Pathways - Jeri Taylor [14]
“You’ve never fully embraced the traditions of our tribe, I know that. You’ve always been curious about other societies. And I allowed you to read about them because I believe ignorance is our greatest enemy. But to leave the tribe . . .”
“Our tribe lives in the past . . . a past of fantasy and myth.”
“That past is a part of you, no matter how hard you try to reject it.”
“Other tribes have learned to accept the twenty-fourth century. Why can’t ours?”
Kolopak’s voice was taking on a decided edge. “It is not the place of a fifteen-year-old boy to question the choices of his tribe.”
“I know,” replied Chakotay solemnly. “That’s why I have to leave.”
Kolopak scrutinized him with those burning, sorrowful eyes. “You will never belong to that other life. And if you leave, you will never belong to this one. You will be caught between worlds.”
The truth of this caught Chakotay with a sudden chill, as though an icy breeze had knifed through the stifling forest. “I ask for your blessing, Father,” he said humbly, but there was no answer. Kolopak stared stonily ahead, and Chakotay knew no blessing would be forthcoming.
A year and a half later he stood on a grassy plain on his homeworld, a satchel with his belongings at his side, his mother and father before him. He was minutes from transporting to Captain Sulu’s ship, which would carry him to San Francisco, on the planet Earth, the home of Starfleet Academy.
The morning was cold, as though reminding the inhabitants that, although summer was just over, winter was coming quickly. Growing up, he had always eagerly anticipated that bracing nip in the air, as it seemed to energize him— probably some genetic throwback to an era when provisions must be laid in for the fallow months of winter.
“Send us messages, please,” implored his mother, whose eyes, he noticed, were swollen from crying the night before. He felt both embarrassed and regretful.
“If you’d put in a modern comm system we could have instant contact,” he suggested, only to be greeted by a dismissive grunt from his father. He might have known—there would be no place for sophisticated technology on this world.
He put his arms around his mother, who gulped back her tears, knowing the effect they would have on him. “I’ll send lots of messages,” he promised her. “I’ll tell you about everything.” She patted his back ineffectually.
He turned to his father, hating this moment and yet strangely empowered by it as well. He had made his choice and he was following through. He would chart the course of his own life, unbound by the past, free to explore any of the options that might lie before him.
In his father’s eyes he saw only pain.
Kolopak embraced him, but it was a gesture without warmth. Chakotay tried to speak, but the words caught in his throat, and he silently cursed the revelation of emotion. He had wanted to appear manly before his father, and now his throat had clutched, betraying him. He stepped back and touched the comm device Captain Sulu had given him. “Chakotay to Captain Sulu. I’m ready, sir.”
And in the disembodying moment before transport, he saw both love and anguish on his parents’ faces.
“Way too slow, Cadet. Ten times around the track.”
Chakotay’s head whipped toward Lieutenant Nimembeh, his prep squad officer. He was sure he’d shaved several seconds off his time—his phaser had been disassembled, reconfigured, and reassembled in just under seventeen seconds. How fast did he have to be? He started to ask just that when Nimembeh spoke again. “When I give an order, you follow it immediately. That’s fifteen times around the track.”
“In my uniform and boots?” queried Chakotay, incredulous and inexperienced enough with Starfleet discipline to realize what he was buying himself.
“Make that twenty.”
Chakotay moved off before Nimembeh added more, but he was indignant and furious. Run the track twenty times in his uniform and boots? It would be easy enough in running shoes, but the black leather boots