The Higher Frontier

by Christopher L. Bennett

  Spock directed the lift upward through the connecting dorsal toward the saucer section. Saavik gave him an inquisitive look of a kind he had seen on her many times before. “You seem satisfied with your current position here. Teaching cadets, conducting research and experimentation.”

  “Indeed. I had always resisted command, for I believed its responsibilities would preclude me from doing the work I consider myself best suited for. I am grateful to Admiral Kirk for arranging a position that allows me to continue doing that work in a new capacity.”

  “So you will be there as my teacher when I get to the Academy.”

  “Naturally.” The lift shifted forward, toward the upgraded research laboratory complex that was the next stop on their tour.

  “But what about after that?” Saavik pressed. “When I graduate the Academy, will you never be my captain again?”

  He addressed her seriously. “Saavik, you can only remain a student so long. In time, we all must grow beyond our teachers.”

  Her eyes flashed with impatience, as they often did when she felt he had missed her point. “It wasn’t me I was concerned about, Spock. Should you not grow as well? If you expect me to grow beyond you, should you not endeavor to grow beyond Admiral Kirk? He is only human, after all,” she added. “You can expect to outlive him by a century or more.”

  Spock straightened his shoulders. “In which case, there is abundant time before I must consider further change. For now, I am content to be a teacher.”

  Saavik held his gaze. “I can attest that you are a fine teacher. But there were times, with me, when you doubted it, did you not?”

  After a moment, Spock nodded, admitting, “Yes. It was a learning process for me as well.”

  The lift doors opened. Saavik stepped forward, but turned to block the doorway. “Then I make a request of you, my teacher. Let captaincy be your next learning process. Allow yourself the opportunity to master it.” She tilted her head forward challengingly. “Perhaps even to surpass the captains you learned from. After all, is it not the hope of every teacher to be surpassed by their pupil?”

  Spock remained motionless in the lift for several moments after Saavik exited. He allowed himself a feeling of satisfaction that Saavik might have already begun to fulfill that hope in him.

  San Francisco

  “Have you seen these?”

  Sulu grinned as he passed a civilian data slate across the restaurant table. Uhura leaned in to read over Chekov’s shoulder as the younger man picked it up and read the title displayed on it in a boxy, slanted font: STARFLEET: THE ENTERPRISE CHRONICLES.

  “Ugh, is this that adventure sim series they based on our missions?” Chekov asked with a grimace. “I’ve seen a few episodes. When Admiral Kirk called it ‘inaccurately larger than life,’ he was being generous. My accent is nowhere near that exaggerated! And my hair looks nothing like that.”

  Uhura looked at him sidelong. “At least your character gets plenty of lines. And the occasional love interest.”

  Sulu gestured in agreement. “Yeah, what about that?”

  “Now, I liked the older sim about Captain Garth,” Chekov insisted. “It helped inspire me to join Starfleet. It’s a shame they pulled it from circulation after his … breakdown at Antos IV.”

  “Honestly, this one isn’t that bad, if you step back and look at it objectively,” Uhura observed. “I wish they’d focused more on the junior officers’ contributions—and thrown in fewer gratuitous fistfights—but there’s some genuinely good writing. And they capture the importance of the work Starfleet does, the dangers and the benefits, quite well.” She shrugged. “Allowing for what they had to fictionalize to obscure the classified details.”

  “My hair is not a classified detail, Nyota.”

  “Well, kids love it,” Sulu said. “Demora’s addicted to it, though I worry that the violence is too adult for her.”

  Uhura smiled. It had only been a couple of months since Sulu had decided to stay on Earth to raise his seven-year-old daughter following the death of her mother, passing up a first-officer posting on the Bozeman in favor of a groundside posting as an astronavigation instructor at Starfleet Academy. He had struggled with the choice at the time, considering himself more suited to piloting than parenting, but Uhura was unsurprised at how naturally her friend had taken to fatherhood. His dedication, compassion, and irrepressible good spirits had been just what Demora had needed after the loss of her mother. And the decision might have saved Sulu’s life too, as the Bozeman had not been heard from for more than a month, since it had entered an uncharted region called the Typhon Expanse.

  Sulu gestured to the data slate. “Anyway, turns out the sim series is just the tip of the iceberg. There are tie-ins too.”

  “Tie-ins?” Chekov asked. “What in the world is a tie-in?”

  “You know, side merchandise created to supplement the main series. Ever since we stopped V’Ger from wiping out Earth, the public’s been hungry for more stories about the ‘heroic’ crew of the Enterprise. So besides the sim series, there are prose novels, graphic fiction, games … there are hundreds of installments.”

  “Hundreds?” Chekov protested. “But Starfleet has only cleared incidents from our first five-year mission, and not even all of those.”

  “That’s the point,” Sulu said, his grin widening. “The main series adapts our real missions—mostly—but the tie-ins go further afield. Sometimes they do stories that are loosely based on uncleared missions, using what they can reconstruct from news reports and such. But a lot of the time, they completely make things up. Go on, take a look—this stuff is crazy.”

  Uhura leaned closer and read over Chekov’s shoulder as he paged through the illustrated serials on the data slate, reacting with startlement and laughter to what they beheld.

  “They just annihilated those plant creatures! No attempt at communication!”

  “Is that a papier-mâché Eiffel Tower?”

  “The bottled emotions of ancient Vulcans? I really don’t think that’s how it works.”

  “Good Lord, are those gnomes?”

  “And these characters look even less like us than the ones in the sim!” Chekov cried.

  “At least they didn’t make you a blonde,” Uhura countered.

  “Cheer up, Pavel,” Sulu said, patting Chekov on the shoulder. “I’m sure you’ll get a starring role in the inevitable Reliant Chronicles spin-off.”

  “That’s right!” Uhura said, squeezing his other shoulder and beaming broadly. “Second officer at last! At this rate, you’ll beat Sulu in the first-officer race for sure.”

  Chekov flushed. “Well, only because he stayed to raise Demora.”

  “Hey, don’t think I won’t be envying you, Pavel,” Sulu said. “Those light cruisers get all sorts of interesting missions.”

  “True. And I’ll be able to come back and visit you and Demora more often than on a heavy cruiser.” Miranda-class vessels like the Reliant, Uhura knew, tended to be workhorse ships, sent on short-term missions of various types as needed and otherwise staying close to home, as opposed to the Enterprise’s long-term patrol and exploration tours.

  “She’ll be glad of that. She really likes having you around.”

  Chekov sighed. “But it will be an adjustment. Very few familiar faces.”

  “Didn’t you arrange to bring Mosi Nizhoni aboard as security chief?” Uhura asked.

  “Yes—she’s earned it. And John Kyle’s aboard too.”

  “Kyle!” Uhura grinned. “I haven’t seen him in years.”

  “Well, you’ll be pleased to hear he’s followed in your footsteps. He’s Reliant’s communications officer now.”

  “Really! Be sure to pass along my congratulations.”

  Sulu smiled at her. “Aren’t you due for congratulations too, Nyota? Scotty tells me you’re joining him on the Asimov as chief science officer.”

  Chekov grinned in surprise. “Science officer? Is there no end to your talents?”

  Uh
ura lowered her eyes demurely. “It’s only because the Asimov’s mission requires expertise in subspace radiometry. We’ll be charting subspace density anomalies that could potentially be used for gravitational lensing. It’s a technique developed by the Agni, a way to amplify subspace sensor and communication beams to allow greatly enhanced range and precision.”

  “Don’t be modest,” Sulu said. “I studied the Agni incident—weren’t you the one who found the key to establishing communication with them?”

  “I was just part of the team,” she replied. “But yes, that was the beginning of my interest in their communication and detection methods. It should be useful on the mission.”

  “The Asimov,” Chekov mused. “That’s an older ship, right? Malachowski class?”

  “Another light cruiser,” Sulu said. “Compact, maneuverable … a classic.”

  “Well, we’re not likely to see a lot of action charting subspace anomalies. And Scotty’s had nothing but complaints about the antiquated systems and all the repairs and overhauls he’ll have to do on the fly.” Uhura grinned wider. “He couldn’t be happier.”

  The three commanders laughed together, continuing to compare ship specs and mission plans and hopes and dreams. They all knew that this would be the last time they would get to do this for a while. Missions would come and go, to be sure, and they would have their share of downtime between them; but the Enterprise family was starting to branch out in different directions, and Uhura, Sulu, and Chekov all knew that was likely to continue. They had managed to stick together for a dozen years, on and off, but now they were starting to grow up and leave the nest.

  Uhura glanced at Sulu’s data slate and the colorful fantasy version of the Enterprise that it portrayed. In fiction, if you wanted more adventures of the same cast of friends and heroes, you could keep them together indefinitely, installment after installment, for as long as the audience’s interest remained. But real life tended to be more impermanent. What they had shared on the Enterprise was special, something that came along once in a lifetime—and they had managed to have it twice already.

  What were the odds that it would ever come again?

  Ten

  U.S.S. Reliant NCC-1864

  Two months later

  Captain Clark Terrell leaned back in his seat at the head of the long briefing room table and grinned. “We’re going to Dog Territory,” he said.

  Chekov asked the question before he could stop himself. “Dogs, sir?”

  Inwardly, he winced. In the six weeks since he’d come aboard the Reliant as its second officer and science officer, he’d already gained a reputation as a humorless Herbert, as his old flame Irina would have put it. Not only was he insecure about his new responsibilities, but he was still learning to adjust to Captain Terrell’s laid-back, occasionally whimsical command style and playful camaraderie with his crew. Captain Kirk had been anything but a grim martinet, of course, but his humor had been more tempered, balanced by a strong sense of discipline and command authority. Terrell, while a big, intimidating man in appearance, had a more avuncular command style that somewhat reminded Chekov of Commander Scott, and the established command crew shared a camaraderie that made Chekov feel like an outsider, even though none of the others had deliberately created that impression. Indeed, Terrell’s first officer, Commander Rem Azem-Os—a mature Aurelian with resplendent green-and-gold plumage, diminutive for her people and thus about average humanoid height—had figuratively taken Chekov under her literal wing from the start, making it clear that she planned to retire within the next couple of years and was grooming him as her replacement (not literally, fortunately, since her beak and talons looked alarmingly sharp). Having Nizhoni and Kyle on board alongside him also helped keep him from feeling completely isolated.

  But Chekov was still searching for his balance with Captain Terrell. Their careers had nearly intersected once before, at the climactic battle with the Tholians over the now-destroyed Starbase Vanguard, but it was hard to make that a basis for casual conversation when nearly everything about it was classified. The fact that Terrell had earned his captaincy of the Sagittarius in that battle through the death of its commanding officer also made it seem like a topic best avoided.

  In any case, Terrell and the rest of the department heads around the briefing room table seemed no more than mildly amused by Chekov’s naïve question. The captain shrugged as he went on. “Well, that’s what Chinese astronomers called the region, anyway. The eighth mansion of their zodiac. European astronomers called it Terebellum, and it’s the home of the Omega Sagittarii star system.” He showed no outward reaction to the coincidental reminder of his first command. “Terebellum’s also the name of the colony on Omega Sagittarii II, which was started some sixty years ago and is home to about ninety thousand settlers, mostly human, Arbazan, and Suliban.”

  “Suliban?” The question came from Lieutenant Commander Ralston Beach, the chief helmsman and assistant science officer. “Weren’t they hostile to humans about a hundred years ago?” the jowly, dark-haired man continued in a strong New York accent. Chekov respected that the man made no effort to hide his regional origins in the way he spoke.

  “Now, now, Stoney, don’t generalize,” Azem-Os chided gently, crossing her spindly arms over the front of her modified uniform, a backless halter designed to accommodate her impressive green-gold wings. “As I recall, they were a refugee people, driven from their homeworld by war and wandering the galaxy. It left one faction of them vulnerable to radicalization, and they were genetically augmented by a terrorist leader whose identity remains unknown to this day. But most Suliban were peaceful wanderers just looking for a place to live and be accepted.”

  “And Terebellum has been such a place for them,” Terrell added. “But lately there’s been unrest, and it’s apparently coming from the human side.”

  Beach looked abashed. “Not over old grudges, I hope?”

  “More like something new. Specifically the New Humans. Terebellum has become one of their primary enclaves, but there have been a number of recent disputes between them and the rest of the colony.” He turned to his second officer. “Mister Chekov. I understand you were involved in the incident last year that’s provoked the recent changes in the New Human movement.”

  Chekov was startled, but not truly surprised. He had been expecting something like this. “Yes, Captain. I lost several crewmates who were associated with the movement.”

  Terrell nodded gravely. “I appreciate your loss, Pavel. But since you’re familiar with the movement, maybe you could offer some perspective on what’s been going on with them this past year.”

  “Well, sir … in the year since the extermination of the Aenar and the sacrifice of the Enterprise’s esper personnel in their defense, the New Human communities on Earth and other human-populated worlds have grown more organized, more consolidated. They’ve gathered together and worked harder to cultivate and strengthen their psionic powers. I understand they have made significant gains.”

  The Reliant’s chief medical officer, Doctor Bianca Wilder, leaned forward, her cornrowed black hair brushing against her shoulders. “And in the process, they’ve become more insular, setting themselves apart from other humans. Even most of the espers in Starfleet have resigned their commissions to join the movement. I got into it with a good friend of mine when she decided to resign. She said she thought Starfleet was too backward, too focused on the physical. That she’d rather focus on ‘evolving to a higher level of consciousness.’ ”

  “Can you blame them, Doctor, for wanting to band together after what happened to the Aenar?”

  Wilder’s striking African features softened marginally. “The loss of the Aenar was tragic, Mister Chekov, and I sympathize that you had to be involved with it. But there’s no evidence that their killers were reacting specifically to their telepathy. After all, no other telepathic individuals were targeted in their attacks—except for those among your own crew who got between them and the Aenar,” s
he finished gently.

  “Be fair, Bianca,” Terrell said. “Despite all that, seeing another telepathic minority exterminated, along with some of their own, must have hit them hard. We all cope with tragedies on that scale in our own ways. Sometimes by drawing closer to those who can understand what we’re going through.”

  “Yes, exactly,” Chekov said. “Thank you, sir.”

  Terrell caught his eye. “On the other hand, sometimes people react to tragedy by acting out in harmful ways. Which sounds like it might be the case on Terebellum. So we need to keep an open mind either way, right, Commander?”

  Chekov nodded. “Yes, Captain. To be honest, I’ve expected some kind of tension to arise between the espers and other humans. I wasn’t sure which direction it would come from, though.” After a moment, he made a pointed addition. “And we still don’t know. I presume the call for Starfleet assistance came from the non-esper colonists.”

  “A fair point, Mister Chekov. Naturally, we’ll go in with open minds and hear both sides. So far this doesn’t seem to be anything more than some neighborly squabbles and civil unrest,” Terrell pointed out. “Our job is to patch things up before it gets any worse.”

  Azem-Os shook her feathered head convulsively and snuffled through her beak. “Family squabbles can be the worst of all. I don’t expect this to be easy.”

  Terebellum Colony, Omega Sagittarii II

  “These charges of ‘disruption’ are nothing but an attempt to discredit us,” Leilani Sungkar protested in calm, controlled tones.

  Clark Terrell considered the New Human community’s regal, gray-haired leader as she spoke. Sungkar sat on one side of the rectangular, open-centered conference table, flanked by two of her fellow espers, Ravi Mehrotra and Maya Arias. While they did not dress in the same sheer robes that were fashionable among New Humans on Earth, they wore loose, low-cut tunics in similarly bright colors. They sat close to one another and projected a sense of serenity that reminded him of the Deltans he’d met, though that smooth surface was marred by ripples of submerged anger and distress.