The Devil's Heart - Carmen Carter [95]
A fresh burst of cheers, then another, signaled the appearance of more runners from the forest track.
At least I’m not last.
The memory of his late start propelled him ahead even faster, but his breathing remained steady.
Another cup was thrust into his hand, and he poured its contents over his head before he succumbed to the temptation to drink too much.
He began to run for the sheer joy of it.
By the time Picard reached the halfway marker, he had finally passed Gareth and seen Miyakawa crumple to the ground with a cramp in her calf.
All the other freshmen cadets were running behind him on the course.
At the three-quarter mark, he approached a tight knot of five upperclassmen that blocked his way. He could hear the sound of their breathing, ragged with the effort of keeping pace with each other.
They were all pushing themselves a little too hard and a little too fast by their determination to break free from the pack. Picard swung left and drove himself forward through a narrow gap on the edge of the path.
He caught a glimpse of faces twisted with annoyance at the sudden increase in congestion. An elbow knocked against his side as one of the less generous runners moved to keep him back in place. The unwarranted jostling fueled his next burst of speed.
He was running alone now.
The level path gave way to the rise and swell of gentle hills. In his training runs he had fought to keep a steady pace as he worked the slopes, but now he used the pull of gravity to gather another sliver of speed as he sped downward, then pushed to maintain the new pace on his climb up the next rise. Sweat poured off him, stinging his eyes with its salty flavor; the soft cloth of his clothes chafed a gainst damp skin.
The slight tingle in his thigh and calf muscles would turn to a tremble if he misjudged his endurance and pushed too hard. He tossed his head, slinging back the hair plastered to his forehead, and then threw off the intrusion of physical discomfort with an equivalent mental shrug. It was important to feel his body at work, and that included the pain, but that knowledge must not distract him from the run.
He crested another hill and spotted a string of four runners just ahead. Chiang was leading them, but even as Picard watched, the others were challenging his position. Telegar, the fastest of the Andorians, must be the woman in second place.
The other two cadets were probably Dorgath and Stemon, both favored to win the race and both pushing the front-runners to exhaust themselves on the final stretch.
As he sped steadily onward, driving one foot after the next, his breath heaving in and out of his chest, a dull background roar sorted itself into the sound of a cheering crowd, and he realized that there were throngs of people lining the path up the next slope.
No, not just the next slope. He was approaching Mount Bonnell, the last hill of the marathon.
No freshman has ever won the Academy Marathon … until now!
Perhaps it hadn’t been such an empty boast after all. Reaching deep inside himself for the last of his reserves, Picard propelled himself faster down the slope. The ground leveled beneath his pumping feet. He passed Dorgath just as the ground began to rise again. Chiang was ahead, having fallen back to third place.
Momentum carried him up the first few meters of the hill without effort. When the weight of the climb finally hit him, he expected to slow down, but he was locked into a rhythm and grace of movement that remained steady and controlled.
Then the terror struck.
It happens here, soon.
It was as if his mind were detaching from his body, pulling back to observe and comment on the scene.
I’ve done this before. This run, this dream.
Chiang had been flagging for the past few minutes. He was easily overtaken.
Oh, god, it’s a very bad dream.
Telegar and Stemon remained