Stewards of the Flame (47 page)

Jesse awoke, startled, the vividness of the dream still overwhelming any other awareness. He saw that it was daylight. He looked down at his right hand, astonished to find it still bandaged after feeling it healthy and whole in Ian’s hand, and before that, unburned while touching Ian’s in flame. His eyes were wet. He felt stunned, bereft, at having awakened just as he was about to see Carla.
Go to her,
Ian had said, yet he could never go to her again. . . .

His mind, except for memory of the dream, was groggy. He felt detached from the world of the Hospital. He was not really sure what was going on around him, and he didn’t especially care. A nurse came and gave him another injection; Peter didn’t appear, and he did not bother to wonder why. He used the plumbing when reminded to do so. He ate what was put before him. None of it seemed to matter. Had not Ian said it didn’t matter?

Only what had happened in the dream mattered now. And what would have happened if he’d gone on dreaming.
Go to Carla,
Ian had insisted. . . .

Carla?
Alone in the room again, Jesse probed the distance, trying to find her. Ian had said she didn’t have to be physically present. He closed his eyes, and his surroundings receded.
Carla, are you there?

Jesse? Are you . . . speaking to me, really? But you can’t be, we can’t exchange thoughts by telepathy when you’re not even in the room . . . yet I thought I heard your voice.

It makes no difference where I am. Or where you are. All that matters is our loving each other.

Oh, if only that were true!

It is true. Ian said so.

When? I never heard him say that. He’s always told us that only fleeting images come telepathically over distance.

In the night. In my dream.

But now we’re awake, at least I am. I’m at my desk.

I know. It’s a white desk, clean, with just your keyboard and monitor on it. I can see the page you’re looking at, yellow background, blue characters in three columns.

Jesse! You’ve never seen my desk! You can’t possibly know the format of the file I’m working on. . . .

I can see it as if I were there. And you . . . You’re wearing a sweater over your uniform . . . I’ve never seen that dark green sweater before.

It’s old, I was chilly this morning, so I pulled it out of the bottom drawer. Jesse, this isn’t happening. I’m imagining it. I already know what I’m wearing, after all—this must be coming from my own mind. . . .

Yes, it’s coming from your mind to mine, just as we see through each others’ eyes when we make love. But it’s real, Carla.

I want to believe it is. If we could keep on talking this way . . .

We can. Maybe not in words, but the other way, the wordless way—that will go on forever. I won’t lose the deep things . . . just the surface. Just a way of life that I’ll grieve for. It will always hurt, not being able to touch you. But I’m not afraid anymore. I’m not going to be destroyed, even if it looks that way from the outside.

But Peter says—

Peter doesn’t know everything. Not yet, though perhaps in time I can tell him. Or maybe Ian will.

Jesse, give me some proof that I’m not just hoping! Something I can check on that I couldn’t guess.

Okay—when Olivia comes to change my bandages, I’ll tell her that I dreamed of being in space. Of Ian walking out into space with me. I’ll ask her to tell you that.

In space? What a strange dream—taking Ian into your own memories . . . do you long to be back in space, Jesse? Oh, God, I wish you were there, that you were free!

Don’t, Carla!
he urged, aware that for the first time on Undine, the knowledge that he’d never again be in space stirred sorrow.
That’s all over for me now, and anyway, I wouldn’t want to be away from you. It’s best forgotten. Let’s just share . . . without words. Let’s imagine ourselves back at the Lodge. . . .

All right. I’ll go into Peter’s office, so nobody will interrupt. He’s not here today. It’s not like him not to show up without leaving a message.

Jesse followed her, in his mind, to Peter’s private office. She closed the door and lay down on the couch. She did not undress, but that made no difference; he saw her body as clearly as if it had been bare. He felt the sensations he would have felt, had he been kissing her. They went beyond kissing, and their bodies reacted normally. As always, they felt each other’s climax.

Afterward, they remained in wordless contact for a long time. The love between them was not lessened by his fading brain power. Nor did his sense of self diminish. He was still Jesse. He would always be Jesse. He reached out to Carla, giving her comfort, letting her know she need no longer be afraid for him.

~
 
51
 
~

Carla sat on the couch in Peter’s office, deeply shaken by what she had just experienced. Had it truly been real? There was nothing paranormal about reaching sexual climax alone, aroused by fantasy. But still, in the morning, at work, when she had done nothing to precipitate it—and to have such a strong conviction that the same thing had simultaneously happened to Jesse . . . surely the stimulus couldn’t have been
just
fantasy, or mere memory. . . .

She had never heard of telepathy over distance being so specific, or so prolonged. And yet, there was one thing she couldn’t possibly have imagined. It would never have occurred to her that he would lose all fear of the fate awaiting him. That he would try to comfort her, sure that medication could not destroy his soul.

There was a knock at the door and Olivia came in. “Jesse said you were working in here,” she said. “I can’t imagine how he knew—though I suppose as Peter’s assistant you sometimes do. Anyway, he gave me an odd message for you, Carla. He said to tell you that in his dream last night the eras of his past were mixed, that he was in space again, yet Ian was with him. Not in a starship, they were just floating among the stars.”

At least some of it was real, then! Carla hesitated. If it was all real, if she had not been merely fantasizing, Olivia could provide more verification—she was a medical nurse, after all, and would not be embarrassed by the evidence she might have observed. Jesse, with his hands heavily bandaged, could neither bathe nor change clothes without her help. She flushed, wondering how to raise the subject.

Olivia, being telepathic, answered the unspoken question.
Jesse’s okay that way,
she assured her silently.
Most of the patients aren’t, you know; the medication tends to make them impotent. That’s not the case with your husband.

“Thanks, Olivia.”

“The drug’s been slow to affect his mind, too. In fact he seemed better this morning than yesterday. Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone else—Peter warned me that outsiders mustn’t get the idea that the dosage is too low.”

It was not a matter of dosage, Carla knew. Jesse had discovered something. He’d learned that there were compensations. Not that the trade of normal life and rationality for enhanced telepathic ability was one he’d willingly choose—but the drug had to be responsible for the unprecedented distance over which they’d communicated.

With reluctance, she pulled herself together and went back to work, wondering moment by moment when Jesse would contact her again. Could that happen even after she left the building? If not, how could she ever go home? What would she do during offshifts? And how could she work and communicate with him at the same time? It was pure luck that no one had come by her desk while they were conversing; to an observer she’d have appeared to be spaced out. . . .

At the end of the workday, she was afraid to leave. She could not bear to think that he might try to reach her and fail; his time sense, his connection with the real world, might be so impaired that he couldn’t keep track of her schedule. In desperation, not knowing what to do, she returned to Peter’s office.

It was dim; the drapes had been pulled. Carla switched on the light and to her astonishment, saw Peter slumped over his desk. Slowly, he raised his head. His face was white, frozen, and his mind was shut tight against her probing. She had never seen him look so shaken, not even when they’d first faced awareness of Jesse’s condemnation.

There was only one thing she could think of that would affect him so profoundly. “Has Ian died?” she asked gently, assuming that he must have. Was it coincidence that Jesse had dreamed of him, or had he somehow sensed his passing? Ian floating in space could have been a dream symbol of death.

“No. Not yet.” The emotion she perceived in Peter was something between elation and anguish. “Carla,” he went on quickly, “Jesse’s going to be released.”

“Released?” She wasn’t sure she was hearing it. This second shock seemed so unreal that she wondered if she was hallucinating—in an altered state, perhaps, through which what she’d needed for sanity was being supplied. Perhaps the whole day, even the conversation with Olivia, had been some sort of waking dream.

“Yes,” Peter confirmed. “Tomorrow he will be free to go. He’ll recover in a few days.”

But if this were true, Peter should be smiling. “
How?
” she asked.

“I can’t speak of it now. I—I need time to adjust.” He started to rise, but sat down again as if his legs would no longer support his weight.

Bewildered, Carla burst out, “Aren’t you glad about it?”

“Glad? That’s too mild a word. The joy I feel for Jesse, for you, is unlimited—and for the hope we now have of saving the Group, it’s more like awe. But it has come at a terrible price.”

“What price?”

“You don’t want to know now, Carla. Believe me, you don’t. Go to Jesse tomorrow, and be happy. Don’t ask for more pain; it will come to you soon enough.”

“Peter . . . you haven’t sacrificed
yourself
in some way—?” It was apparent that he’d suffered a blow, that it was a struggle for him to keep his composure.

“No. No act of mine could have accomplished this; it was taken out of my hands. And now . . . I have a responsibility. We have to carry on, all of us—it’s more important than ever before. Something’s happened that . . . obligates us.”

“To keep the Group going? Of course.”

“To fulfill Ian’s dream.”

“That means Jesse . . . tell me, Peter! What will Jesse have to do?” He’d just been given back his life through some miracle. She did not want him handed new obligations.

“I can’t tell you, or anyone, before I tell him—in principle, he has a right to refuse, though I don’t think he’ll want to. And he won’t be in shape to make that choice for several days yet.”

“Will what you’re planning put him danger?” she asked fearfully.

“We will all be in danger,” Peter said frankly. “It will be no worse for him than for the rest of us.”

“Of course it will be worse! You
can’t
let him risk being subjected to psychiatric drugs a second time!”

“No. It won’t be that sort of danger.”

She turned white. “Not . . . like Ramón!”

“Oh, no, Carla—not that. Not stasis! God willing, in the future none of us will ever risk that again.” He shuddered, as if Ramón’s death loomed even more vividly in his memory than in her own.

“Well, it can’t be anything as bad as either of those,” she concluded with relief.

“Jesse will welcome the plan,” Peter told her. “One reason I didn’t tell him about it sooner was that I didn’t want to raise his hopes before I was sure it could be tried. But there will be very great difficulties.” He sighed. “I’m not up to dealing with them now, I’m not thinking straight. But we’ve got to make a start. There’s a lot I need to explain to you, a lot you too will have to accomplish—”

“Me? Anything, Peter, just so it doesn’t keep me from Jesse.”

“His safety, and the Group’s, will depend on you, Carla. On your hacking ability, especially during the next few days.”

She drew breath. “More data to be faked?”

With evident effort, Peter pulled himself together. “Though Jesse has been cleared of the worst charges, he’ll remain on probation for destroying Zeb’s body. After his release from the Hospital, he will be required to report to me weekly as an outpatient. That’s okay as long as I don’t lose control of his case. It will even help us, because he’ll have a legitimate reason to see me regularly in private. The problem is that he’ll be microchipped—”

“Dear God.”

“We’re all supposed to be microchipped eventually; to Jesse it will simply happen sooner. What it means, though, is that outside the Hospital he can’t ever go anywhere I’m known to go. Including the Island—it’s no longer possible for him to hide there.”

“Oh, Peter. He loves it so.” And so do I, Carla thought, yet I won’t go without him. . . .

“In the long run it won’t matter,” Peter said cryptically. “But right now, we have a dilemma. Jesse
must
go to the Lodge once, later this week. A meeting of the Group will be held, and it’s essential to the plan for him to be present. So you’ve got hack the system to keep his location from being detected.”

“But Peter, it can’t be done! That’s why we can’t get people out of residential care units.”

“I know you can’t defeat the tracking system permanently. If you could, universal microchipping wouldn’t threaten the Group’s survival. All the same, just this once you have to make it look as if he were somewhere else—on Verge Island, maybe, so you won’t have to tamper with transmission from most of the flight. And if at all possible you should set it up in advance so that you can go with him.”

“What if I fail?” she whispered. Location tracking was a real-time operation; planting time-activated code to alter incoming data would be far harder than merely hacking into files and changing values manually, as she’d done in the past. It was well within her programming capability, but still . . .