Pathways - Jeri Taylor [15]
Fortunately the day wasn’t a warm one—rarely was it too warm in San Francisco—and a cool breeze braced him as he trotted from the parade ground, over the immaculately groomed grounds of Starfleet Academy, and onto the track. If he were properly outfitted, it might be energizing to take this run. Just under five kilometers was a warm-up for him under ordinary circumstances.
But halfway around the first turn, he knew it would be different this time. His cadet’s uniform chafed at his skin and the boots were heavy, clumsy on his feet. Eventually, they would feel like iron weights.
He set about clearing his mind, focusing on the rhythm of running, rather than on his body. He could do this, was determined to do it without complaint, because to do otherwise would give Nimembeh a satisfaction Chakotay didn’t want him to have. He placed himself, in his mind, on his homeworld of Trebus, on the plains where, growing up, he had run for hours on end, seduced by the independence he felt when he was alone and the wind embraced him. He was utterly at liberty in those times, impeded by no one, obstructed by nothing. They were golden moments of his childhood, and he focused to relive them now.
For a while it worked. He discovered a pace that the boots could tolerate without punishing him, and found the stride that minimized the abrading of his uniform against his inner thighs. He recaptured the sounds, the smells of his childhood revels in the meadows and the woods. He had not realized until now how precious those memories were to him.
For ten laps it was bearable, and he couldn’t avoid the rueful acknowledgment that if he had responded to Nimembeh’s order immediately, he would be done now. But he was only halfway through, and there were indications that it was going to get worse quickly.
His feet had begun to protest the pounding in the leather boots. His legs had started to weary of lifting their heavy weight. But most important, his skin was beginning to feel raw in places where friction was wearing through his socks and rubbing at a toe joint, at a heel, at a metatarsal bone.
That’s what would be the hardest part of this to endure. Strange that a tiny lesion in the uppermost layers of the skin could produce such pain—a testimony to the complex network of nerves that lay there. But pain could be dealt with.
Twelve laps. There were three distinct places in his feet that he could identify as blistered: left big toe, left heel, and right instep. The pain had increased geometrically in the last two laps, which didn’t bode well for the next eight.
Thirteen laps. The track seemed to have lengthened horrifically, far beyond its quarter-kilometer starting point. Now it felt like a kilometer each time around. His gait had slowed appreciably, though the lessened pace didn’t alleviate the pain. He clenched his jaw, determined to get through this.
Fourteen. He forced his mind to think of summers on his homeworld, when he and his friends would spend all day in the woods, playing, laughing, engaging in mock combat. In many ways they were like a pride of lion cubs, tumbling and roughhousing, but all the while honing skills for survival.
But what had driven that instinct? Members of the Federation didn’t have to fight to survive anymore, didn’t have to struggle or make war. What genetic predisposition compelled him and his friends to take on the role of warriors, battling for defense of home and family? Apparently something not easily lost in a few hundred years of relative peace.
Fifteen laps. His feet were now identified by three points of fire, three hot coals that were burning into the bone. He stumbled briefly but forced himself to keep going. He’d made it around that last lap by summoning visions of home. Maybe those would sustain him until the end.
His people, in the past, had been subjected to hideous tortures, many involving hot coals. The European conquerors had intimidating ways of meting out punishment,