by Jeri Taylor
And so this survival test was supremely important to Harry, his opportunity to make Nimembeh look at him in a new light. So far he’d done everything by the book, and he intended to keep doing just that. Nimembeh wasn’t going to be able to fault him on anything.
Each cadet had been given one item of gear: together they had a cord saw, a knife, a small bucket, a flint and steel, a small shovel, and a sheet of plastic. Nimembeh had remarked that frankly, he thought these items gave them too much luxury. If ever they were in a true survival situation, who was to say they’d have any of those things? But most of the cadets, he informed them, had been raised taking twenty-fourth-century technology for granted, and without some implements, no matter how rudimentary, they probably wouldn’t make it out of the wilderness. It was the kind of challenging remark that intensified Harry’s desire to show the commander that he wasn’t just another soft cadet, but a tough and disciplined leader.
He saw O’Connell eyeing a piece of wood he’d driven into the ground, and walked over to him. The young man’s Irish eyes shone with pleasure as he reported to Harry. “I’ve established an east-west line using shadows,” he said, indicating a mark on the ground which designated the tip of the first shadow he’d charted.
A second tip was now marked as well, and O’Connell had drawn a line between the two to indicate the east-west trajectory. “I’ll have the north-south orientation in about half an hour,” he added. “I need a sighting after noon before I can determine it.”
Harry nodded. This was rudimentary navigation; anyone could have made these calculations. But O’Connell was fascinated by problem-solving, and Harry knew he would apply himself to this process with such diligence that they could probably map the area once they were done.
He heard sounds of activity within a stand of conifers, and found the Vulcan women hard at work fashioning a shelter. They had discovered a rocky outcropping that provided a natural roof, and were busy adding sides to it by laying long slender branches and thatching them with leafy boughs. They would no doubt add a heat reflector and perhaps even a floor of pine needles.
A glint of sunlight on something bright caught his eye and he followed it into a clearing. There Tagar had already constructed a solar still by digging a pit approximately three feet deep, placing the bucket in the bottom, stretching the plastic sheeting over the opening, and then weighting it with a rock so that the plastic formed a cove with the apex directly over the bucket. The sun’s heat would raise the temperature of the air and soil under the plastic, hastening vaporization of the water in the soil. When the air under the plastic became saturated, the vapor would condense in tiny drops on the undersurface of the plastic. The drops would run slowly down the sloping underside of the plastic and drip off into the bucket.
Harry was reasonably sure they would soon find a stream—streams were prevalent in these mountains—but admired Tagar’s thoroughness in insuring that they would have a water supply until a stream was located.
“I have already located several varieties of fungus,” the Klingon said without looking at him. “They should provide adequately for our nutritional needs. However, I plan to hunt and trap small game as well.”
Tagar was following survival training to the letter. Wild fungi, or mushrooms, were the first food one was taught to seek in the wilderness. They occupied a place in the food chain somewhere between meat and vegetables, providing protein, fat, and carbohydrates, all of which were necessary to sustain life. And they could be eaten raw, eliminating the need for a fire. It was important, of course, to avoid the poisonous varieties, but they’d all been drilled repeatedly in recognizing the deadly Amanita family, responsible for most of the recorded fatalities from eating mushrooms, and taught to recognize the abundant harmless fungi.
Tagar continued to fine-tune the still, all the while avoiding Harry’s eyes. It was as though he wrapped himself in a protective cocoon of indifference, letting little of himself out and none of the outside world in. It wasn’t an attitude Harry thought appropriate in a team situation like the one they were experiencing, and he decided he’d have to find a way to break through Tagar’s defenses. He intended to do more than simply bring this group back intact; he wanted them to bond, to be cohesive in the way groups can become when they share difficult circumstances. A good leader would find ways to make that happen.
A small yelp of surprise caused him to turn and dash toward the shelter that Slisik and T’Passa were constructing. But when he emerged from the conifer grove, he saw only T’Passa. His heart sank, for he knew what had happened.
One of his group had been “killed.”
They were being monitored, of course, by Academy personnel, to make sure no one got into serious danger, but also so their comportment in the wilderness could be evaluated. If the group made a serious mistake—one that might prove fatal in an actual situation—a member was dematerialized and transported back to the camp at the staging area. The group was graded on the number of cadets that made it “alive” to the camp, and now he’d already lost one.
T’Passa was, of course, singularly unruffled by the event. “I assume she was transported to the staging area,” she announced coolly. “One minute she was right here beside me, and then she was gone.”
Her demeanor exasperated Harry. “I know she’s been taken back. That’s obvious. But why? We’re following procedure exactly.”
T’Passa began inspecting the shelter she and her recently departed comrade had been constructing, looking for errors. Harry began pondering every step of their operation, trying to figure out where he’d gone wrong.
“I find no mistakes in the construction of this shelter,” the Vulcan announced confidently. “The error must have come in another phase of the operation.”
Harry found himself getting irritated. This icy Vulcan wasn’t the group leader, he was. He’d be the one to take the blame for any failures, he’d be the one Nimembeh would lambaste. It was easy for T’Passa to shrug off responsibility, because in the long run, she wasn’t accountable. He was. And now, only an hour into the expedition, he’d already lost a member.
Why? He moved quickly to O’Connell, who was drawing in the dirt with a stick. “We’ve lost Slisik,” said Harry tersely, and was comforted at the distress that flashed on the cadet’s face.
“What did we do wrong?”
“I can’t figure it out. We’re doing everything we should—determining our route out of here, finding shelter, food, water . . . it’s all been right by Starfleet protocols.”
O’Connell inspected the markings he’d made on the ground. “I’m sure I’ve done this properly,” he said worriedly. “I estimate we’re almost due east of the staging area. I’ll get a more accurate measurement tonight, with the stars, but we should proceed west until I can triangulate our position more closely.”
Harry squatted on his haunches, mind working furiously. Could it be George? Had his roommate done something that violated protocol, and for which he was now being punished? He stood up and marched in the direction George had taken for his reconnaissance.
Five minutes later he heard something crashing through the brush. He stood behind a tree in case the noisemaker was a bear, but in seconds he spotted George, face flushed from exertion, just meters from him. Harry stepped from behind his tree right into his roommate’s path. George stopped abruptly, startled.
“Harry—you could give a person a heart attack,” he gasped.
“And you could raise the dead with all the noise you’re making,” shot back Harry. George’s eyes widened slightly at the ire in his friend’s voice, and Harry had a moment’s remorse. “Sorry,” he muttered. “We’ve lost Slisik. We’ve made a mistake and I can’t figure out what it is. What have you been doing?”
“Reconnoitering. I haven’t found any indication of people, but there are droppings and tracks that indicate wildlife in the area, including bears and coyotes. And there’s a deep ravine directly east of us that would be difficult to cross.”
Harry stared at him. There was nothing unusual in what he was reporting, nothing to indicate he’d made a mistake that would warrant the removal of one of their band. What were they doing wrong?
He waved at George to follow him and they made their way back to the others. Harry gathered them all around. “From now on, no one goes off by themselves. If you have to leave the camp, take someone with you. We can’t risk someone going off and making an error. If we use the buddy system, we’ll have checks and balances.”
He was aware of T’Passa’s dark eyes fastened on his with what looked like disdain. Suddenly he realized that she was the only remaining female—did she think that she had to perform the necessary bodily functions in the presence of one of the males? He felt himself flush with embarrassment.
“Not, of course, that anyone’s privacy will be violated. That is, privacy in certain . . . uh . . . in those instances where . . .” He felt himself stammering and hated his inability to handle this matter with the proper aplomb. He turned to T’Passa, trying to regain his composure and appear authoritative once more.
“You need have no fears,” he announced solemnly, hoping that would clear the matter up. He was rewarded with an icy stare.
“What could you possibly be talking about?” she asked with that Vulcan aloofness that always made Harry feel about six years old.
“Never mind,” he said ineffectually. “If you’re happy, I’m happy.”
“I do not experience happiness,” she stated, “any more than I experience fear. I confess to being baffled by your statements.” Several of the others, Harry realized, had been stifling laughter, and now couldn’t contain it any longer. Muffled giggles erupted.
Warmth burned on his cheeks as embarrassment flooded over him, and he felt for a moment like a small child who’s made a social gaffe and drawn the bemused attention of all the adults. He forced himself to sound as composed as possible.
“I think we all have the same goal here—to get all of us back to the staging area without anyone else being removed. Let’s pull together on this, all right?”
Four pairs of eyes fixed on him, four young faces nodded solemnly. Harry took a breath, satisfied. He was back in control.
Five days later, only he and Tagar were left. George had been the next to go, followed by T’Passa a day after that. O’Connell had dematerialized in front of them only minutes before, as they were striking their shelter after a meager breakfast of berries and water. Harry had been hungry for days, his stomach mumbling in protest and finally lurching unpleasantly whenever he did put food into it. He knew he had become noticeably weaker, and his mood was irritable.
When O’Connell disappeared, Harry couldn’t contain a furious howl of protest, and he drove one fist into a palm, needing to physicalize his frustration. Tagar regarded him impassively, then continued to sweep the area with a leafy branch, in order to erase any evidence that they had been there.
“What is it?” snapped Harry, pacing the ground in irritation. “What are we doing that’s so wrong? How could we lose this many people?”
“I don’t know,” said Tagar. “But I think in one more day we can reach the staging area. We must keep going.”
“Of course we keep going. Did I say anything to suggest we wouldn’t?” The words came out more harshly than Harry meant, but he didn’t care. He wanted nothing more than to solve this mystery before they reached the staging area and Nimembeh’s formidable presence. He noted that Tagar drew up slightly at the tone in his voice, and for a moment he thought the Klingon might protest, but he locked eyes with his last remaining team member, glaring, and eventually Tagar muttered something guttural under his breath and turned away. “Let’s go,” Harry muttered, and they proceeded down the brushy, ragged slope, the sun at the back of their left shoulders, heading west.
The march, when O’Connell had been with them, was at least full of a certain energized spirit. He was voluble and witty, and kept them all amused with stories of his ancient ancestors, of their poetry and passion, of the “terrible beauty” that was Ireland. O’Connell was a natural storyteller, and the hours seemed to pass quickly as he chattered on.
Now, a tense silence bound Tagar and Harry. Only the sound of their footsteps through the chaparral and manzanita of the western Sierras competed with the occasional bird call. The tall conifers were well behind them now, as were the mountain streams. Here, in the foothills, on the final descending slope toward the staging area, there was only scrubby vegetation, which ripped at them, scratching exposed skin and leaving it susceptible to insects and infection.
They walked for over four hours without exchanging a word. Then Harry signaled that they would stop for a midday meal—if you could designate more berries and water as a meal. He had kept his eyes roaming for other edible plants all morning, but had seen nothing in this sere vegetation that would provide nourishment.
He sat and opened his pack, pulling out the few berries that remained from his collecting efforts of several days ago. He lifted his hand, offering some to Tagar, but the Klingon was standing above him, looking at the meager offerings with disdain. He shook his head brusquely and marched off, presumably to find something else. Harry nibbled at the berries, trying to savor each one, but felt his stomach recoil as the bits of dry fruit reached it. He drank a tiny swallow of water; Tagar’s solar still hadn’t produced much the previous day, and they were strictly rationed.
He heard Tagar pushing toward him through the underbrush, and looked up to see what he’d found. Tagar’s hands held a squirming mass of what looked like white maggots, and Harry’s stomach soured. Tagar held out the writhing mound to him, and Harry saw they were grubs, beetle larvae. He knew they could be a good source of protein, but he couldn’t imagine at this point putting any of that pale, gelatinous, undulating cluster into his already queasy stomach. The driest of berries would be preferable.
“This will feed both of us for several meals,” pronounced Tagar.
Harry shook his head. “I’ll pass,” he replied.
“That is not an attitude conducive to survival.”
“I’m doing fine, thank you.”
Tagar grunted and began shoveling the grubs, still squirming, into his mouth. Harry felt gorge rising in his throat and he turned away.
“Are all your people this squeamish?” Tagar challenged, the words somewhat obscured because of the mass of larvae in his mouth.
Harry whirled on him, a retort on his tongue, but suddenly Tagar shimmered and dematerialized.
Harry was alone, having lost every member of his squad, every cadet who had agreed he would be their leader, and who looked to him to get them out of the wilderness. Every one of them had been “killed.”
He was in despair. He sat on a stone and held his head in his hands, trying once more to determine what he was doing wrong. On the ground, a few grubs that had dropped from Tagar’s hands still twitched, until, with a heavy buzz, flies began to swarm around them.
Harry stood and stalwartly moved off, determined to continue his trek and complete the assignment. Better to walk into the staging area alone than to wait for his own humiliating dematerialization. If he could keep a steady pace, he estimated he would arrive at the base camp no later than midmorning tomorrow.
By late afternoon he was weak and stumbling. The berries had provided little in the way of nourishment, and he’d had only tiny sips of water. The October sun was uncomfortably warm now that he’d left the sheltering bowers of the tall pines, and he knew he was becoming dehydrated. His mind was fuzzy, unfocused, and he couldn’t seem to get a fix on just what he should be doing. So he kept going, one foot in front of the other, marching steadily forward, down toward the staging area.
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, t
o 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.