Pathways - Jeri Taylor [113]
“I’m not sure I could eat human flesh, even if it were the only way to survive,” Bruno commented. Odile fixed him with a penetrating eye.
“Of course you could. If you got hungry enough, you’d eat anything. The organism is developed that way—it’s in our genetic structure to survive.”
“But it’s in our cultural conditioning not to eat our own species. It’s a deeply entrenched taboo.”
“Deeply entrenched or not, I’m sure I’d do it if it were necessary.”
“I’ll keep that in mind if we ever go camping together,” observed Charlie mildly, bringing smiles to the group.
“Let’s go,” suggested Tom. “We can still get in a few more runs today.” In seconds they had transported back to the mountain range once known as Squaw Valley, now renamed for a branch of the indigenous Washo people: Wel Mel Ti. They took Charlie down the intermediate runs, giving him pointers as they went.
Charlie had amazed them all by taking to skiing with alacrity. In two days he was able to keep up with them on all but the most difficult runs, although he couldn’t match their speed. He took the slopes at his own pace, measured and stately, but he was unafraid of steeps and moguls.
He had no interest in racing, even though they urged him to give it a try. Charlie wasn’t a driven person, and seemed to feel no need to prove anything to anyone. Tom envied him.
On New Year’s Eve they gathered in the dormitory’s large common room with other students who were there for the holiday. The structure was several hundred years old, though it had been remodeled recently, and boasted a feature few of them had ever used: a fireplace. Even Bruno, whose parents had raised him in the woods and made him ski to and from school, had only heard about this ancient custom. But he knew enough to be able to pile some wood and pinecones they collected into the rectangular opening in the wall, and to ignite the mass with the intense beam of a tricorder.
The delight the group took in this ancient practice was instant and intoxicating. There was an appeal to the flames that was entirely lacking in microfusion energy systems, and the young people found themselves gathering round the burning logs, staring at the flickering flames as though mesmerized. The crackle of the pitch pine and the heady aroma of the woodsmoke were more beguiling than they could have imagined.
Someone had made thick, fragrant soup, and Bruno replicated a hot Scandinavian drink, glugg, which warmed them from within even as the fire warmed their skin. Odile began singing, sweet, plaintive love songs from the past, and then they all sang, old songs, new songs, raising their young voices in friendship and joy, and Tom thought he’d never felt more at peace, more hopeful about the future. As the chronograph turned to twenty-four hundred hours, a great cheer broke from the group, and Tom drew Odile to him and kissed her, gently, feeling the moment freeze in time as the sounds from the others faded and there were only the two of them, locked in tender embrace, each completing the other, a union as old as eternity.
The next day, Odile told him she would be staying in France for her junior year.
Tom thought she was teasing him, and entered into what he assumed was a charade. “Good idea. I think I’ll just drop the junior year entirely. Commandeer a shuttle and chart planets where we can do some off-world skiing.”
Her emerald eyes were fixed firmly on his. “This is not a joke, Tommy. I am quite serious. My mama has asked it of me and I have agreed. I will study at the Academy campus in Marseilles, which is close to Beziers.”
“But . . . what about the ski team? What about your pilot’s training? What . . . about me?”
She reached out and took his hand; her fingers felt like liquid silver. “I will not compete next year. But I’ll continue my pilot’s training. And we will see each other. It’s not as though there aren’t transporters.”
What she was saying was true, but every part of him rejected it. It wouldn