Chapter One

When he opened his eyes he could not recall what world he was on. There had been so many. But he wasn’t on a starship, Jesse realized, and . . . and he must return to the ship, right now. Memory flooded back. This was the colony planet Undine, and his ship was due to break orbit. He sat up, his face in his hands --- and caught sight of the white-jacketed medic at the foot of the bed.

“I guess it’s stupid to ask where I am,” Jesse said, revising his assumptions. It was obviously a hospital, and he d¬¬id not remember entering it. He did not remember being ill, even; this felt more like one hell of a hangover. It was a familiar feeling. He’d waked with hangovers on all too many worlds in recent years. Never before, though, had they required hospitalization.

The medic said nothing. “Was there an accident?” Jesse inquired.

“No. You were lucky. We got to you before you tried to leave the bar.”

Puzzled, Jesse groped for recollection. Yes, he’d been in a bar. That was about the only place there was to go, onworld. He had not drunk enough to pass out, however. Besides, if he’d passed out in the bar, there would have been no question of his trying to leave it, and if he hadn’t passed out, why would anyone have called the medics? He wasn’t licensed to drive a ground vehicle, so why would they even have detained him?

“Exactly where did I collapse?” he demanded.

“You weren’t quite that bad,” the man said. “You were out for only a minute or two, then came around. We sedated you in the ambulance. You wouldn’t remember.”

“But why was the ambulance there?” Jesse persisted. He was beginning to lose patience. What he’d seen of this colony so far, he had not liked, and his opinion of it wasn’t improving.

“Just cruising,” said the medic. “The guy next to you saw you had a problem and pushed his flag-stop button. It would have been better to come in sooner, on your own, you know. You’d need less treatment if you’d reported to admissions long ago.”

“Treatment for what?” There was some serious misunderstanding here. Perhaps he’d not yet been seen by a doctor.

“Alcohol abuse, what else?” A second medic had appeared in the doorway; the first one turned and said, “Denial. Typical. Why do they hide from care when they know the law?”

“This one’s from offworld,” said the second man. “Technically he’s not subject to health laws until he’s in custody.”

“Now, hold on!” said Jesse, rising. “I don’t know what kind of second-rate facilities you’ve got here, but diagnosis doesn’t seem to be your strong point. I am not an alcoholic. I am Jesse Sanders, Captain of the Unified Colonial Fleet star freighter Eureka --- ”

“Not anymore, you’re not,” the second medic told him. “The Eureka broke orbit yesterday, with the first mate in command. Did you think they’d lose a window while you were incapacitating yourself?”

Jesse’s knees buckled; he slipped back to the edge of the bunk. “God,” he said in shock. “Oh, God. What the hell have you people done to me?”

He was not an alcoholic. He never drank on shipboard, or excessively while onworld in the company of his crew. On shore leave, alone and without duties, he sometimes got drunk on purpose; but he had lost never track of time. He hadn’t passed out even briefly before, and had drunk no more than usual on this occasion. He’d have been awake to board the shuttle the next day, and the Eureka’s cargo wouldn’t have been fully loaded until nightfall. The window for the latest departure required to keep the ship on schedule had lasted another thirty-five hours after that. They had sedated him for two days and three nights while his ship went on without him.

Why? What possible motive could anyone have for it? He knew no one on Undine. It had no political entanglements with other colonies. He had no enemies on the Eureka; it was a small, contented crew. He had no enemies in Fleet, either, as far as he knew. What did anyone have to gain by ending his career?

He would never get another command. The best he could hope for would be a mate’s billet on the next freighter to touch here. The worst . . . well, if he couldn’t get the record straightened out, he might not even get transport out of the colony. If it was entered as AWOL due to drunkenness, he would be on this outlying world for the rest of his life.

“I want to see the man in charge,” he declared grimly.

“I’m your doctor,” replied the second medic. “I can help you.”

“Not you. The man, or woman, over you. The one who can tell me who authorized the sedation.”

“Authorized? It’s routine. The ambulance crew starts it; it’s maintained until you’re detoxified.”

“I didn’t need detox, and you know it. Somebody was paid.”

The medics looked at each other meaningfully. “Paranoia?” asked the first one.

“We’d better check it out,” agreed the doctor. “I’ll send him up to Psych later today.”

Perhaps, Jesse thought, he really had tied one on and was hallucinating. This could not be happening.

“I’ll admit,” the doctor said to him, “that you haven’t damaged your body much with alcohol yet. You are very, very fortunate that this has been caught early. I know you may not feel you have a problem, but drinking to the point of intoxication is a danger sign. On Earth they don’t treat everyone who’s in danger. We do, here. We have the finest medical facility in the galaxy, and we take just pride in it. Don’t worry about anything, Jesse. We can make you well.”

“Sanders, to you,” Jesse said grimly. “Captain Sanders.”

“This isn’t a social occasion,” said the doctor. “We’re here to care for you. We call all our patients by their first names --- ”

“And do they call you by yours?” Jesse snapped. “I see a nametag there that says Dr. Yasir. I’ll not use that title unless you reciprocate.”

“Hostile,” said the other medic, as if Jesse were deaf. “Should I wait for the psych report before I schedule him for aversion therapy?”

Aversion therapy. God! But it was the standard treatment, of course; he knew that. He had never liked the idea of it, even in the case of people who really were substance abusers. Not that any spacer liked any medic much; there was antagonism of long standing between the two professions. There were, however, degrees of distastefulness.

“We’re not scheduling anything,” he said. “I’m checking myself out, right now.”

They started at him blankly. “I’m not drunk now,” he said, wondering if they were stupid as well as officious. “You can’t hold me here. I won’t sign the consent form.”

The younger medic, looking blanker still, asked, “What consent form?”

Excerpted from Stewards of the Flame © Copyright 2012 by Sylvia Engdahl. Reprinted with permission by BookSurge Publishing. All rights reserved.