Pathways - Jeri Taylor [51]
“How would that make you different from anyone else?”
“I—I—”
“They’re not interested in hearing you praise Starfleet. They’re interested in knowing who you are. In finding the man you’ll become.”
“I told them I wanted to be part of that proud tradition—”
“That’s what I’m talking about. ‘That proud tradition.’ Nobody talks like that. It sounds rehearsed.”
“Well, I worked on my answer. I wanted it to be smooth.”
“Better if it was real.”
Harry had absolutely no answer for that. He felt crushed, defeated. All the work he’d put in hadn’t helped him, it had hindered him. He thought he’d sounded so polished, so articulate, and instead he’d come off as a phony. He knew in his heart Boothby was right. The old man had spotted it right away, recognized his carefully cultivated image for what it was: a façade.
He was staring at an azalea plant as though it were the most absorbing thing he’d ever laid eyes on. He didn’t want to think about anything else, didn’t want to contemplate coming back to the Academy. His humiliation was too profound.
“Johnny Picard went through the same thing,” offered Boothby casually. “They turned him down the first time. Always thought he was better off for it.”
Harry turned and stared at him. “Jean-Luc Picard? Of the Enterprise?”
Boothby snorted. “He was Johnny when I knew him. And once he got in he got in more trouble than any seven cadets I ever knew. But he turned out all right.”
Harry was amazed. Jean-Luc Picard, the legendary captain of the flagship, had been denied entrance when he first applied? And wasn’t a model student? It was hard to believe, and yet Boothby’s words had the dry ring of truth.
Boothby’s bright eyes were on him, focused like a phaser beam. “Most folks don’t come into the Academy perfect,” he intoned. “This place is about coming out in better shape than you went in.”
Harry stared at the old man, heard the rightness in his words, and felt as though an enormous burden had just been lifted from him.
“Way too slow, Cadet. Ten times around the track.”
Harry stared at Commander Nimembeh, his prep squad officer, then down at the phaser in his hands. He’d disassembled, reconfigured, and reassembled it in under twenty seconds. Wasn’t that fast enough? He looked back up at Nimembeh and tried to figure out what to say, but Nimembeh spoke again. “When I give an order, you follow it immediately. That’s fifteen times around the track.”
“Like this?” queried Harry, perplexed. He was in his cadet’s uniform and boots, not in running gear.
“Make that twenty.”
Harry started moving. He was still carrying the phaser, but he was afraid to put it down or ask what he should do with it for fear the officer would keep adding to his laps. Twenty was bad enough.
Harry began a slow trot. He was in good shape, having played volleyball since he was twelve, but running had never been his long suit, and he knew twenty laps around the track in his uniform and boots would be a killer. What’s more, it was a rare hot day in San Francisco, the late-August sun steaming the city through moisture-laden air.
As he rounded the track for the third time, he was already in trouble. At the far end, he saw Nimembeh standing, watching him, trim body erect, sun glinting from his smooth black head. Harry already disliked him intensely, and from what he could tell, the feeling was mutual. Nimembeh picked on him, required more from him than from the others in the prep squad. And this running in boots was ridiculous!
Harry made it eleven laps before he couldn’t go any farther. He collapsed on the grass at Nimembeh’s feet, feet burning, lungs on fire, consumed with thirst. “I can’t, sir,” he gasped. “Do whatever you have to, but I can’t go another lap.”
“Report to sickbay, Cadet” was Nimembeh’s response. “Make sure there’s no danger of heat exhaustion.”
“Aye, sir,” said Harry gratefully. Maybe the commander wasn’t a heartless monster after all. Harry went to sickbay and was examined by a Starfleet doctor who passed a tricorder in front of Harry and inquired casually as to how Harry had become so dehydrated.