Chapter V
So this was Homeworld's wilderness. Tarlac watched Hovan's cardisappear, then checked out his surroundings to see what he'd have towork with. It was almost uncomfortably warm now, at nearly mid-morning,but that wouldn't last. The weather was clear; come nightfall, he'dneed a way to keep warm.
The clearing was about six meters across and roughly circular, withtraces of another camp near the northern edge, shaded by the broadsilvery-green leaves of a soh tree. Tarlac grinned at that,remembering his lessons. A soh tree, with its palm-like leaves andsticky sap, was pretty good material for a shelter--which wasconsiderably simpler than trying to improvise clothing.
He'd be spending the night here, so he'd better get started. Takingadvantage of all the shade he could, since Homeworld's sun put out moreultraviolet than Terra's, he cut sticks for a leanto framework, thenclimbed up the soh tree and began one-handedly hacking off thetough-stemmed leaves. It was hard work, but it shouldn't take more than acouple dozen of the big leaves to make a decent shelter.
The resultant structure of leaves laid over notched, sap-smearedsticks, he judged, might possibly last, if it didn't have to stand upto more than a gentle breeze. It would have to do; he didn't have anyother fastening material, and it only had to survive for one nightanyway.
His next priority was water, which was no problem. This part ofHomeworld's main continent had abundant drainage, and from the air hehad already spotted one of the streams that fed the capital'sreservoir. It was less than a hundred meters away, and it would be hisguide out of the forest, as well as his water supply.
Tarlac had no desire to disable his only means of transportation, sowhen he went for a drink, he watched where he put his feet. The waterwas good, clear and cold, and Hovan had assured him of its purity.None of the Traiti worlds had any pollution worth mentioning; Traititechnology was roughly equivalent to the Empire's, but had beenachieved far more slowly, and the by-products had never been allowed toget out of control.
Refreshed, Tarlac surveyed his problems. He had water and shelter; hestill needed food, fire, and foot protection, not necessarily in thatorder. Food, now at mid-autumn, was as plentiful as water, and therewas nothing he could do about foot protection at the moment, so thatmade fire his next priority. There were plenty of likely-looking rockson the streambed; some, he remembered from a survival course he'd takenyears ago, might work nearly as well as flint. He waded into thestream and selected a handful, putting them on the bank to dry while heplanned.
It was just past midday, so he had plenty of time to equip himself,even with nothing but a knife to work with. He wouldn't need muchgear; it wasn't as if he was Robinson Crusoe, having to live off theland indefinitely. He'd be out twenty days, at the most. He wouldhave to have some kind of shoes, though; his feet were simply tootender for him to walk fifty kilometers barefoot, even through thisopen, leaf-carpeted forest. Some kind of long-distance weapon, say aspear or a crude bow, would be useful, too, and effective enough at therelatively short ranges a forest allowed. Anything else would bestrictly a convenience. It would be nice if he could rig some way tocarry coals so he wouldn't have to start a fire from scratch everynight . . . He shrugged. That wasn't very likely, and speed was hismain consideration, so it might be just as well for him to travellight.
By the time he came to that conclusion, the stones were dry enough tostrike sparks if they were going to. He went through themmethodically, hitting each one against the flat of his knife. Two ofthe first six did spark, weakly; he set them aside and kept going. Thenext five did nothing at all, and he was beginning to think he'd haveto make do with one of the weak ones. Then the twelfth, a small rockthat looked like pinkish quartz, gave a big bright spark that made himwhistle in relief and admiration. Tossing the other stones back in thestream, he put the quartz in the pocket of his shorts and headed backfor the clearing, picking up dry wood on the way.
He found a gratifying number of animal traces as well, both trails andpawprints, and he hoped few of them were predators. He might not beRobinson Crusoe, but he wasn't Tarzan either, and the idea of tacklinga big cat with nothing more than a knife held absolutely no appeal.Predators, he reminded himself, didn't normally attack unless provoked.At least the trails meant he had a chance of trapping something, and itwas a sure bet that animal skins would make better moccasins than sohleaves would!
His leanto was still standing in the clearing, though it lookedludicrously flimsy. He stacked the wood next to it, then beganscraping leaves and other debris to make a safe spot for a fire infront of it. He hadn't needed Hovan to tell him that; this part was nodifferent from his childhood camping trips. He could almost hear hisfather's voice, its calm but firm emphasis: "Always be super-cautiouswith fire in the woods, son. You don't have any margin for error, noslack at all."
His father would have liked Homeworld, Tarlac thought; he'd been asmuch at home in the woods as he had at the gunnery controls of thedestroyer Victrix, where he'd been killed in the bloody running battlebetween Tanin and Cosmogard five years ago.
"Don't worry, Dad," Tarlac said softly. "I'll be careful." He'd beenaboard the Lindner at the time, as he had almost since the war'sbeginning. He'd had a Ranger's reserve then, and the detachment he'dthought was real had shielded him from the full hurt of his father'sdeath.
His mother had understood, too, when he called her instead of returningto Terra even for the memorial service. "He wouldn't have expected it,Steve," she'd said. "He was like you that way--duty first, always."
"If you need anything . . ."
"No, I'll be fine. You've both seen to it that I don't have anyfinancial worries, and your Aunt Betty will be staying with me forawhile. But . . . I do miss you, son."
"I know, Mother. I'll come home next time I make it to Terra."
And he had. Tarlac was suddenly very glad of that. He'd beenuncomfortable, vaguely guilty that he hadn't been able to feel moresorrow, but his mother had been happy to see him and made no effort tohide it. She'd let him leave without objecting, too, and he couldguess, now, how much that had cost her. If he made it back, he'd haveto let her know he did understand, and show her some of the open lovehe'd been unable to express before.
To make it back, though, he'd better stop reminiscing and get some workdone. The fire area was down to clear soil, so he stood and brushedoff his hands on the only cloth available, his shorts. Time to scoutaround for food, and the means to trap some animals.
The inner bark of the torva bush--actually a low-growing tree--made asubstitute for rope or twine, according to Hovan. But it was tough byTraiti standards, and damn near impenetrable for a human, even with aknife. By the time he'd peeled off a half-dozen strips, one hand wasblistered and the sun was getting low.
He settled on salvis root for dinner, apprehensive about handling aplant that bore a strong outward resemblance to poison oak, but he washungry. The small patch of salvis yielded plenty for him, though itwould have barely whetted a Traiti's appetite. Dessert came from atoli vine that was strangling a nearby soh tree--orange berries thatlooked something like jelly beans and smelled like dirty socks.Despite Hovan's assurances, he bit into the first one cautiously.Nothing that smelled that bad had a right to taste even halfway decent. . . Well, it might not have the right, he discovered, but itcertainly had the taste. He should have remembered Limburger cheese.These--he grinned and ate another--"Limburger berries" were sweet, justtart enough to bring out their flavor. They could easily become atrade item, a gourmet delicacy, if he managed to achieve a peace.
Back at his camp, Tarlac dug a shallow hole for the salvis rootsoff-center of his cleared fire area, and covered them with a thin layer ofdirt. He wished he could bake them coated with mud instead, but he hadnothing to carry water in. He swore briefly at the tradition thatdemanded a candidate spend the first night where he was dropped off,but it was a minor inconvenience, and he'd be travelling the next dayanyway.
Scrapings of dry bark smoldered in the
sparks made by his knifebladeand the fragment of quartz, grew into tiny flames, and, with theaddition of large twigs and then branches, became a small fire thatwould burn down into coals to cook his dinner. While he waited, hecould set his traps. Snare loops for small game would have to besturdier than on Terra, since like most things on Homeworld, therabbit-equivalents tended toward the large economy size.
It was dark when he reached camp again after setting the snares andpausing to dig a small latrine pit. He pushed the coals of his fireaside with a green stick and built them back into a blaze, which gavehim enough light to unearth his dinner--and he burned his fingers,incautiously trying to pick up the roots by hand. He called himselfseveral varieties of stupid while he sucked his fingers and speared thesalvis roots with his knife, setting them on soh leaves to cool. Bythe time they got down to eating temperature, his fingers had stoppedhurting, but he still wasn't too happy with himself. All right, it hadbeen quite a few years since he'd done any cooking, but that was noexcuse--he'd simply been careless. He'd also been lucky that there wasno real damage done.
What was done was done. Forget it.
He wiped his knife semi-clean on his shorts, scraped dirt and rind offthe roots, and ate. They might not be his favorite food, but they weregood enough, and filling. After a handful of Limburger berries, he satcomfortably near the crackling fire, his thoughts wandering as hewatched the dancing flames.
Hovan. His sponsor. He still didn't know exactly what thatrelationship meant, but the Traiti commando had come to mean a greatdeal to the human Ranger. More, perhaps, than anyone else he'd met.He visualized Hovan in forest green, then smiled at himself. Hovanwould never make a Ranger--he was too old, too molded by Fleetdiscipline, and far too clan-oriented--but there would be non-humanRangers someday, and eventually a non-human Sovereign. He liked thatidea. Intelligence was what counted, and the Traiti certainly had asmuch of that as any of the Imperial races.
There was no doubt in Tarlac's mind that if he made it through theOrdeal to end the war, it would be Hovan's doing as much as his own.Hovan's teaching, his quiet support, and most of all his caring, werewhat would bring the Ranger through his Ordeal if it were humanlypossible. He'd have to see that Hovan got the credit he deserved.
It was time to feed the fire and get some rest, if he wanted to make anearly start in the morning. His bed was leaves that rustled under hisweight as he settled down, then lay watching firelight reflect off theinside of his shelter. It was odd . . . he'd slept alone from the timehe was six until he boarded the Hermnaen, and he'd thought he wouldenjoy his privacy here--but he didn't. He missed the sleeproom, thecomfortable presence of his n'ruhar and the sounds of their quietbreathing as they slept. He smiled drowsily, thinking that he'd sharedsleeprooms with a lot of Traiti, and he'd never heard one snore . . .
As always outdoors, he slept lightly, waking from time to time to feedthe fire until dawn finally roused him for the day. Leftover rootsmade an adequate breakfast, and when he checked his snares he decidedthat either he was extremely lucky or noxi were even stupider thanHovan had told him. Three of his snares held prey, the beagle-earedHomeworld version of rabbits, and one was still reasonably intact. Thetwo carcasses a derybach had reached before he did meant that at leastone well-fed derybach should have no interest in human prey today, andone noxi was enough to supply him with moccasins and meat.
Satisfied, Tarlac salvaged his bark strips and returned to camp. Heimprovised a spit--a straight limb that would make a good spear, shapedto a point and fire-hardened--and put a haunch on to roast for lunch.Thanking whatever Traiti metallurgist had developed a knife alloy thatheld an edge under steady abuse, he set about making moccasins from thetough noxi skin, using his own foot as the pattern, gut for thread, andhis knife as an awl.
The crude lopsided moccasins felt good on his feet; he had soh-leafpouches to hold coals and the jerky he'd let the sun dry; and the spitdid indeed make a workable spear. Looking around his camp before heleft, Tarlac couldn't help feeling a sense of accomplishment. Hisshelter and equipment might not look like much, but they were his, inthe most personal way possible. It had been a long time since he'dconcerned himself with such basic essentials of survival, and somewhatto his surprise, he found the past day as satisfying as anything he'ddone for the Empire. He almost hated to leave the shaky leanto.
He set off toward the stream that would serve as his guide and watersupply. He wouldn't get far today, probably only three or fourkilometers, but it was a start, and his need to finish the Ordealwouldn't let him delay.
His leanto that night was considerably sturdier, thanks to the barkstrips, and he made camp closer to water, which let him wash his knifeand himself and provided cooking mud. Tarlac couldn't help laughing atthat incongruous idea, even as he slathered a thick layer onto theday's find of salvis roots. There were more than enough for a human,though again, not for a Traiti. It might be logical after all toinsist that candidates spend at least their first night in the richlyproductive test area near the clearing, and it was an equally goodreason, given Traiti food requirements, for most candidates to chooseto remain there.
The next five days settled into a routine of hiking and foraging,living on produce and his stored jerky. Other than a brief but heavyshower the third afternoon, the weather remained good; food wasabundant, if monotonous, and the only hostile wildlife he ran into wasa variety of insect something like an Alaskan mosquito with a decidedtaste for human flesh. Except for an occasional feeling of beingwatched, and his urgent reasons for being here at all, Tarlac wasenjoying himself. It was hard work, yes, and he looked forward to thecomfort of a sleeping mat and his n'ruhar's presence--but as he builthis shelter for the seventh and probably last night in the wilderness,he couldn't help feeling some regret that the closest thing he'd had toa vacation in ten years was coming to an end.