Pathways - Jeri Taylor [58]
When sunset came and light began to fade, he realized too late that he’d failed to scout for more food. It would be doubly difficult at night. And what about water? How could he have forgotten these essentials? Panic began to stir in him, and he consciously quelled it. He had to stay calm, to think clearly.
The next thing he knew he was waking up, limbs cramped from cold. When had he fallen asleep? He was sprawled on the ground without shelter or cover, and his hunger was palpable. He heard rustling noises in the brush, and stood quickly, suddenly fearful of what might be coming to attack him.
The moon was at third quarter, and cast enough illumination that he could see somewhat. He decided to keep walking. He could sleep when he got to the base camp. He told himself to forget hunger and thirst, and to pretend he’d just had a massive feast. Only slightly buoyed by that image, he continued his faltering march toward Nimembeh.
But after an hour, he couldn’t go on. He sank to his knees, head swimming, mouth parched, nauseated. He stared at the vegetation around him, trying desperately to remember if any of it was edible. But his mind wouldn’t concentrate properly, and kept drifting off to other settings, other times. He remembered a wonderful celebration his family had held when he was about six. He remembered long tables laden with food, stews and breads and soups and fruit and the most succulent baked goods. There was something with apples, warm and running with juices. Had it been one of his birthdays? No, there would have been a huge cake, and candles for him to blow out . . .
He didn’t know how long he’d sat there, fantasizing about food. But he couldn’t allow it to continue. He had to keep going. With effort, he shoved himself upright and took one step, then another. The ground felt spongy, and his footing was uncertain. He tottered slightly in the chaparral—
—and then tumbled to the ground at Nimembeh’s feet, having been transported from the foothills.
He was in one of the permanent structures at the staging area. Briefly he wondered if it was the same one he and his father had been taken to, only five years ago, when his desperate desire to be part of Starfleet was born.
Nimembeh stood above him, legs planted firmly, hands on his hips. Harry’s eyes traveled up and saw the dark, smooth-domed officer looking down at him with no discernible expression.
“There’s this to be said for you, Cadet,” intoned Nimembeh. “You didn’t manage to kill yourself.”
Harry struggled to his feet and was handed a flask of water. He drank greedily, knowing that drops were running down his chin but not caring. The water was cool, silver in his throat. He had never tasted anything so delicious. He was vaguely aware that a hypospray had been planted against his arm and an injection transferred.
“A nutritional supplement,” explained Nimembeh stonily. “You were suffering from lack of adequate nutrition.”
Harry sagged. He had failed in every way. His entire team had been “lost,” and he himself was rescued because if he’d been allowed to stay in the wilderness, he would have perished. How had it come to that?
“What did I do wrong?” he asked Nimembeh sincerely. “I lost my first cadet within minutes after we arrived, and averaged one a day after that. But we all thought we were going by the book.”
“Had you been moving through enemy territory, I doubt you would have lasted that long. I might as well have landed a troupe of acrobats, wearing bright costumes, who proceeded to thrash through the woods calling every possible attention to themselves.”
Harry recoiled. He realized what Nimembeh was saying, but the injustice of it galvanized him. He drew himself to his full height. “With all due respect, sir, when we were sent on this excursion, there was no mention made of its being an evasive situation. We all assumed it was merely a test of our ability to survive.