“Time? God, Terry, there’ve been ten days,” Gwen reminded him. “The text you put on Centauri’s Net has gone viral, and that means it’s all over Toliman, too, with responses from people who heard second-hand what you did there.”
“Well, we want to spread the idea,” Terry said, “so if it’s happening fast, that’s good.”
“Yes, but as Jon said, the rumors are exaggerated,” Gwen told him. “Some people are saying that the Captain of Estel can heal the sick—not just relieve pain, but cure whatever is wrong with anyone.”
“I never meant to give that impression,” Terry protested.
“Of course not, but stories grow in retelling. I recruited for the conspiracy on Ciencia, remember, and so I’ve seen what can happen.”
Alison frowned. “And I know from my training in psychology how people can get carried away. We wanted to spread the symbol, the idea of future mind capabilities, but we didn’t bank on your getting involved in mass treatment of patients too ill to be clear about what was happening. That put a whole new face on it. I should have warned you, Terry, but we were so absorbed in trying to help them all, and then I got sick myself—”
“I don’t like the thought of Estel’s captain being viewed as some kind of miracle worker,” Terry said, “but as long as no one’s aware that it’s me, I guess it’s harmless. To whoever we meet I’ll be just captain of Coralie, after all, and we’ll be leaving soon.”
“The people on Toliman know you came from Coralie,” Jon declared. “Some will put two and two together. And if that gets back to Zach and he passes it on, sooner or later Quaid may hear about it. Which means he’ll be able to follow your trail.”
~ 19 ~
On the way down to Centauri, alone in the shuttle this time, Terry thought about what Jon had said. It was true that he hadn’t been thinking clearly when he spoke out on Toliman about Estel. He’d been on his feet for many hours, sharing and then relieving the physical pain of more people than he could count; his head swimming with fatigue, he had acted on impulse. He had wanted to give those people hope for the future, just as he wanted to spread it from world to world—and he had sensed from the telepathic ambience of the place that they were in a state to absorb the message. It hadn’t occurred to him that they were also in a state to confuse it with their memory of his aid.
Looking back, he realized they might not even know that it had been the antiviral pills that had cured them. Many had been semiconscious when the nurses passed out pills, a routine act that wouldn’t have made much impression. Their contact with his mind, on the other hand, had aroused strong emotions. He had not told them his name or the public name of his ship. They had heard only the name Estel, backed by the deep feelings he himself had about it. Later, they or their friends had seen the prophecy about Estel he had posted on the Net. It wasn’t surprising if they associated its captain with the mysterious respites from pain they’d experienced and credited him with special powers.
Oh God, Terry thought. He had botched it. He’d meant only to spread the idea that someday everyone would gain new and wonderful capabilities. Now they would be expecting some sort of supernatural intervention.
And the irony of it was that their conception of paranormal healing wasn’t untrue. The mentors, and some other Maclairnans, were indeed healers. He himself could stop bleeding and heal minor wounds—which was actually a matter of showing people telepathically how to do it for themselves, just as he showed them how to stop hurting. He didn’t have the gift for healing internal injuries or dysfunctions. But some did; on Maclairn there was no medical treatment because it was not needed. Healers couldn’t defeat an external threat like a virus except to the extent of strengthening a person’s immune system, and of course it wasn’t possible for them to restore missing organs or limbs. Such problems were rare, however, so for all practical purposes, they could cure any illness that was likely to occur.
His first mentor, Aldren, had told him what a burdensome responsibility this was to those away from Maclairn where healing was normal. Mentors on Earth had to keep all their paranormal abilities hidden, but it was especially difficult when it meant refraining from helping people in need. He’d mentioned that he, Terry, might someday face such a situation—but that hadn’t seemed likely enough to worry about. His only worry had been that if he learned healing skills he might be set apart from his peers by undeserved veneration. Now Aldren’s warning made all too much sense.
As he brought the shuttle in to land, Terry noticed that something unusual was going on at the civilian edge of the spaceport. A crowd had gathered, and he could see Fleet officers holding them back. How odd, he thought. Civilian passenger landings were a rarity; a celebrity from Earth or some major colony would arrive in a Fleet transport. He’d heard nothing on the comm about any charter ship in the area.
He set down and secured the shuttle, wondering whether it was safe to leave it unguarded for even a few hours with so many people around. If he’d known a special event would be happening he’d have asked Jon to bring him down and come back for him. Perhaps he should find someone he could pay to keep an eye on it.
As he headed for the gate, people broke through the officers’ barrier and rushed toward him. “Captain!” someone shouted, and others took it up. “Captain! Captain!” They swarmed around him, and a newscast crew’s lights shone in his face. Bewildered, he stammered, “I’m not who you’re looking for, you’re mistaking me for somebody else—”
“You’re not Captain Steward of Coralie?” demanded the nearest reporter. “We heard the controller authorize you to land.”
Yes, nearly an hour ago he had identified himself and announced his approach. But why would they care about the arrival of a free trader? Besides, Jon had been here twice in the same shuttle and had aroused no notice, not to mention his own first trip to the surface.
“We know what you did on Toliman,” said the reporter. “We’re honored to have you here; it’s not often someone of your stature visits the Centauri system. Can you comment on how it feels to have saved so many lives?”
“I didn’t save lives,” Terry protested, “except in the sense that a few more people might have died without the antivirals I delivered.”
“You’re too modest. We’ve heard how you healed a whole clinic full of people. There are many here waiting for your help.”
Terry realized with dismay that he was on camera. “There’s no outbreak of disease here,” he said. “The virus was contained.”
“But there are people in chronic pain. Our stock of surplus painkillers was sent to Toliman, all that’s left is reserved for accident victims and surgical cases, and it will be awhile before we get another shipment from Earth. In any case, painkillers won’t cure them. It’s a miracle that you’ve come just when you’re needed most.”
“Look,” said Terry in desperation, “I can’t cure anybody! I can help people stop suffering from pain sometimes, but that’s temporary. The patients on Toliman were cured by the antivirals.”
He realized that if he once started doing what he’d done for chronic patients on Ciencia, there would be no end to the demand—there would be far more than he could even begin to treat. There, the majority had scorned the idea of nonphysical treatment; those who came to Alison’s clinic had been exceptions. Here, the public apparently expected him to provide it.
A woman rushed up to him and grabbed his sleeve. “Please! My mother has cancer that didn’t respond to drugs—”
Sadly, Terry told her, “If I could help, it would be only for a few hours, and I couldn’t see her day after day. So it wouldn’t do much good.”
“But if you touched her she’d get well,” the woman insisted.
Horrified, Terry declared, “It’s not a matter of touching! People have to stop their own suffering, I can only show them how.” But he recalled how he had squeezed patients’ hands to let them know their pain was about to ease.
Others pushed forward with similar entreaties, ignoring
his words. There were several people in wheelchairs who begged him to help them walk. The newscaster had moved back to get video of the mob closing in on Terry. Then suddenly there was silence. Someone in the crowd had spoken the word Estel, and the murmur that rippled through it was clearly one of recognition.
“You came from Estel!” one of the women asserted. “You came to fulfill the prophecy.”
Terry said, “What’s written about Estel says that someday people will be able to use their minds in powerful new ways. It doesn’t say anything about healing.” He knew, telepathically, that he was not fooling anybody. Accurately enough, they had made the connection between the two concepts. “If you heard me speak on the comm,” he added, “you know my starship’s name is Coralie.”
“But Estel is somewhere—you must have once come from it. Some on Toliman say it was the Captain of Estel who healed the sick.”
Despairingly, Terry knew that denial was useless; he could not lie convincingly when emotion was enhancing their telepathic link to him. He must get away. But he couldn’t leave Centauri before seeing Zach, for it was now more vital than ever to know what was happening on Earth and in other colonies to which the story might have spread. Zach might even be spreading it.
He stepped forward, but the crowd pressed closer, barring his way. The murmurs grew louder and less deferential; these people obviously weren’t willing to have their hope of immediate help thwarted. Then, to his relief, they fell back as two armed Fleet lieutenants appeared. Thank God, Terry thought. Fleet wouldn’t be influenced by wild rumors, and would make sure he was let through.
“Captain Steward, you are under arrest,” said one of the lieutenants. “You’re to come with us, and don’t try to stir up any more of a disturbance.”
~ 20 ~
“Thanks for getting me out of there,” Terry said to the officers as they escorted him across the field. “But arrest? I haven’t done anything; I was mobbed by people who’d gotten a wrong idea about me.”
“We don’t take kindly to claims such as yours, Captain Steward. It’s our job to maintain order at the spaceport, and to prevent fraud.”
“Now look here,” declared Terry. “I made no claims. I denied those people’s mistaken ideas about what I did on Toliman, and it’s not my fault that they wouldn’t believe me.”
“Just what did you do there?” one of the officers inquired.
“I delivered a shipment of antivirals. And I helped out at the clinic, comforting patients and trying to ease their pain.” It was just as well, he decided, not to attempt an explanation of how he had eased it.
“And where did you get antivirals? We sent all that were available to Toliman days ago. If you were hoarding them secretly—”
Terry hesitated. They could not charge him with smuggling without concrete evidence that antivirals had been aboard Coralie; Fleet had authority only over ships and spaceports except when required to deal with armed civil conflict. All the same, it was not the kind of information to entrust to mere lieutenants. He had outranked them when he was in Fleet, and even after all these years it was hard not to feel that they should be saluting him.
They took him to an office in Centauri Base headquarters, which with a rush of nostalgia, he found familiar. He had walked through this building daily when stationed here, had been briefed for his last exploratory mission in one of the rooms they passed. In those days he had indeed been a lieutenant; his promotion to lieutenant commander had not come until he was on Maclairn. He wondered if any of the senior officers he had known were still around.
Not that they would recognize him if they were; the Elders had changed not only his appearance and voice, but his DNA. Nothing short of a retina scan could connect him to Lt. Cmdr. Terry Radnor, presumed dead, and that would be dismissed as coincidence. But he was glad that the commander to whom he was taken was too young to have met him.
“We don’t tolerate disorder here,” the officer told him, “and you seem to be the focus of it, whether or not you invited it.”
“It was the last thing I wanted,” Terry assured him. “I’m not what those people think I am. I’m just a trader.”
“A free trader, I assume,” declared the commander dryly. “In other words, a smuggler. As you know, I can’t hold you without evidence, but I’ve sent officers to inspect your ship.”
“We’ve just taken on a full load of resin pellets,” Terry said. “That’s legal.”
“Nevertheless, we’ll inspect. You will instruct your second in command to permit docking.” He handed Terry a phone linked to the offworld comm.
Terry complied, trying not to worry Jon by what he said. God, he thought, what if they inspected thoroughly and found the hidden transponder that identified the ship as Estel? They could indeed hold him on a charge of falsifying its registration.
“Now, about the antivirals,” the commander said. “You’ve nothing to lose by revealing where you got them, and I’m inclined to overlook any irregularities—I’ve done some checking and found that you didn’t overcharge and donated a considerable amount of time to the clinic. But I’m curious. I tried all the sources I know of when Toliman appealed to me.”
“I went to Ciencia,” Terry said honestly, “and pharmaceuticals were the cargo I was offered.”
“Ciencia! I’m familiar with the name, but I’ve never encountered anyone who’s had dealings there. Is it true that they won’t allow anyone to land?”
“Yes. Shuttles can’t go below high orbit; local mining ships bring the cargo up, which is technically illegal. The government wants to keep the population in the dark.”
The commander frowned. “I wonder . . . did you hear anything about a revolution starting?”
“I’m surprised if Fleet has heard that,” Terry temporized. “I understood that you keep hands off that world.” He was aware, as this officer probably was not, that Fleet was paid by Ciencia’s government to do so, something the Elders had told him that he intended never to repeat. He still felt some loyalty to Fleet and any internal corruption was none of his business.
“There’s a rumor going around in the city. Some trader who went to Ciencia heard a broadcast by a man who identified himself as the Captain of Estel. I don’t suppose that was you?”
Terry froze; it was a moment before he realized that the officer was merely asking if he was the trader who had heard it, and that he evidently wasn’t aware that the people in the crowd associated him with the name. “It wasn’t, but I know of the incident,” he said cautiously, hoping to find out what Fleet thought of it.
“I’ve got mixed feelings,” the commander admitted. “If the people of Ciencia are oppressed, a nonviolent revolution would be a good thing, and I’m glad we have no arrangement with its government that would require us to step in. But apparently this man calling himself Captain of Estel—who, incidentally, has by now been mentioned in a posting that’s gone viral on the Net—went further. He talked about some future time when people will allegedly gain abilities that might be considered paranormal. And that could lead to trouble if the rumor spreads.”
“Trouble? Why?” Terry inquired.
“Well, you’ve seen that people can get wrought up over things like that. You know and I know that the paranormal doesn’t exist—at least I assume you do, since you’ve convinced me that you made no wild claims to arouse that crowd. But on Earth some strange beliefs have been taking hold, and lately the situation has begun to get ugly. I was stationed there until a few weeks ago, and I didn’t like what I saw.”
“What sort of beliefs? Surely not supernatural healing of the sick.” He knew that even if the mentors were teaching more openly than in the past, they would never have done anything to precipitate a misunderstanding like the one he’d just encountered.
“Not that, but notions equally foolish. The old fantasy of ESP is being revived, and along with it a claim that people can develop other powers such as the ability to stay healthy through some magical mental process.”
“Foolish, of course,” said Terry with a straight face. “But I’d hardly call it ugly.”
“There’s been a reaction,” the commander told him. “First it was just a fanatic religious group that took such concepts literally and claimed all paranormal abilities are works of the devil. They began accusing law-abiding citizens of witchcraft. Then these relatively harmless zealots were exploited by a more sinister movement, a terrorist group with deep historical roots that thrives on the innate intolerance of humans for anyone unlike themselves. Its influence is growing, and there has been violence.”
Terrorists. He had known, of course, that there must be more than the two he had killed. He had been aware that they must have backers, and that the kind of targeted violence in which Maclairn’s enemies had long engaged must be continuing. But their attacks had been focused solely on Maclairn and its representatives. What he was hearing now, Terry realized with horror, was a great deal worse. It implied that open violence was threatening ordinary people who’d been taught by the mentors or simply influenced by the ideas they were subtly spreading.
Works of the devil? Witchcraft? He had read enough history to know how dangerous fear of them could be. And Aldren had warned him long ago that believers in psi would someday be endangered.
“So,” the commander was saying, “this man from Estel, if there is such a ship, is playing with fire. He’d be putting the Ciencians at risk if it weren’t that it’s a closed world the fanatics can’t reach—but if he’s stirred up a revolution it may not stay closed, and once landings are allowed the troublemakers will get in. The same goes for any other colonies he may visit. If he ventures to Earth they may murder him, which might be just as well except that it would make him a martyr, and then we might have widespread conflict that Fleet would have to deal with.”
“I don’t suppose he’s aware of what’s going on there,” Terry declared. “I got the impression from what I heard that his aim is merely to give people hope for a brighter future.”
The Rising Flame: Box Set: Defender of the Flame + Herald of the Flame Page 57