dead and not search immediately. Carla eased Peter’s head gently out of her lap and got to her feet, starting back along the dock toward the Lodge. She knew where the hot switch was. It would be safest to do it now, after gathering up whatever items they might need.

No, Carla! No, come back!
She turned. It was as if he had shouted aloud. But he wasn’t conscious enough for telepathy, at least he hadn’t been.
I won’t leave you for more than a few minutes,
she thought, not expecting him to respond.

Carla! You mustn’t go! Get back down beside me!
Suddenly she remembered the mind-pattern Peter had learned from Jesse—the altered state for enhanced telepathic communication. A drug had triggered it for Jesse, maybe even for Ian; perhaps that had happened to Peter, too. Especially since he’d already experienced it on dual. She turned, took several steps toward him, wondering if in his weakened condition he was afraid to be alone even briefly.

You don’t understand! I’ve already set the timer . . . we should be airborne by now!

The blast threw her down flat. The dock rocked beneath her, making waves that splashed over its edge rail. Carla clutched Peter’s arm while behind them, what had been Maclairn Lodge collapsed and erupted into a fountain of smoke and flame.

~
 
62
 
~

Jesse wasn’t free to fly until late afternoon. There had been all kinds of little details to attend to, plans to confirm with Kira, instructions to go over with his prospective crew and hijacking team. He was less hesitant about face-to-face contacts now that there wasn’t time left for the authorities tracking him to question his movements. He might even have risked a meeting with Peter, had he not known that Peter and Carla had gone to the Island. In addition, he’d had to visit the Fleet office once more to make sure that the starship really was expected to arrive tomorrow. A change in schedule after the passengers were at the spaceport would be disastrous.

So it was almost sunset by the time he reached his mooring, and it was, he knew, foolish to fly at all. But it was the last time—probably the last time in his life, except for orbit-to-ground trips. And certainly his last look at the sea. Undine’s huge, brilliant moon would be full this evening. He could not resist the chance for one final flight.

He did not intend to go as far as the Island. It would be dark by the time he got there, and he couldn’t see much of it by moonlight. He wanted to remember it as a green jewel set in the blue expanse of ocean, rimmed with white shore . . . the rocky shore where he and Carla had walked and swum and once even made love. . . .

Carla. They would be together after tonight! They would never again be separated as they’d been these past weeks, when only their minds had been able to meet. Not that it wasn’t wonderful that they
could
meet and converse while apart, not that they wouldn’t still do it sometimes . . . he could almost hear her speaking to him now. Was she back in the city, or would Peter’s plane, returning, pass his in the air? Almost without knowing it, he had set a course for the Island after all, though he’d be turning back long before he reached it. He must go to the park in time for Nathan and Liz’s midnight wedding, be among the first to be shuttled to the spaceport. He knew he would not feel safe until he was within its boundaries. Nor would the others until they saw him there—after all, they couldn’t get to a new world without him, and if some emergency should delay him at the last minute . . .

He should not be in the air even now. It was tempting fate. As the sun slid below the horizon Jesse banked and turned, heading the plane back to the city.

Almost immediately, his tension grew. Something was wrong. He couldn’t define what was bothering him, but it was more than distress at the thought that within a few minutes he would have to land for the last time and walk away from the plane that had brought him so much joy. Nerves, he thought with chagrin. Awe of the tremendous responsibility he was about to assume, mingled with the excitement of its being imminent. Did he, underneath, dread stealing the starship? Were his years of loyalty to Fleet so ingrained in him as that?

The closer he got to the city, the more agitated Jesse became. He longed to be going in the opposite direction. But that was crazy! Yes, he had been happy on the Island, but that was hardly cause to shrink from the return to space he was looking forward to. That Peter had dreamed of so long, and relied on him for . . . he could almost hear Peter saying,
Jesse, Jesse, you’ve got to help us, we can’t get there without you
. . .
perhaps no one can get there
. . . . And Carla, too, calling out to him—
Jesse! You’re the only hope we have
. . . . Well, he was on his way. Why did he imagine they’d beg for his help? They knew everything was set for tomorrow; the uncertainty, the risk of discovery, was almost over. He was fully committed to becoming their Captain. They knew they could trust him, as Ian had.

Ian’s face suddenly loomed before him.
Jesse, listen! Listen to Peter, to Carla. . . . Go to Carla. . . .
Jesse shook himself back to reality. This would not do. He must not slide into some altered state of consciousness, dreaming of Ian, while he was flying a plane. It would be worse than disastrous for him to go down in it the night before he was due to lead the Group offworld. What had come over him? His growing paranormal sensitivity had never intruded on daily life before. He had, in fact, been assured that he was not the type in whom it could overwhelm practical matters.

He had veered off course; he could hardly see straight. The image of Ian filled his vision.
Listen! Don’t shut them out . . . they need you . . . they are trying to reach you!
Peter, too, seemed in the plane with him, as close as he had been while on dual when they’d shared the memory of drug-enhanced telepathy. Peter, normally so strong, was again the weaker partner—he must help him, for no one else could. . . . Then Carla called out to him again, and Jesse, instinctively, switched on the autopilot just in time to prevent falling into a dive.
Jesse, I love you, come to me, come now, or we’ll be forever apart
. . . .

This was insane. More even than he had in the Hospital, Jesse doubted the clarity of his own mind. It was natural enough to be nervous in advance of the coming events—natural, he supposed, for his unconscious mind to suggest presence of the people he loved and knew were counting on him. It was not natural for apprehension about tomorrow to interfere with his control of a plane. He wouldn’t have lasted long in Fleet if he’d been susceptible to that sort of thing, nor would he be much good as Captain if he’d gained paranormal talents at the cost of his technical skills.