Chapter V
So this was Homeworld's wilderness. Tarlac watched Hovan's car disappear, then checked out his surroundings to see what he'd have to work with. It was almost uncomfortably warm now, at nearly mid-morning, but that wouldn't last. The weather was clear; come nightfall, he'd need a way to keep warm.
The clearing was about six meters across and roughly circular, with traces of another camp near the northern edge, shaded by the broad silvery-green leaves of a soh tree. Tarlac grinned at that, remembering his lessons. A soh tree, with its palm-like leaves and sticky sap, was pretty good material for a shelter—which was considerably simpler than trying to improvise clothing.
He'd be spending the night here, so he'd better get started. Taking advantage of all the shade he could, since Homeworld's sun put out more ultraviolet than Terra's, he cut sticks for a leanto framework, then climbed up the soh tree and began one-handedly hacking off the tough-stemmed leaves. It was hard work, but it shouldn't take more than a couple dozen of the big leaves to make a decent shelter.
The resultant structure of leaves laid over notched, sap-smeared sticks, he judged, might possibly last, if it didn't have to stand up to more than a gentle breeze. It would have to do; he didn't have any other fastening material, and it only had to survive for one night anyway.
His next priority was water, which was no problem. This part of Homeworld's main continent had abundant drainage, and from the air he had already spotted one of the streams that fed the capital's reservoir. It was less than a hundred meters away, and it would be his guide out of the forest, as well as his water supply.
Tarlac had no desire to disable his only means of transportation, so when he went for a drink, he watched where he put his feet. The water was good, clear and cold, and Hovan had assured him of its purity. None of the Traiti worlds had any pollution worth mentioning; Traiti technology was roughly equivalent to the Empire's, but had been achieved far more slowly, and the by-products had never been allowed to get out of control.
Refreshed, Tarlac surveyed his problems. He had water and shelter; he still needed food, fire, and foot protection, not necessarily in that order. Food, now at mid-autumn, was as plentiful as water, and there was nothing he could do about foot protection at the moment, so that made fire his next priority. There were plenty of likely-looking rocks on the streambed; some, he remembered from a survival course he'd taken years ago, might work nearly as well as flint. He waded into the stream and selected a handful, putting them on the bank to dry while he planned.
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 much gear; it wasn't as if he was Robinson Crusoe, having to live off the land indefinitely. He'd be out twenty days, at the most. He would have to have some kind of shoes, though; his feet were simply too tender for him to walk fifty kilometers barefoot, even through this open, leaf-carpeted forest. Some kind of long-distance weapon, say a spear or a crude bow, would be useful, too, and effective enough at the relatively short ranges a forest allowed. Anything else would be strictly a convenience. It would be nice if he could rig some way to carry coals so he wouldn't have to start a fire from scratch every night… He shrugged. That wasn't very likely, and speed was his main consideration, so it might be just as well for him to travel light.
By the time he came to that conclusion, the stones were dry enough to strike sparks if they were going to. He went through them methodically, hitting each one against the flat of his knife. Two of the first six did spark, weakly; he set them aside and kept going. The next five did nothing at all, and he was beginning to think he'd have to make do with one of the weak ones. Then the twelfth, a small rock that looked like pinkish quartz, gave a big bright spark that made him whistle in relief and admiration. Tossing the other stones back in the stream, he put the quartz in the pocket of his shorts and headed back for the clearing, picking up dry wood on the way.
He found a gratifying number of animal traces as well, both trails and pawprints, and he hoped few of them were predators. He might not be Robinson Crusoe, but he wasn't Tarzan either, and the idea of tackling a 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 it was a sure bet that animal skins would make better moccasins than soh leaves would!
His leanto was still standing in the clearing, though it looked ludicrously flimsy. He stacked the wood next to it, then began scraping leaves and other debris to make a safe spot for a fire in front of it. He hadn't needed Hovan to tell him that; this part was no different from his childhood camping trips. He could almost hear his father's voice, its calm but firm emphasis: "Always be super-cautious with fire in the woods, son. You don't have any margin for error, no slack at all."
His father would have liked Homeworld, Tarlac thought; he'd been as much at home in the woods as he had at the gunnery controls of the destroyer Victrix, where he'd been killed in the bloody running battle between Tanin and Cosmogard five years ago.
"Don't worry, Dad," Tarlac said softly. "I'll be careful." He'd been aboard the Lindner at the time, as he had almost since the war's beginning. He'd had a Ranger's reserve then, and the detachment he'd thought was real had shielded him from the full hurt of his father's death.
His mother had understood, too, when he called her instead of returning to 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 any financial worries, and your Aunt Betty will be staying with me for awhile. 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 been uncomfortable, vaguely guilty that he hadn't been able to feel more sorrow, but his mother had been happy to see him and made no effort to hide it. She'd let him leave without objecting, too, and he could guess, now, how much that had cost her. If he made it back, he'd have to let her know he did understand, and show her some of the open love he'd been unable to express before.
To make it back, though, he'd better stop reminiscing and get some work done. The fire area was down to clear soil, so he stood and brushed off his hands on the only cloth available, his shorts. Time to scout around for food, and the means to trap some animals.
The inner bark of the torva bush—actually a low-growing tree—made a substitute for rope or twine, according to Hovan. But it was tough by Traiti standards, and damn near impenetrable for a human, even with a knife. By the time he'd peeled off a half-dozen strips, one hand was blistered and the sun was getting low.
He settled on salvis root for dinner, apprehensive about handling a plant that bore a strong outward resemblance to poison oak, but he was hungry. The small patch of salvis yielded plenty for him, though it would have barely whetted a Traiti's appetite. Dessert came from a toli vine that was strangling a nearby soh tree—orange berries that looked 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 it certainly had the taste. He should have remembered Limburger cheese. These—he grinned and ate another—"Limburger berries" were sweet, just tart enough to bring out their flavor. They could easily become a trade item, a gourmet delicacy, if he managed to achieve a peace.
Back at his camp, Tarlac dug a shallow hole for the salvis roots off-center of his cleared fire area, and covered them with a thin layer of dirt. He wished he could bake them coated with mud instead, but he had nothing to carry water in. He swore briefly at the tradition that demanded a candidate spend the first night where he was dropped off, but it was a minor inconvenience, and he'd be travelling the next day anyway.
Scrapings of dry bark smoldered in the sparks made by his knifeblade and the fragment of quartz, grew into tiny flames, and, with the addition of large twigs and then branches, became a small fire that would burn down into coals to cook his dinner. While he waited, he could set his traps. Snare loops for small game would have to be sturdier than on Terra, since like most things on Homeworld, the rabbit-equivalents tended toward the large economy size.
It was dark when he reached camp again after setting the snares and pausing to dig a small latrine pit. He pushed the coals of his fire aside with a green stick and built them back into a blaze, which gave him enough light to unearth his dinner—and he burned his fingers, incautiously trying to pick up the roots by hand. He called himself several varieties of stupid while he sucked his fingers and speared the salvis roots with his knife, setting them on soh leaves to cool. By the time they got down to eating temperature, his fingers had stopped hurting, but he still wasn't too happy with himself. All right, it had been quite a few years since he'd done any cooking, but that was no excuse—he'd simply been careless. He'd also been lucky that there was no real damage done.
What was done was done. Forget it.
He wiped his knife semi-clean on his shorts, scraped dirt and rind off the roots, and ate. They might not be his favorite food, but they were good enough, and filling. After a handful of Limburger berries, he sat comfortably near the crackling fire, his thoughts wandering as he watched the dancing flames.
Hovan. His sponsor. He still didn't know exactly what that relationship meant, but the Traiti commando had come to mean a great deal to the human Ranger. More, perhaps, than anyone else he'd met. He visualized Hovan in forest green, then smiled at himself. Hovan would never make a Ranger—he was too old, too molded by Fleet discipline, and far too clan-oriented—but there would be non-human Rangers someday, and eventually a non-human Sovereign. He liked that idea. Intelligence was what counted, and the Traiti certainly had as much of that as any of the Imperial races.
There was no doubt in Tarlac's mind that if he made it through the Ordeal 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, were what would bring the Ranger through his Ordeal if it were humanly possible. 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 an early start in the morning. His bed was leaves that rustled under his weight as he settled down, then lay watching firelight reflect off the inside of his shelter. It was odd … he'd slept alone from the time he was six until he boarded the Hermnaen, and he'd thought he would enjoy his privacy here—but he didn't. He missed the sleeproom, the comfortable presence of his n'ruhar and the sounds of their quiet breathing as they slept. He smiled drowsily, thinking that he'd shared sleeprooms with a lot of Traiti, and he'd never heard one snore…
As always outdoors, he slept lightly, waking from time to time to feed the fire until dawn finally roused him for the day. Leftover roots made an adequate breakfast, and when he checked his snares he decided that either he was extremely lucky or noxi were even stupider than Hovan had told him. Three of his snares held prey, the beagle-eared Homeworld version of rabbits, and one was still reasonably intact. The two carcasses a derybach had reached before he did meant that at least one well-fed derybach should have no interest in human prey today, and one noxi was enough to supply him with moccasins and meat.
Satisfied, Tarlac salvaged his bark strips and returned to camp. He improvised a spit—a straight limb that would make a good spear, shaped to a point and fire-hardened—and put a haunch on to roast for lunch. Thanking whatever Traiti metallurgist had developed a knife alloy that held an edge under steady abuse, he set about making moccasins from the tough noxi skin, using his own foot as the pattern, gut for thread, and his knife as an awl.
The crude lopsided moccasins felt good on his feet; he had soh-leaf pouches to hold coals and the jerky he'd let the sun dry; and the spit did indeed make a workable spear. Looking around his camp before he left, Tarlac couldn't help feeling a sense of accomplishment. His shelter and equipment might not look like much, but they were his, in the most personal way possible. It had been a long time since he'd concerned himself with such basic essentials of survival, and somewhat to his surprise, he found the past day as satisfying as anything he'd done for the Empire. He almost hated to leave the shaky leanto.
He set off toward the stream that would serve as his guide and water supply. He wouldn't get far today, probably only three or four kilometers, but it was a start, and his need to finish the Ordeal wouldn't let him delay.
His leanto that night was considerably sturdier, thanks to the bark strips, and he made camp closer to water, which let him wash his knife and himself and provided cooking mud. Tarlac couldn't help laughing at that incongruous idea, even as he slathered a thick layer onto the day'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 to insist that candidates spend at least their first night in the richly productive test area near the clearing, and it was an equally good reason, given Traiti food requirements, for most candidates to choose to 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 heavy shower the third afternoon, the weather remained good; food was abundant, if monotonous, and the only hostile wildlife he ran into was a variety of insect something like an Alaskan mosquito with a decided taste for human flesh. Except for an occasional feeling of being watched, and his urgent reasons for being here at all, Tarlac was enjoying himself. It was hard work, yes, and he looked forward to the comfort of a sleeping mat and his n'ruhar's presence—but as he built his 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 to a vacation in ten years was coming to an end.