Gauntlet - Michael Jan Friedman [45]
As Valderrama approached her, Jiterica could make out the expression on the lieutenant’s face. It began with curiosity, reconfigured itself almost immediately into a mask of restraint, then evolved gradually into the inevitable look of pity.
Finally, Valderrama nodded. Jiterica inclined her helmeted head in response. Then the lieutenant was past her—mercifully so—and the Nizhrak was alone in the corridor again.
Valderrama was right to pity her, Jiterica thought. All her fellow crewmen were right to do so. She was, despite her best efforts, a pitiful excuse for a Starfleet ensign.
But they wouldn’t need to pity her much longer. In the morning she would tell the captain that she was quitting the fleet and ask to be returned to her homeworld.
Jiterica wouldn’t find any relief in that meeting—neither then nor later. No doubt, she would regret what had happened here and on the Manitou for a very long time.
But in light of all her failures, a quick departure was the only reasonable option open to her.
In the short time that Nikolas had known Joe Caber, his opinion had changed a hundred percent.
Not his opinion of Caber—that hadn’t changed one iota. Nikolas still saw his roommate as the perfect Starfleet ensign, well on his way to becoming the perfect Starfleet skipper.
What had changed was the way Nikolas saw himself.
When he walked into his quarters the day before, he had already resigned himself to his fate. He was going to be a loose cannon, a thorn in the side of his superiors the rest of his Starfleet career—however long it might be allowed to last.
Now Nikolas believed there might be a different fate in store for him, one that involved some success in his chosen profession. He could even see himself becoming an officer someday.
And why? Because of Joe Caber.
Because the guy had encouraged him to look beyond his limitations. Because he had shown Nikolas that they had more in common than the ensign might ever have believed.
He might never be Joe Caber, admiral’s son. But if he tried, if he managed to put aside his resentments and his insecurities, he might become someone almost as good.
“Hey,” said Caber, “you going to hang there all day?”
Nikolas smiled despite the increasing strain on his arms and shoulders and regripped the horizontal bar one hand at a time. “Just until I feel comfortable,” he grunted.
“You sure you’ve done this before?” Caber gibed in a good-natured tone of voice.
In fact, Nikolas was hardly an expert on the horizontal bar. But he didn’t want to admit that in front of his roommate—especially after he had boasted about his gymnastic skills all the way here.
“Just step back,” he said, “and try not to gasp in awe.”
Then Nikolas began swinging back and forth, all the while maintaining his hold on the chalk-covered titanium bar above him. Ignoring the pain it cost him, he swung higher and higher, until his hips were well above the bar on his backswing.
Finally, when he couldn’t take it any longer, he drove forward one last time. At the apex of his swing, he let go of the bar and threw himself backward into a tightly tucked somersault.
That was the easy part, he told himself. The hard part would be sticking the landing.
As fast as the room was spinning around him, Nikolas had no real idea what he was doing. All he could do was take a stab at it and hope for the best. With that approach in mind, he released his grip at what seemed like the appropriate time.
And somehow, as if by magic, managed to land on his feet.
There was an almost overwhelming moment of vertigo, when Nikolas had the feeling that he was standing more or less upright but couldn’t be certain of it. Then the dizziness passed, and he realized that he had stuck the landing.
Stuck it perfectly, in fact.
“Nice job,” Caber told him.
Nikolas grinned. “All in a day’s work.”
Then it was his roommate’s turn. He eyed the bar, rolled a bar of chalk between his hands and put it down beside the apparatus. Then he leaped up, grasped the bar, and kicked forward into a swing.
In no time,