The Higher Frontier

by Christopher L. Bennett

  “Telepaths in species that shouldn’t be telepathic. Whose brains don’t have the anatomy for psi sensitivity, but are somehow charged with psionic energy anyway. Where does that power come from? Nobody’s ever explained it. So I don’t trust it. Maybe someone, or something, did convert them into telepaths. Maybe it’s some kind of infection—or infiltration.”

  Onami stared, troubled by the turn this was taking. She spoke carefully. “Do you have any evidence for that?”

  T’Nalae caught herself. “I’m not paranoid, Chief, if that’s what you’re thinking. And I wasn’t telepathically abused. The monks never forcibly melded with me or anything like that.”

  “I’m glad to hear that,” Onami said sincerely.

  “I may not repress my emotions, but I’m still capable of thinking logically. And I have a rational mistrust for what can’t be explained. Until and unless we can identify the basis for telepathy in species like humans and Andorians, we shouldn’t be so quick to embrace it. It may prove to be a maladaptive trait. As suggested by the fact that the Aenar were nearly extinct even before the massacre.”

  Onami rose to confront T’Nalae. Her height fell significantly short of the other woman’s, but she’d never let that hold her back. “Okay, then, what do your emotions say? What do they tell you about how it feels to have people assume the worst about you, to be unwilling to give you the benefit of the doubt?”

  T’Nalae stared back. “How does it make you feel, as a human, to hear these ‘New Humans’ tell you that you’re an evolutionary throwback? That they’ve grown beyond you into something bigger and better?”

  The chief stifled a laugh. The truth was, Onami had never much cared for humans outside her own family. The other species among whom she’d grown up on Nelgha had always seemed more interesting and easier to relate to. In her opinion, most humans were pretentious and full of themselves, so the New Humans hardly stood out from the pack. So T’Nalae’s attempted diversion had little effect.

  Aloud, she merely asked, “Have you heard them actually say that to anyone?”

  “It’s implicit. Oh, they say that their abilities prove that all humans have unlimited potential, but since only a fraction of humans demonstrate any actual psi capabilities, it rings hollow.”

  The rest of the session proved similarly unproductive. For all that Onami encouraged T’Nalae to see a different point of view, the specialist remained committed to her dislike for those who, in her opinion, denied or perverted the intrinsic nature of their species. When asked how she would relate to the Aenar survivors if it became necessary, T’Nalae merely pointed out that her specialization in astrophysics made it unlikely that she would be assigned to any duties associated with them. Onami found herself thinking that Commander Spock and the captain would probably agree on her unsuitability for the task, though for a different reason.

  That was the conclusion she reported to Doctor McCoy later in the evening, as they met in his sickbay office to discuss her casework. “I don’t know how to get through to her, Leonard.” Many officers would object to an enlisted person addressing them so familiarly, but McCoy was a civilian at heart, and their friendship had come a long way since its turbulent beginnings. “I’m tempted to say we should let her transfer off, but that would just make it some other crew’s problem. We can’t be the only ship with New Humans aboard. Or other kinds of people who ‘defy their species’ true nature.’ ” She sighed. “Besides, I understand her reasons for being so mistrustful. I don’t agree with how she’s acted on those feelings, but I get where they come from.”

  McCoy shook his head. “Unbelievable. An emotional Vulcan who’s having problems with telepathic humans. Did we cross over into an alternate universe again?

  “Frankly, I’m tempted to tell Spock that he should assign her to work with the Aenar. If she sees what they’re going through, gets to relate to them as victims, maybe she’ll learn something.” He sighed. “But no. After the hell the Aenar have been through, it’s not their job to help some arrogant kid have a learning experience. They’re the ones who need our help right now. If she’s not willing to be a part of that, then maybe she isn’t Starfleet material at all.”

  Onami chuckled. “You know me so well that I can count on you to carry my side of the argument without me needing to do a damn thing.”

  “I just try to preempt being yelled at by a shrill tiny person.”

  “Hey, I am not ‘shrill’!”

  They chuckled together, and Onami then grew serious again. “So … any theories yet on who or what killed the Aenar? And why?”

  McCoy shook his head, his shoulders sagging. “All we have are questions. But Spock’s heading out to search the ruins in the morning. If there’s anything there to be found, he’ll find it.” His angular eyebrows twitched and drew together. “This one … I don’t know. I’ve seen some horrific slaughters out there on the frontier. Billions of people killed on Maluria, on Gamma 7A. But this …”

  Onami nodded. “Right in the heart of the Federation. It’s scarier when it’s closer to home.”

  “It’s not just that.” He paused. “Spock once told me it was easier for us humans to understand one death than a million. He said if we could expand our hearts that much, feel those million deaths, it would’ve made our history less bloody.”

  “Do you think he was right?”

  “It’s a nice idea, but no. I think some tragedies are just so vast that we couldn’t survive it if we could feel the grief in proportion. It’s a mercy that they’re beyond our comprehension. But of course,” he went on sourly, “the downside is that seeing a million deaths as an abstraction makes it easier to inflict them too. Spock was right about that, at least.”

  She peered at him. “Amazing. You put the words Spock, was, and right together in that order without your head exploding.”

  “You tell him I said that and I’ll make something creative happen to your head. Anyway, I’m bein’ serious here, okay?”

  “You’re starting to cross over into maudlin. Remember, Leonard, I’m going to be counseling some of the Aenar survivors, trying to help them cope with this horror. I’ll be dealing with enough of a burden from them without you laying your sorrows on me too.”

  “Well, you were the one who brought it up,” McCoy protested, but she could hear the understanding and apology in his voice.

  She sighed. “I guess I shouldn’t ask what the chances are of saving the Aenar from extinction now. Don’t want to get even more depressed.”

  “I plan to investigate that question thoroughly, don’t you worry.” But McCoy’s attempt at confidence gave way to a worried grimace. “Though first we have to find out who did this—and stop them from finishing the job.”

  Four

  Aenar Compound

  Northern Wastes, Andoria

  Thelin th’Valrass stared at the splashes of dried blue blood on the broken wall before him, wondering how many of them had belonged to someone he knew.

  “Commander?” Spock’s voice drew Thelin out of his reverie, and he turned to face the half-Vulcan, finding an unexpectedly solicitous look on his craggy face. “If this is too difficult for you …”

  Thelin shook himself. “No, Mister Spock. The loss is painful, but it is the Andorian way to face our pain head-on. Our response to a loss is not passive grief, but the pursuit of retribution.” He took a breath, then added, “Though of course, as a Starfleet officer, I wish that retribution to be achieved through the capture and trial of the perpetrators, if at all possible.”

  “I commend your discipline,” Spock told him. “Yet I understand your anger. If there is one emotion whose value Vulcans have never denied, it is grief at the loss of life.” The Enterprise science officer studied him. “Did you know many of the Aenar well?”

  “I fear I did, Commander. For more than a decade, I have dedicated myself to improving relations between Andorians and Aenar. I have spent much time among these people.”

  “And done a lot of good,”
said Miranda Jones as she approached the two commanders, clambering gingerly over a low pile of rubble. The party stood on what remained of one of the city-block–sized, disk-shaped dwelling modules that jutted out on thick pylons from the central icy pillar of the cavern, not unlike the shape of a Constitution-class saucer and dorsal connector. The attackers had set the module on fire and blasted out many of its internal support walls, causing the roof of the module to cave in. Incongruously beautiful sunlight shone down in misty rays from the thin glacial roof above.

  Jones continued to speak as she drew nearer, though Thelin was not entirely sure whether the speaker was the human psychologist, the Medusan diplomat sharing her body, or some amalgam of the two. Ambassador Kollos’s mobile habitat was elsewhere in the ruined module, not currently in sight, but Thelin understood that their telepathic bond persisted across distance, at least on this scale. “As we understand it, you helped prove the viability of Aenar food production methods—showed that they could improve productivity in your fields without the need for further warming that could endanger the Aenar habitats. In the process, you even helped resolve a blood feud between the Aenar ruling family and the presider at the time.”

  “I merely helped others communicate the value of their knowledge,” Thelin demurred. “But I am gratified to have been in a position to provide that help.”

  Spock examined him. “If I may ask, Commander … is that the reason you chose to transfer to a ground posting on Andor?” At Thelin’s inquisitive expression, he elaborated, “I familiarized myself with your service record. You had an impressive career as a science officer on several starships.”

  Thelin smiled modestly. “The Aenar situation was only part of the reason. My goal back then was to continue rising through the ranks, perhaps even earn a captaincy.” His antennae curled wryly. “Unfortunately, Starfleet has no shortage of exemplary science officers. All the postings I could have been promoted into were already filled, so my career stalled.”

  He gave a slight chuckle. “To a degree, Mister Spock, I saw you as an obstacle.”

  Spock’s brows rose. “Me?”

  “Of course, you were not the only science officer who blocked my path to promotion. But you remained in the same posting for an unusual length of time. Had you moved on, it might have opened a slot for me aboard the Enterprise.”

  Spock’s expression was mysterious. “A plausible hypothesis.”

  “Or some other Constitution-class or comparable vessel, if their science officer had replaced you.” He shrugged. “In any case, once Captain Kirk succeeded Captain Pike in command of the Enterprise and you remained aboard, I began to suspect that my prospects for promotion were not likely to improve. My prospects worsened when we lost the Constellation, the Intrepid, and others. Of course, my thoughts were with the officers who were lost with those ships—but as a practical reality, the reduction in the size of the fleet reduced the prospects for transfer or advancement.”

  “I understand.”

  “So I reevaluated my priorities and decided it was better to transfer back home—to remain in Starfleet, but devote my efforts to the service of Andor and its people.” He smiled. “Please do not get the wrong impression—I am grateful that my starship career hit a dead end. For coming home has enabled me to help my people—of both subspecies. It has let me do my part in mending the rift between Andorian and Aenar. And it has brought me my greatest desire—a family.” A few years after coming home, he had met the lovely Thali sh’Dani, and they had swiftly fallen in love and been betrothed. There had been some resistance from the Eveste Elders to approving her request to bond to a quarter-Aenar thaan, due to the prejudices inflamed by the political tensions over the terraforming project. That, admittedly, was part of what had motivated Thelin to work so hard to improve relations. Finally, their request to join with a carefully selected chan and zhen in a procreative bondgroup had been approved, their shelthreth had been successful, and Cheremis, the beautiful zhei who had resulted from their union, was coming up on her sixth birthday.

  Spock’s eyes showed appreciation for Thelin’s sentiment. “It seems, then, that you have found your optimal path despite my presence on the Enterprise. I am gratified to learn that.”

  “Or perhaps because of it,” Thelin allowed. “So I do not begrudge you the success you have had in your own path, or the opportunities you still have for further advancement in the service.”

  The Vulcan looked away at the suggestion. “I have never sought command. Had I wished it, I could have achieved it on more than one occasion in the past.”

  Thelin studied him. “It has always seemed to me that command is not about what you desire for yourself … but what you can do for others. With your skills—and your insight—I believe you could do much good as a starship captain.”

  Spock considered his words quietly for a time. Finally, he said, “We should return our attention to the investigation. The good of the remaining Aenar, or any other potential victims of these attackers, is our immediate priority.”

  Thelin looked outward, examining the bloodstained wreckage around them. “You’re quite right, Mister Spock. My daughter is only one-sixteenth Aenar, but if someone hated them enough to do this, then no one with Aenar blood can be presumed safe until they are stopped.”

  “That is one puzzling thing about this attack,” Spock observed as they moved through the rubble. “If the motive were simple race hatred, one would expect an attack of opportunity. It would have been easier to strike against the various part-Aenar individuals living within Andorian society, such as yourself, Commander. Indeed, such a public attack would likely have promoted an agenda of hate and fear more successfully than this more thorough, yet more distant, slaughter, leaving no witnesses to tell the tale. Though this loss is stunning, to be sure, it is remote enough to feel abstract to many.”

  “Which tells me,” Thelin replied, “that the motive was not political. These killers did not wish to make a statement.” His antennae folded back grimly. “They merely wished to exterminate the Aenar—swiftly, efficiently, and thoroughly. And they have come very close to succeeding.”

  “Regrettably, yes. Which makes it at once more challenging and more urgent to discern their motivation.”

  “For now, I’d be happy to start with knowing how they did it,” came a new voice. Thelin turned to see the remaining member of their party, Lieutenant Mosi Nizhoni. The Enterprise’s deputy chief of security was a fairly young human woman with black hair and brownish skin, her uniform adorned with beaded decorations reflecting her heritage, an Earth people known as the Diné or Navajo. “The molecular disruption traces suggest they beamed in somewhere around here, but no known transporter could’ve gotten past the natural and artificial jamming fields around the compound. Not unless they were allowed in, which there’d be a record of in the defense computers. We’ve got the equivalent of a locked-room mystery.”

  “Perhaps we should focus on what we can learn from the evidence, Lieutenant,” Spock told her. “We may be able to deduce something from that.”

  The team proceeded to scan the ruined compound methodically. It was easy to remain engrossed in the tedious work, for the alternative was to think about the events that had produced the many bloodstains, burn marks, blade marks, and further scars of violence. Thelin analyzed those scars with care, hoping the attackers had left some trace of themselves behind that would identify them—or at least, that one or more of the Aenar had lived long enough to leave some message identifying their killers.

  Soon enough, Nizhoni called Thelin’s and Spock’s attention to something that might have been just that. “It was buried under a fall of rubble,” the young human told them as she showed them the dried blue-black scrawl that some dying Aenar had written in their own blood. “Maybe if the first teams had found it, we’d already know …”

  Thelin shook his head. “It tells us little, I think. It’s one word, in the ancient language we and the Aenar shared.”

  “Can
you read it?” Spock asked.

  “It appears to say ‘naazh.’ A kind of phantom from our ancient myths.” He looked around at the bloodstained rubble in disgust and frustration. “I refuse to believe that this was done by ghosts.”

  “Indeed. More likely the description is metaphorical. Possibly a foe with some form of personal cloak?”

  Thelin shook his head. “Naazh were not invisible like the phantoms of Terran lore. They were fearsome, demonic creatures. They took many forms, though, and struck in many ways, so the word alone tells us little. The one common aspect of the naazh was their savagery—and the fact that any who saw them clearly were as good as dead already.”

  Oresan Colony, Motar

  Andor system

  “Stop right there!”

  Pavel Chekov could barely spare the breath to shout the order, for he was running at top speed after his Andorian quarry as the three of them fled pell-mell through the narrow, mazelike alleys of Oresan. The mining town had been built up over the past two centuries within a vast underground lava dome on Motar, the second large moon of the gas giant Andoria orbited. Or rather, it had been built down, expanding into successively lower terraces as the floor of the domed cavern had been mined away layer by layer. The extremists Chekov pursued had already led him up two steep stairways in the course of this pursuit, and for once he was grateful for the diet and exercise program Doctor McCoy pushed him to maintain.

  Nevertheless, running in security armor and a helmet made him sweat copiously. Wiping perspiration from his brow, Chekov glanced up at the arrays of artificial lights hanging from the rocky, domed ceiling and reflected that this was an ironic place to hunt down a fringe group calling itself “Blue Sky.” But Andorian-supremacist groups like this one had often sought out recruits from isolated working-class communities such as this, where the inhabitants were used to mingling only with their own species and could be easily deceived into seeing non-Andorians as threats to their jobs and community values—never mind that mineral exports to other Federation worlds were what kept this town alive. A remote, offworld site like this was also a good place for extremist groups to hide out from Homeworld Security. Unless HS were engaged in a joint operation with Starfleet to track down the extremists wherever they went.