Pathways - Jeri Taylor [130]
But each time his head snapped up in fright, he saw only Lieutenant Pierson glancing over at him to make sure he was all right.
The second hearing in the windowless room was much briefer than the first. The same three admirals were there, with their aides, as he confessed to his awful lie and correctly assumed responsibility for the terrible tragedy in the Vega system’s asteroid belt.
His father wasn’t there this time. In the end, only his mother stood with him, misery etched on her face but love ultimately stronger than pain. Head erect, proud, she stood next to him as he was officially cashiered out of Starfleet, not for the deed, but for the lie, the damning, dishonorable lie which wrongly cast blame on one of his fellows, a betrayal so heinous and unthinkable he would carry it with him the rest of his life.
Even his mother’s forgiveness, which was vast and all-encompassing, couldn’t lighten that burden.
For a period of time, he drifted. Long accustomed to the vastness of space, he discovered the immensity of Earth, transporting variously to places with names he’d never heard, much less contemplated visiting. Bamako . . . Mopti . . . Ende . . . Telde . . . He stared, unmoved, at cliff dwellings that perched precariously atop a sandstone escarpment and that had been in continuous use for almost fifteen centuries. Vibrant desert life swirled around him in cacophonous symphony: the beating of a ritual drum, crying infants, a donkey braying, the heated voices of Elders in argument, laughter, and the strange melodic piping of a wooden whistle. It was a magical concoction, historic and vital, but Tom found nothing remarkable there and moved on.
Ihlara . . . the Peristrema Gorge, where ancient Byzantine churches were carved into canyon walls, replete with crumbling frescoes of various saints and religious figures, a holy place of the long past. Tom looked, and felt nothing.
Lahore, and the famed Shalimar gardens . . . Kathmandu and the temple of Pashupatinath, dedicated to Shiva, the awesome creator/destroyer god . . . Songpan and the habitat where giant pandas were rescued from extinction three hundred years before and now thrived in roly-poly fecundity . . . Tom searched desperately for the experience that would reawaken something in him, anything that would stir his deadened spirit.
Nothing did. On he pressed: Tobago . . . Petra . . . Turnapuna . . . Baruta . . . Caesaros . . . Beausoleil . . . Göteborg . . . Alicante . . . Skopje . . . He saw communities he could not have imagined, pockets of cultural diversity, villages that had steadfastly preserved rituals and traditions from their past. He walked through crowded marketplaces, some of which displayed the only sight in all his wanderings that gave him pause—the display of pieces of meat, haunches, shoulders, ribs, making him realize that there were places on Earth where people still hunted, and who ate genuine, rather than replicated, flesh. The thought made him queasy, and he moved away, shrouded once more in numbness.
After that, his appetite disappeared along with his emotions, and he had to force himself to eat. Pounds dropped away, leaving him gaunt and drawn, yet with a curious lightness of spirit. This new, leaner person didn’t seem to carry such heavy burdens. Yet this person was also wearier, sapped of energy. He began to sleep more, sometimes all day long. He found, upon waking, that a drink of alcohol revived him, at least briefly, and so it became a ritual.
He didn’t go near North America, and communicated only with his mother, sporadic messages that assured her of his health and well-being, and promised a visit soon.
Time became meaningless, and he rarely knew if days, or weeks, or months had passed. He moved through this quasi life in a miasma, rootless and torpid.
Later he would wonder what instinct drove him to the location where he settled