Stewards of the Flame Read online

  “It’s permanent?” He swallowed, repelled not so much by the loss of drinking pleasure as by the thought of unauthorized tampering with his body’s reactions.

  “Effectively so, unless you leave this world and have it removed. They’ll bring you in for frequent maintenance checks.”

  He might not get a chance to leave, Jesse thought grimly. Not soon, anyway. “What’s experimental about this?” he asked, thinking the pieces didn’t quite fit. Implants were not experimental. Besides their medical uses such devices were routinely used for contraception; he’d had one since adolescence, though unlike female contraceptive implants it was not of the drug-dispensing type. He’d always wondered how women put up with those.

  “The dosage,” Carla informed him. “It’s been tried with low, safe doses, but some addicts become inured to them and drink anyway. You will be made seriously ill, to a degree that would be risky if ambulances weren’t constantly on patrol. There’ll be an implanted microchip transmitting heart and tracking data constantly so that they can find you anywhere, just like anybody else on the planet who’s not in perfect health. One taste of wine and you’ll truly need to be hospitalized.”

  “Isn’t that overkill, even in the case of real alcoholics?” he protested, knowing as he said it that protest was useless. Overkill was the name of the game here. The hospital seemed to run the entire colony.

  “It is,” Carla agreed, “and so it’s controversial. All sickness is considered evil here, to an extent you probably can’t imagine. It is rooted out. No natural form of discomfort is left untreated. But side effects of treatment aren’t counted as bad; they’re tolerated to minimize future risks.”

  “I’ve always doubted the reasoning behind that practice. Better a small risk of illness than a lifetime of sure misery.”

  “The authorities don’t see it that way. They claim the right to decide what’s ‘minor’ compared to the reduced risk. In this case, though, the effects can’t be called minor by anybody’s standards, so it’s taken a while for the substance abuse people to get the go-ahead.”

  Jesse frowned. “Politics, maybe? Eliminate drunkenness at any cost before somebody gets the idea of banning liquor after all?”

  “That’s about the size of it,” Carla said, “though the main political consideration is the points they’ll score by proving it can be done. In any case, the Administration has agreed to stamp out substance abuse at the risk of more serious illness. The hope, of course, is that it won’t come to that; the implant is supposed to act as a deterrent.”

  “I expect it will,” Jesse said dryly. “I’m not going to chance getting picked up by an ambulance again. I wouldn’t, even without the implant.”

  “A real alcoholic might, though. Even apart from craving liquor, he wouldn’t mind the Hospital itself. Your view—and mine—isn’t typical; most people view this as a place of refuge. The Meds’ policies aren’t widely opposed.”

  “If that’s the case, why do they expect any deterrent effect?”

  “Because the illness itself is so awful—and you will experience it repeatedly before you’re released. They’ll make you drink while they adjust dosage, and then more after the implant’s in place.”

  Jesse tried not to let his feelings show. “I guess I’ll survive that,” he assured her. “It doesn’t worry me as much as the implant does—and a heart monitor implant, too? Broadcasting my location day and night?” Perplexed by the strength of his repugnance he went on, “I’m not sure why I mind so much. It’s not the end of the world if I can’t drink socially. I could give it up easily if I chose, so why does the idea of having to seem so bad?”

  “It doesn’t,” Carla said with conviction. “You mind losing your privacy to a tracking device, of course. But more than that, it’s the manipulation of your body that’s horrible. The violation. It’s—obscene.”

  “Some of the tests were,” he agreed, surprised that he felt able to speak of them to this charming young woman. “I never before asked myself why white coats on the assailants should change anyone’s perception of what’s otherwise classed as rape.”

  “It’s custom, not logic. People who submit by choice tune out their natural feelings toward such things.”

  “I suppose it’s medically necessary, sometimes.”

  “That’s a matter of opinion. Where it’s warranted by serious symptoms, the choice may be wise—but even then, tuning out’s a mistake. Doing that leads, step by step, to what we’ve got here.”

  He looked quickly at her, seeing how grave she was. It was more than a matter of sympathy for him. Something deeper was involved. She evidently had not tuned out her own feelings, and they matched his, not her society’s. “You’re not a medical professional,” he said, sure of this.

  “No, I’m a data technician, though I assist with some kinds of psych therapy.”

  “Why do you work in this place?”

  Carla hesitated. Finally she said, “The world is the world. One way or another, we’ve got to live in it. Here, I’m useful, if only to victims like you.”

  “Worse things are done to some of them,” Jesse observed.

  “Yes.”

  “Electroshock, psychosurgery—things like that?”

  “Yes, sometimes. And various drug protocols that are comparable.”

  “Am I in danger, Carla?”

  “Not because of alcoholism. If you should be diagnosed as hostile—”

  “Oh, God. Either I submit or they make me submissive, is that it?”

  Carla nodded. “In theory, yes. There are sometimes—alternatives.”

  Again Jesse looked at her, taking in the attractiveness not only of her body—though that did attract him—but of her face, her whole manner. She was poised, serene, yet at the same time warmth glowed in her. Warmth toward him, and heat too, against a system she clearly disliked. She was involved, caring—he knew.

  “You said you wished you could get me out,” he reflected. “Is that possible?”

  “Maybe. I have friends. It’s been done before.”

  “I don’t want you to run risks on my account.” He realized that this was true. He was not in any serious danger; Carla might be. She could lose her job, or worse, she might be judged unstable. . . .

  “I’ve never been caught,” she assured him, smiling, “and I’ve done worse things, by Hospital standards, then restore clothes to a diagnosed substance abuser. I’ve gotten people out who were doomed to the Vaults.”

  “The Vaults?” Jesse was chilled, not merely by the ominous-sounding term but by the tone in which Carla spoke it.

  “Forget I said that,” she said hastily. “We’ve got to leave now, if you want to. The shift’s about to change.” She rose to retrieve a sack that she had set by the curtained entrance to his cubicle.

  It contained his Fleet uniform. Jesse sat up; she was already committed, had come prepared, and he certainly did want to get out of the place. “What happens to you if we do get caught?” he asked.

  “Never mind about me. Attempted escape will count against you,” Carla said soberly. “You’re under Dr. Kelstrom’s care, so normally I wouldn’t worry—but he’s not himself right now. I can’t predict. All the same, I’ve got strong reasons to trust him. I’m sure the worst that can happen is that the implants will proceed as scheduled.”

  Jesse pulled himself out of bed and dressed quickly, ignoring his various aches, which seemed to have lessened considerably during the past half hour. Attempted escape, she’d said, as if this were a true prison—did Carla herself view the hospital that way? Why had the colonists here given it so much autonomous power?

  They ventured into the corridor. Carla gripped his arm, steadying him. “Walk normally, head up,” she said. “We won’t be noticed until we reach the checkpoint at the lobby entrance. The security officer coming on duty there is my friend.”

  As she’d said, the shift was changing; the hallways and elevators were crowded. Uniformed hospital personnel mingled with people i
n street clothes. A black silver-trimmed Fleet uniform was a bit conspicuous, Jesse felt, yet no one paid any attention to him. Probably there were hospital visitors mixed with the employees. Like colonists everywhere, they seemed healthy, and neither happier or unhappier than average. They didn’t have the look of citizens repressed by force.

  As they left the elevator at ground level, Carla held back, waiting for the tall redheaded security officer to take her seat. People were thumbing a plate at the exit barrier; there was an ID check! Jesse, fighting panic, glanced at Carla in dismay. Surely she must have known . . .

  “Put in your thumbprint as if you expected the computer to pass it,” she said, in a low but calm voice. “Anne will hit the alarm override. She knows what to do.”

  Carla moved forward and joined the line, Jesse close behind her. She smiled at the redhead. “Hello, Anne,” she said. “Will we be seeing you on the Island next offshift?”

  “Wait just a minute, will you, Carla?” Anne replied, motioning Carla back. The man in front of her had gone through. Jesse had no choice but to press his thumb firmly against the plate, holding his breath while the computer scanned its print.

  The alarm began to scream.

  The gate locked. Jesse stumbled back, almost colliding with the people in line behind him. Carla, beside the desk, had frozen in shock. If for an instant he’d thought she had betrayed him, he knew better when he saw her face. It was pale with dismay and bewilderment. Anne was evidently not as good a friend as she’d believed.

  “I’m sorry, Carla,” Anne said smoothly. “Dr. Kelstrom called me. He warned me to watch for you two. You’re to report to his office now, before you leave for the night.”

  “Both of us?” Carla asked, as if doubting what she heard.

  “Of course not. The patient will be taken back to his ward.”

  Orderlies were waiting; they must have been called in advance. Despairingly, Jesse left Carla to her fate and went with them.

  ~ 5 ~

  The first time he was made sick, they used low dosage. His heart raced, but did not falter, and his breathing wasn’t seriously impaired. All the same, it was worse than Jesse had expected. He had somehow thought that youthful experience with spacesickness would make induced nausea easier to bear. He remained in anguish for a long time afterward, and eventually he perceived that this had something to do with his general situation. He was unable to muster much optimism.

  The memory of Carla tore him in two. It was a light in the darkness; he closed his eyes and recalled her scent, her touch, and it seemed that no world she lived in could be all bad. Yet at the same time, he worried.

  How would they punish her? She’d violated rules, not law—surely no more than her job had been at stake. She’d be better off without it unless jobs were hard to come by in the colony. He didn’t know, and in his blacker moments imagined her destitute, forced to seek welfare because she had risked herself for him. The local authorities weren’t the sort she’d want to appeal to. Nor, perhaps, were her friends, if Anne was a sample! If only he were free. . . .

  To his impatience for release was now added a burning wish to see Carla again. He knew this was more than desire to repay her kindness.

  They moved him to another floor. He was given pajamas, but no robe; the rooms and corridors were kept at an even temperature. Nobody displayed any antagonism toward him, and he was forced to concede that they meant no cruelty. They really believed themselves to be helping a sick man. They behaved with uniform cheerfulness, even as they administered injections that—combined with the drinks they forced on him—would send him into agonizing, uncontrollable spasms of retching, followed by hours of lingering nausea combined with ever-more severe headache, palpitations, and labored breathing.

  After several sessions of this, during one of his brief periods of relative calm, new orderlies appeared with a gurney. “You’re going back to Psych for a while,” they announced. He was not given the option of walking there under his own power.

  Jesse’s spirits rose momentarily; Psych was where Carla worked—or had worked. But he was not taken to the same area as before. After an endless trip through the grid of corridors they wheeled him into a small room filled with ominous electrical equipment and proceeded to strap him into a reclining chair, over which hovered an elaborate metal headpiece bristling with wires.

  Electroshock? Undoubtedly, Jesse thought, striving to conceal his terror as they lowered the headpiece, encasing his scalp, and attached electrodes to his temples. Or something else that would even more disastrously alter his brain. . . . Carla had admitted that such things went on here. He was not sure what he had done to provoke it; perhaps it was merely that the initial psych testing had revealed too much of his personality for him to be judged on the basis of behavior alone. Dr. Kelstrom, or whoever else had looked at the records, must have realized that it would take more than “friendly health advice” to subdue his inner rebellion.

  The room dimmed and various lights on the instrument board beside him began to glow, accompanied by a nerve-jarring electronic hum. The technicians had disappeared; whatever was going to happen to him was evidently remotely controlled. He waited . . . and waited. Nothing seemed to have happened yet; he could still think clearly—but perhaps the shock was yet to come. There was no way to judge time; it seemed as if hours had passed. At length he heard the door open and someone outside saying, “All right, now inject him. Kelstrom said to use truth serum.”

  Jesse was past the capacity for protest. He lay mute while the technician inserted an IV into his arm. After that things got hazy.

  He knew, later, that he had been extensively and repeatedly interrogated, probably for psychiatric reasons rather than as any sort of conspiracy suspect—although the latter, he felt, would have been preferable. The voice of the unseen interviewer was absolutely emotionless, devoid even of supercilious courtesy. Having nothing to hide, he had not tried to resist the questioning. They’d already known he hated them. They’d known Carla had helped him, and that he found her attractive. What had they possibly hoped to gain?

  When he woke he was back in the substance abuse unit, with his brain intact, as far as he could tell. Emotionally, however, he was deeply shaken. He felt stripped, violated, now that the last vestige of personal privacy had been taken from him. The physical indignities paled beside the callous probing of his inmost thoughts. It scarcely mattered that within minutes he was called for another session of aversion therapy, one of many to which he was subjected during the next few days.

  Though normally, these sessions would have been held in a room outfitted as a bar, the experimenters dispensed with that in favor of one with a gallery from which medical students could watch. “We’re not trying to condition you,” he was told. “This is simply what will happen if you drink, from now on, for the rest of your life. Awareness of it is necessary for your future safety.”

  For the rest of his life, then, his decisions were to be based on their standards of well-being instead of his own? No one suggested that he might ever leave the planet, and indeed Jesse had begun to doubt it. If they’d believed him still in the employ of Fleet, they would not have chosen him as a guinea pig. They planned to turn him into a healthy colonial citizen. That was acknowledged, in fact; several people remarked on how lucky he was not to be deported. They seemed genuinely unable to conceive of anyone’s not appreciating the protection of the galaxy’s finest medical facility.

  As the drug dosage was increased, each drinking session made him sicker than the previous one. The goal was to find, then stop short of, the point at which he’d pass out before feeling distress. By the third day, Jesse feared struggling for breath more than he feared the nausea. Still, he drained the glass given him without protest, for it had been made plain that if he refused, the liquor would be poured down his throat. The less indignity, the better. He had few enough chances to avoid it.

  The seriousness of the attacks was now such that they were terminated by antidote, leav
ing him with no worse than residual nausea and weakness. He could thus have multiple “treatments” per day, which was desirable, one nurse said, because hospital beds were in demand. This news was halfway welcome; it meant that he might get out soon. On the other hand, he’d have the implants before he got out. That would be soon, too. It was too final for his liking: a symbol of permanent subjugation to this world’s medical authorities.

  During the last session of the fifth day, just before he drank the proffered whiskey, Jesse looked into the observers’ gallery and saw Carla.

  She wasn’t in her own uniform; instead, she wore the gown of an intern. She was holding a mask, briefly removed so that he could recognize her. He nodded quickly, almost imperceptibly; she caught the gesture almost before he knew what he was doing. When he looked again, her face was covered.

  Yet he felt as if she had spoken to him. He had never met anyone before from whom he got such a feeling. He knew, as positively as if he’d been told, that she would come to his room. The knowledge sustained him. He found he hardly minded getting ill. He did not even react to the announcement, made by the night nurse, that he was scheduled to receive the implants in the morning.

  Carla didn’t appear until past midnight, when the corridor was quiet. She still wore the intern’s gown. “Oh, God, Carla,” Jesse said, torn between relief and fear for her. “You shouldn’t be here. If you’ve got to wear a disguise—”

  “I’m all right,” she said calmly. “I got only a reprimand, and that not even from Dr. Kelstrom. He hadn’t time to see me and left it to a subordinate. But I was ordered to stop visiting you, so someone might report me if I were noticed—” She stared at him, frowning. “When did they shave that patch of your hair?”

  He told her about it, futilely attempting to hide what he felt at the memory of interrogation under truth serum. “I still don’t know what the aim was. If it was meant to change me somehow, I don’t think it worked.”

  “The machine only records brain activity. It’s an experimental protocol of Dr. Kelstrom’s; he’s into research of that kind. I’ve—assisted with it, sometimes.” Carla’s frown deepened. “It should have been explained to you! He should have been there personally to oversee! To deliberately terrify you that way—it just doesn’t add up. And as for the truth serum, Dr. Kelstrom couldn’t have ordered that! Not for an unconsenting subject. Whoever mentioned his name must have misread your chart.”