Pathways - Jeri Taylor [60]
“Sir, I’ve lost sensation in my fingers,” he said with what he hoped was proper deference.
“Cadet, your fingers are mine. All of you is mine. And I want you to know you’ve become a special project for me. From now on, if you turn around, I’ll be there. If you turn on your desk monitor, there’ll be a transmission from me. If you want to take a leave, or change your room, or wipe your nose, you’ll have to go through me to do it.”
“Can . . . can you do that?”
“I can and I will.”
Harry was weak from exhaustion and pain. The prospect that loomed before him was so frightening that the only consolation he could find was in the knowledge that he could simply leave the Academy. But, as though reading his mind, Nimembeh removed that option as well.
“If you’re thinking that you’d rather leave the Academy, you’re right. You can turn yourself into a victim and a quitter. And no one would even notice that you were gone.”
Harry looked down at his fingers, which were visibly swollen now. They seemed like the appendages of some entirely different entity, an alien being that had somehow begun to occupy the end of his arm. He thought of his mother, suddenly, and her response if he dropped out of the Academy at this point. He looked up at Nimembeh.
“Yes, sir. I’m yours. Will you let go now?”
A charged moment passed, and then Nimembeh dropped his wrist, which fell heavily to Harry’s side as he did so. The young cadet resisted the impulse to rub his fingers with his opposite hand, as though that would somehow denote weakness and cause Nimembeh to revile him even further. He gently stretched them, wincing as blood rushed to the tips once more.
“Report to me at oh-six-hundred Monday morning. We’ll set up your training regimen.”
Nimembeh turned on his heel and walked away, erect and proud. Harry stared after him, now finally kneading his painfully throbbing fingers, wondering if there were any appeal to this program Nimembeh was levying. Could he talk to his group leader? His academic advisor? There had to be a way out of this.
Harry quickly discovered that all avenues to an appeal from Nimembeh’s regime were closed. This “special project” was not unprecedented at the Academy; in fact, there were usually several cadets a year singled out in this fashion. The only recourse was to leave the Academy, and Harry knew he’d rather face Nimembeh than his mother.
He discussed the whole thing with George, who was unfailingly sympathetic and comforting. “I can’t believe this is happening,” moaned Harry. “He has approval over my academic schedule, my sports program, my extracurricular activities, my leave time—he was right: I can’t blow my nose without going through him.”
“I don’t understand it. Why would he single you out? I could fathom it if you were some discipline problem, or disruptive, or a problem in some way. But you’re about the most perfect cadet I know.”
Harry smiled. This kind of statement, he’d learned, was typical of George. Frankly, his ego needed that kind of rebuilding after Nimembeh had gotten through hammering at him. George’s attitude toward him was more like what he was used to from his family—approving and supportive.
“I’ve asked around, but no two people have the same answer. Nimembeh takes on a ‘special project’ cadet now and then, but there doesn’t seem to be any common thread as to the kind of student he chooses.”
“You’re just lucky, I guess.”
Harry smiled. He knew he was lucky to have drawn George as a roommate. Some of the cadets he’d met would’ve driven him crazy, but George and he got along amazingly well. In fact, without George, he wasn’t sure he could have survived Nimembeh’s harsh regime.
It quickly became clear what the commander expected of him: more than his all, on every