Stewards of the Flame

by Sylvia Engdahl

  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 grab
bed it under the arms and started dragging it toward the burning kitchen.

  Then, in dismay, Jesse remembered the most essential precaution of all. Letting go of the body, he pulled out his phone again and dialed Carla’s number. Oh God, please let her answer! Please let her not be occupied with work that would prevent the use of her phone! He threw himself down on the floor below smoke level, trying not to cough. When he heard her voice he spoke quickly, starting with the Group password reserved for emergencies—he could not tell her anything in plain language, of course. “I need you to check the database,” he said. “My friend Zeb Hennesy’s wondering when he should report for a health checkup. The notice should have come some time last week. He’s afraid it may have gotten lost.” Ignoring her startled gasp, he whispered, “I love you, Carla,” and hung up, willing her to understand what she must do. If only telepathy worked over a phone connection . . . was it possible, perhaps, that silent communication did work at a distance when the need for it was urgent?

  The smoke was thick by this time; to drag the body he had to stoop low. As he neared the kitchen, the intense heat of the fire enveloped him. He remembered the firewalk, of how red-hot coals had seemed cool . . . but he’d been in an altered state then, and had drawn on telepathic support. He was not now immune to heat, much less to the open flame he’d handled during the Ritual. Now, he would be burned. Yet he must get Zeb’s body into the fire, and the ambulance officers must see him do it.

  Grimly, he dropped to the floor and crawled forward, pushing the body ahead of him. The heat became scorching, searing, and he could scarcely get breath enough to keep moving. Smoke cut off all sight but the blaze of the inferno ahead. Its crackle and roar overpowered all other sound, so that he did not hear the firefighters approach.

  They broke the front door down and crashed through just as Jesse staggered to his feet and, with abnormal strength born of crisis, lifted the body. Heedless of flame, he heaved it past the burning remains of the kitchen doorway. At the same time, the ambulance crew rushed in from the back. Strong hands grasped him, not bothering to avoid a grip on his blistering forearms. He was too stunned by smoke to deal with the pain.

  That Zeb couldn’t be revived was obvious. “Got a psych case here,” an officer said. “He’s murdered a man and set the house on fire to cover up.”

  “Not likely we’ve got more than one arsonist on the loose,” his partner commented. “I’ll bet this guy set the other fires, too. Anyway, there’s a lot of people who’ll be glad to hear there’s somebody in custody.”

  By this time the roof was ablaze. As they carried him to the ambulance, Jesse could see the firefighters pumping water from the bay, their hoses stretched across the esplanade. A crowd had gathered on the dock to watch and lights had been turned on. In the background, above the reflections on the water, he glimpsed the blue floats of his plane. He was dimly aware that he might never fly it again.

  Part Five

  ~ 46 ~

  When Carla got Jesse’s phone call, she was at first bewildered by what she was hearing. Zeb was wondering when to report for a health checkup? But Zeb was dying! She had inactivated his file days ago, listing him officially as in stasis.

  Yet Jesse had used the Group’s emergency password.

  With growing apprehension, she realized that the cryptic message could mean only one thing. Zeb, or his body, had been found. They would be checking his identity. She must reactivate the file before anyone discovered that it had been tampered with—and she must undo what she’d done to delay his health check summons, too, backdate it to the day it should have been sent out. Otherwise, it would be apparent that someone had been hacking the files.

  She hurried to her own desk and with shaking hands, logged onto the Net with the backdoor password she alone knew, praying that no one would approach close enough to observe the file displayed on her monitor. Usually she hacked only when sure that others in the area were well occupied, or from Peter’s office, which she must not be seen entering during a shift when he wasn’t present. It was hard to focus, hard to proceed with the necessary speed without fumbling at the keyboard. If Zeb had been found, did that mean Jesse had been caught moving his body? Oh God, it mustn’t mean that . . . yet no ambulance crew would have gone to the safe house. No one had been into that safe house but Group members, other than patients who were now dead.

  It didn’t add up. If Jesse had been caught, he wouldn’t have had a chance to use his phone. He hadn’t sounded right; his voice had been muffled—still, to call her, he must have been free. Had Zeb not died after all? Could he have recovered miraculously, left the safe house and gone somewhere he might be seen?

  The files repaired, Carla forced herself back to the work she had been doing, wondering how she could last through the rest of the shift. If she said she was sick, she could leave now, find Jesse . . . but no, he would expect her to be here. He might need to call again, want something else done that required computer access. At least he would let her know he was all right.

  She waited, pulling out her phone repeatedly to stare at it. No call came in. She knew something was wrong. Telepathy? It sometimes gave warning of distant trouble—not verbally, but through visions or simply knowledge. . . . She was afraid of that knowledge. She tried to shut it out, at the same time aware that she could not bear not to know. Finally, she logged onto the Net again and ran a search, first for Zeb’s name—he was now listed as “murdered, body unrecoverable”—and then, in terror, for Jesse’s.

  Jesse had been involuntarily admitted to the Hospital two hours ago. He was charged with murder and arson. The only reason he hadn’t yet been brought to the psych department was that he was presently being treated for smoke inhalation and burns.

  Carla felt faint, might actually have fainted had her training in stress control not taken over. It wasn’t hard to guess what had occurred. Arson? The safe house was in the area where the arsonist had been active. It was a likely target, being apparently unoccupied, as all the other burned houses had been. No medical telemetry was transmitted from the bathrooms of safe houses—that was another detail she routinely arranged through hacking—and heavy drapes prevented lights being noticed from the street. So evidently it had been set afire . . . and Jesse had taken the blame to prevent anyone from finding out that it was a hospice. To prevent an investigation that might expose other caregivers who’d been there, perhaps even reveal that there was another safe house next door. He had spent time phoning to save her, when he might have escaped. . . .

  No. He couldn’t have escaped without setting off a hunt for everyone who had left fingerprints. He could say nothing in his own defense, and she could not defend him. If conspiracy were to be suspected, the inquiry wouldn’t end with those who’d cared for Zeb. Even Xiang Li, who owned the house, would be investigated, and Xiang was involved in many of the Group’s financial affairs. One thing would lead to another . . . how could the Group have been so blind as not to have foreseen that? But of course, no one could have anticipated a safe house catching fire. Serial arson was an unprecedented crime in the colony. That was why its citizens were so aroused. . . .

  Chilled, she realized that they were perhaps sufficiently aroused to demand a scapegoat. And it was all too obvious who the scapegoat was likely to be.

  She had never believed such a thing would happen. Not twice! And if it couldn’t happen to her twice—to two husbands—did that not protect Jesse? She’d told herself it would. But that had been foolish. It was hardly a coincidence that both the men she’d chosen to marry had been outstanding people, strong and committed to risking themselves to save others. After Ramón, she wouldn’t have been attracted to anyone who was less. Underneath, she must have known Jesse would be in danger precisely because of his courage.

  Her mind whirled. She must go to him! But she dared not do so until she was sure he was alone. Even then she might not be able to see him; he was in custody and would be in a locked ward. No one outside the Group knew she was his wife. It
wasn’t even known that they lived together, and only Zeb had been aware that she flew with him. This, like their friendship with Peter, must be kept from the Hospital authorities—otherwise she’d be watched too closely to help him later.

  Later . . . later, would he be drugged senseless, his mind destroyed? As a presumed murderer, he’d be given something much worse than mere truth serum. She had never seen the victims in the criminal ward; Peter had not allowed her to work in that place. He did not talk about what went on there. She knew it was a source of deep pain to him. How could Peter possibly endure the ordeal of inflicting its horrors on Jesse? Yet if he evaded it, Jesse would be turned over to some psychiatrist who would treat him more harshly. Peter’s personal involvement was the only hope Jesse had.

  She knew there would be no release for him. He would be held responsible for Zeb’s death, not merely for disposing of the body, and for burning the house he’d been found in even if not for torching others. He would be declared mentally ill and permanently incarcerated. The Group could no more devise an escape from a secure ward than it could free dead bodies from stasis.

  Unable to hold back tears, Carla dropped her head into her arms, folded on the desk before her. The world blurred. She could not bear awareness of what he’d be forced to endure. Nor could she bear the years ahead, trapped here with one husband brain-dead in the vaults above the ceiling, the other brain-damaged behind a solid wall. She would crack up; she’d be a psych case herself before long. . . .

  Time passed; she became aware that the shift was ending. By supreme effort she steadied herself and shut down her computer, preparing to leave. She’d been trained to control her body and mind, had she not? Jesse needed her. The Group needed her. She could not crack up, now or ever.