The Higher Frontier

by Christopher L. Bennett

  She shook her head. “I have no idea what I need. No idea what could help.”

  He cleared his throat faintly. “There are Vulcan techniques for assisting those who have experienced the death of a bondmate. They involve the use of a mind-meld to allow the bereaved party to draw on another’s mental stability and strength. It is not the same, but the methods may be adaptable.”

  She was silent for a long moment, growing even more still and withdrawn. “No,” she said at length. “I can’t.”

  “You need not suffer alone, Miranda. Nine years ago, when I was the one lying in sickbay, you melded with me and helped me fight my way back to sanity. I ask that you allow me to repay the favor.”

  “Forgive me, Mister Spock,” she replied with some bitterness. “But it is not your state of mind that concerns me right now. I cannot tolerate sharing my mind with any other but his. Not so soon.”

  The disadvantage of Spock’s choice to acknowledge his emotions was that it left him vulnerable to having them hurt. But he still had his Vulcan disciplines to draw on, so he tempered the feeling, reminding himself of the far deeper pain Jones must now be enduring. No doubt she was retreating behind her old barriers of aloof reserve as a defense mechanism, as she had been prone to do when Spock had first known her.

  “I understand,” he said in an even tone. “And I apologize for the suggestion. But if there is anything else—”

  “All I need right now is to be left alone. Let me sleep.”

  “Very well.” He turned and walked away. He knew she would be no more inclined to accept any empty words wishing her a good rest than he was to offer them.

  He noted Doctor Christine Chapel standing in the doorway to the examination room, watching him and Doctor Jones. Nodding at her, he followed her through the exam room into the lab outside the CMO’s office. McCoy was currently off duty, recovering from his efforts on behalf of the wounded the previous day, so the office was empty.

  “I confess,” Spock said once the doors had closed between them and the ward, “I do not know how I can help her.”

  The brown-haired assistant CMO touched his arm lightly. There was nothing behind it save friendship, for Chapel had long since outgrown her infatuation with Spock. “It’s for her to decide what help she needs, and from whom. Don’t try to make it your responsibility. That won’t help her or you.”

  He nodded, taking in her words. “I understand, Christine.”

  “What she needs is someone who can help her cope with a fundamental change in her life. Honestly, I’m not sure any of us around here are really qualified for that.”

  He furrowed his brows. “What is your basis for that skepticism, Doctor?”

  Chapel gave a slight chuckle. “The fact that we’re all still here.” She sighed. “You remember that talk we had a few years back, when I decided I needed to leave the Enterprise if I ever wanted to get out from under Leonard’s shadow?”

  Spock nodded. “I do.”

  “I said it wouldn’t be right away, but soon, once the time felt right. But one thing after another kept coming up, so I kept putting it off. And before I knew it, a year had passed, and then another, and eventually I just resigned myself to seeing out the rest of the five years along with everyone else.” She frowned. “No, not ‘resigned.’ I realized that I was content here, with my friends, more than I might be somewhere else. That having to keep reminding Leonard that I wasn’t his head nurse anymore was a small price to pay for what I could achieve aboard the Enterprise.” The frown became an affectionate smile. “And to his credit, he did get the hang of it in time.”

  “You suggest that our contentment with our status quo aboard the Enterprise has made us complacent, and thus resistant to embracing change.”

  “That’s one way of looking at it, I suppose.”

  Spock raised a brow, gazing thoughtfully toward the sickbay ward beyond the closed doors. “By happenstance, both Doctor Jones and Commander Thelin have recently raised a similar subject with me, concerning why I have not yet sought command.” He turned back to Chapel. “I recall that in the aforementioned conversation four years ago, you were the first to suggest the possibility to me.”

  She shrugged. “I had change on my mind. Even months after V’Ger, I still didn’t believe Admiral Nogura would let Captain Kirk keep the ship—I expected him to get called back to the admiralty at any time. It seemed … logical … that you might be offered command in his place.” She smiled at Spock. “I seem to recall you saying that you weren’t in any rush—that you were still savoring your new path. Maybe that helped me change my mind about rushing to leave. There’s still time to explore other paths, after this mission is over.”

  Chapel studied him. “And what about you? Have you given any more thought to exploring the path of command?”

  “The matter has been on my mind of late, due to the frequency with which it has been raised in recent days. However, that coincidental convergence is not sufficient in itself to motivate me to make such a decision. For the moment, my attention remains on the Naazh situation and the investigation of the remaining mysteries regarding the affair.”

  “I’d expect nothing less,” Chapel said. “But once the affair is over, what then?”

  “Like you, I am content to complete the remaining months of our tour under Captain Kirk’s leadership. As for my subsequent choices … I shall consider them when the time comes. There is still no need to rush.”

  Chapel smiled. “That’s what I told myself four years ago. Try not to get too comfortable thinking that way.”

  * * *

  The next morning, the Enterprise docked at Sector Headquarters’ orbital spacedock, where it would be berthed for the next two weeks while its entire recreation complex and the damaged portion of the exterior hull were rebuilt. Commander Thelin took his leave then, along with his daughter. Spock saw them off at the main gangway hatch. “It has been a privilege to make your acquaintance, Commander. I regret that our meeting did not have a more positive outcome.”

  “I am attempting to focus on what positives there are, Mister Spock,” Thelin replied. “If nothing else, the threat appears to be ended. The Naazh, for whatever reason, only seemed to target pure Aenar. And the majority of the killers are dead. Kollos achieved that victory, at least. Revenge may not be the Starfleet way,” he added, “but the Andorian in me is not ashamed to take some comfort in it. My people will honor the ambassador’s sacrifice.”

  Spock studied him and his child, though Cheremis stood quietly behind him, subdued in the wake of her ordeal. “What do you imagine the legacy of the Aenar will be? Will the surviving hybrids assimilate into Andorian society, or will they attempt to preserve what they can of their unique culture and history?”

  Thelin sighed. “I shall strive to preserve whatever I can, certainly. I am already planning to petition the government to declare the Aenar compound a historic site, so that the atrocity committed there is never forgotten. If any pro-terraforming factions see the Aenar’s effective extinction as free rein to melt the icecaps and see the last of the Aenar’s homeland washed away, they will find themselves facing a battle.”

  “I imagine there will be little sympathy for their position. It is unfortunate that so many humanoids must experience the loss of something before they understand the importance of preserving it. Only in rare circumstances do they have the opportunity to … go back … and set it right.”

  Thelin tilted his antennae quizzically. “One day, Mister Spock, I hope you and your captain are free to tell me what it is about me that has occasioned so many meaningful looks and loaded pauses. I presume it involves some classified matter, but I cannot imagine why it would involve me.”

  Spock almost smiled. “You may trust, Mister Thelin, that any connection of the matter to your life is only … at second hand. And it is a matter of the past, resolved many years ago.”

  “Very well,” Thelin replied. “I will pry no further.”

  “A wise decision.” Spock ga
zed at Cheremis again, and this time he did ever so slightly smile. The smile he received from the girl in return was quick and brilliant. “You have your own future to build, Commander. And I will leave you to it.” He raised his hand, fingers split. “Live long and prosper in your world, Commander Thelin.”

  Thelin furrowed his brow, still confused, but returned the gesture with thanks. “And you in yours, Commander Spock.”

  * * *

  Kirk gazed out the tall windows of the officers’ lounge, watching the flock of work bees and repair drones installing new hull plates at the rear of the Enterprise’s saucer. While he was glad to see his ship’s full functionality—and beauty—restored, he found the sight unsatisfying, for in many ways, the wound remained open. He would always regard the loss of the Aenar as one of the greatest failures of his career, even though he could not think of anything he could have done differently. But as long as the Naazh remained a mystery—remained phantoms—his questions and his doubts would linger in his mind.

  “Captain,” came a familiar voice. He turned to greet Miranda Jones as she emerged from the entry foyer. “I was told I could find you here.”

  She was quieter, more solemn, than the Jones/Kollos fusion he had come to know over the past two weeks, yet without the prickly pride of her younger self. Still, it was a relief to see her up and about. After two days in sickbay during which she had mostly slept, she had spent another day and a half locked away in her VIP cabin, admitting no visitors.

  “How are you feeling?” he asked tentatively, reaching out a hand to guide her down the steps into the seating area before the windows. The old Miranda Jones would have seen it as condescension, and perhaps then it would have been; but now, she welcomed the offered contact.

  “That’s a hard question to answer, Captain. I’d first have to define who ‘I’ currently am.” She shook her head. “For so long, the two of us were a single consciousness. Kollos and I retained ourselves, but we were blended, the sides of a coin. I barely remember what it was like to be … just me.” She lowered her head. “Except that it never made me happy.”

  Kirk took her hand. “I only knew you briefly before you were joined to Kollos,” he said. “At the time, I was too young, too blinded by the superficial, to truly appreciate your strengths. I’ve rarely met anyone with such firm conviction about who they were, in defiance of all others’ expectations of who they should be.

  “From where I stood, what it was like to be Doctor Miranda Jones … was to be radiant.”

  She gave him a skeptical look. “Trying to flatter me again, Jim?” But her fingers clung to his, and he could sense how much she craved a connection to someone beyond herself.

  “After the way you shot me down the first time?” Smiling, he shook his head. “I know better now than to think I could get away with any insincerity around you, Miranda. You’re one of the most perceptive individuals I’ve ever known—extrasensory or otherwise.”

  Nine years ago, he would have tried to kiss her. In fact, he had, only to get pushed away. Now, he would never try to impose in that way on someone so vulnerable.

  So it came as quite a surprise when she kissed him.

  “Surprise” was underselling it. The kiss was everything he had imagined back then—and surely would never have gotten from her at the time. It was passionate, warm, open, hopeful, trusting …

  Vulnerable.

  Kirk let himself enjoy the kiss for several moments before working up the self-discipline to push her away. “Miranda …”

  She flushed, drawing back. “I—I’m sorry, Jim. Captain. That was inappropriate.”

  “No,” he said gently. “I understand why you needed it. And that’s … why I can’t. Not yet. Like you said, you need to find yourself first. Once you know what you want, then … Well.”

  She gave a small, grateful smile, then cleared her throat. “Yes, well. In any case, I can’t stay long. I’ve decided … I’m going to Earth. I want to work with the New Humans there. With the way their psionic powers have been growing, maybe … they could help me to cope. Fill the void in some limited way. And if I could, I’d like to try to help them cope with the loss of some of their own. As you can imagine, they’re an exceptionally close-knit community.”

  Kirk nodded. As much as he wished he could be her white knight, he knew her fellow telepaths would be better for her. They could understand her needs in ways he never could. “Of course. I know the New Humans aboard the Enterprise held you in the highest esteem. I’m certain they’ll welcome you.”

  Jones straightened her shoulders. “Jim … Starfleet should be vigilant. There are still at least two Naazh unaccounted for. The Aenar might not have been the only ones on their hit list.”

  “I agree,” Kirk said. “And so does Admiral Morrow. Rest assured—we will be watching for future attacks.”

  After a concerned pause, she replied. “I know you’ll be watching, Jim. I just pray that you’ll be ready.”

  INTERLUDE

  Eight

  U.S.S. Enterprise

  Seven months later

  “Entering Earth orbital space. On final approach to Spacedock.”

  James Kirk acknowledged Sulu’s report, wrestling with mixed feelings as he watched the distant glint of Earth Spacedock draw nearer and brighter. Once the Enterprise passed through its doors, another five-year mission would be over.

  The last time, Kirk had pushed for an extension of the nominal five-year tour duration. It had been based on the recommended maximum time between refits for the Constitution class, and Kirk had argued that the Enterprise’s various repairs and upgrades under Commander Scott had extended its effective longevity. More to the point, he simply hadn’t wanted the mission to end. But his bending of the Prime Directive to rescue the Pelosians from an extinction-level event had given the top brass an excuse to refuse his request and recall him for an inquiry, and Admiral Nogura had taken advantage of the incident to push Kirk into a desk job. The promotion to admiral’s rank and the post as Chief of Starfleet Operations had brought certain benefits—among them, a chance to provide support and improve safety and resources for all of Starfleet’s crews instead of just one, a higher vantage point from which to spot crises and head them off early, and a turbulent but fulfilling love affair with his fellow flag officer Lori Ciana. But ultimately, he had felt stifled and restless, ill-suited for the role. He had been so desperate to escape it that he had exploited the V’Ger crisis to extort Nogura into giving him the Enterprise back, at the expense of his own chosen successor, Will Decker. While he regretted the way he’d gotten the ship back, his uncharacteristic behavior at the time had only proven how desperately unhappy he had been behind that desk. It had only been out on the frontier, protecting the Federation’s borders and exploring the strange new worlds beyond them, that he had become himself again, and he had been certain he would never want to give it up.

  This time, when Starfleet had called him home after five years, he had been tempted to argue once again. The refitted, upgraded Enterprise had been virtually a brand-new ship, its state-of-the-art systems designed for greater longevity, so the five-year maximum was no longer a necessary policy. The Starfleet Corps of Engineers’ request to conduct a detailed, months-long diagnostic assay of the ship’s prototype systems to assess their long-term performance was not unreasonable, but the timing seemed arbitrary, a relic of outmoded conventions.

  Yet when the order to return home had come, Kirk had thought it over and decided not to object. The ship may have been able to handle another several years before needing a refit, but the crew was another matter. The painful losses sustained in the Aenar tragedy seven months before had taken their toll. The crew had lost a fair number of its own over the past five years, an unavoidable hazard of starship life—though fortunately a good deal fewer than on the previous five-year tour, thanks to improved defensive and medical technology, Kirk’s greater experience at recognizing and preparing for danger, and Chekov’s fierce protectiveness of the
people under his care as security chief. But the crew could feel that most of those people had given their lives for a purpose—that their sacrifice had made a difference. That could not be said of the victims of the Naazh. Moreover, the violence had struck painfully close to home. The rec deck had been the spiritual heart of the ship’s community, the bustling hub of its social life, where personnel from an unprecedented variety of different species had intermingled and grown closer, the essence of the Federation in microcosm. Losing it, and half a dozen of their shipmates with it, had been a wrenching blow to the crew’s morale, robbing them of their safe space. The engineers at Andorian Sector Headquarters had built a fully redesigned and upgraded entertainment center in its place, yet the crew had barely used it, instead choosing to congregate in the arboretum and swimming pool on T deck, in the various observation lounges around the ship, or in makeshift ball courts in the cargo bays.

  Indeed, more than a few personnel had already transferred off ahead of schedule, preferring to move on with their lives and careers. M’sharna had been badly enough injured to be mustered out anyway, while a number of other enlisted personnel had simply resigned and gone back to civilian life. A few had chosen to cope with the tragedy by pursuing more positive goals; Shantherin th’Clane had transferred to Andorian Sector Headquarters, hoping to follow Thelin’s lead in making a positive difference for his people, while Crewman Worene had decided to enroll in Starfleet Academy and become the first Aulacri officer in the fleet—her way of carrying forward Hrii’ush Uuvu’it’s relentless drive to improve and raise his status. Even Doctor Chapel had finally decided it was time to move on, accepting a research post at Starfleet’s Sector HQ in the Regulus system.