12 13

TWO

One year later, Pavel Chekov, Commander, Starfleet, stood in the midst of a vast and undulating ocean of wheat and gazed up at the cloudless sky. He had been standing patient watch for some time—long enough to be heated and dazzled by the bright sun; long enough, certainly, to grow reflective about the object of his search.

The parallel seas of blue and gold, one above, one below, seemed infinite, and evoked the same dizzying sensation of freedom, of disconnectedness, he had felt over the past year since leaving the Enterprise and the service. Transitions were never easy, but as a Starfleet officer, Chekov had learned to take them in stride; only this one had proved the most challenging of all. A year or two before, he had thought to avoid that sensation by re-forming old connections. He had contacted Irina Galliulin, his love from his Academy days, the one woman he wanted to spend the rest of his life within only to learn that she was soon to marry.

And so he had acquired a small dacha outside Moscow and spent his off-time there alone, except for those

opportunities to gather with old friends. When the invitation came from Starfleet to attend the christening of the Enterprise-B, he jumped at the chance.

He stood beside Montgomery Scott now, who also frowned up at the sky. He enjoyed ScoWs companyrain part, because Scott was clearly enjoying himself, enjoying retirement. He had settled in his native Scotland with his sister’s family, playing the role of doting uncle with gusto, producing a rapid spate of engineering articles for technical journals. And, he had relayed to Chekov with obvious pride, Starfleet had hired him as a part-time consultant in the design of new vessels. Yet his family ties and his labor of love for Starfleet still left him with enough freedom to reunite with old friends. He was looking as healthy as Chekov had ever seen him; his face was well tanned, with a faint ruddy glow that spoke of contentment rather than Scotch, and though his form was still stout, he seemed to Chekov slightly leaner as of late.

Chekov envied him. Perhaps, with time, he, Chekov, would find his own niche, as Scott had. But for the time he identified more with the captain~with Jim, he corrected himself silently. It was difficult, almost impossible, for him to dispense with the notion of rank after all these years; as strange as hearing Scott address him as Payel. Kirk clearly was consumed with the same restlessness, the same dissatisfaction Chekov experienced daily; he had seen it in the captain’s—Jim’s—eyes.

Chekov’s reverie ceased abruptly as he spotted a tiny black speck in the midst of all that blue. He raised an arm and pointed to it as he turned excitedly to Scott. “There he is—there, to the south!”

Scott lifted a hand to his weathered forehead, displac-