Pathways - Jeri Taylor [49]
He reported for his interview at thirteen hundred hours, and took his place across a table from Admirals Brand, Strickler, and Kel-Nah. They were friendly, with easy smiles, and Harry quickly relaxed. They began to pepper him with questions about astrophysics, which he answered with rapid-fire accuracy. They moved through the sciences, then into history, literature, government. He felt strong and articulate, never at a loss for words.
Finally, the question every applicant got, the one Harry had been waiting for. “Why do you want to attend Starfleet Academy?”
Harry was ready for this. He launched into his carefully prepared answer, one which spoke of Starfleet’s hallowed history, its legendary heroes and heroines, its explorations and discoveries. He cited specific instances of achievement and lauded the Starfleet people involved. He closed by saying he wanted nothing more than to be a part of this proud history.
The trio of admirals nodded and smiled. They rose and shook hands with Harry and said he would be notified after all the examinations had been conducted. He left ebullient, and wandered the grounds for a while longer, feeling a sense of belonging that was palpable. Cadet Harry Kim. It had a good ring to it.
“Get out of my azaleas!” The voice was ratchety and cross. Harry turned toward it to see a thin, wizened man with some kind of gardening implement in his hand. He was staring at Harry in pique, pointing toward the ground.
Harry looked down to see that he had wandered off the path and was in fact standing among a bed of flowering plants. He moved back onto the path. “Sorry,” he offered. “My mind was someplace else.”
“Oh? Where might that have been?”
“I was thinking about next year.”
“What about it?”
“I’m going to be a cadet next fall.”
“Really. Don’t ever remember those announcements coming out until April.”
“Well, I don’t mean I’ve been told. I’m just . . . pretty sure it will happen.”
“How’s that?”
“I just had my oral exam. It went very well, if I do say so.” The man grunted and moved to the place where Harry had stood in the azalea bed, and began turning the soil slightly as though to erase his footprints. “I have my doubts,” the man growled, and then walked away without another word.
The encounter left Harry strangely uneasy, though he couldn’t put his finger on just why. The man was just a gardener, a laborer, but something in his attitude, his brusqueness, had destroyed Harry’s euphoric mood. He reported to the transporter room with deflated spirits and when he got home he was exhausted. He fell into bed and took a threehour nap, but when he woke up he was as tired as before.
The news came on a Saturday in mid-April. Harry, along with the thousands of other applicants, knew the day the freshman class would be announced, and surprisingly he slept well the night before. The transmission came in in the late morning, and he almost opened it immediately, but then thought about his mother. She had been at his side when he expected bad news; it was only fair that she share in this moment of fruition. His father was out of the country on one of his many travels, but had made them promise to contact him as soon as they got the word.
He found his mother in the garden, pretending to be busy deadheading flowers, but knowing she was as aware as he of what this day meant. “It’s here,” he said simply, and she rose from the flowers, a muscle twitching in her cheek. “It’ll be okay,” he promised her, and they walked into his room.
“Dear Mr. Kim,” the transmission began, “there are many ways in which we evaluate applicants for Starfleet Academy. One factor is test scores, and yours were excellent. Nonetheless, we regret to inform you that