Star Trek_ Generations - J M. Dillard [4]
Not at all, Jim answered honestly. Lets go.
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 timelong 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 reforming 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 Scotts company in part because Scott was clearly enjoying himself, enjoying retirement. He had settled in his native Scotland with his sisters 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 Pavel. Kirk clearly was consumed with the same restlessness, the same dissatisfaction Chekov experienced daily; he had seen it in the captainsJimseyes.
Chekovs 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 isthere, to the south!
Scott lifted a hand to his weathered forehead, displacing a silver fringe of hair as he shielded his eyes from the glare. After a moments scrutiny, he clicked his tongue. What are ye, blind? Thats a bird.
Chekov squinted, ready to protest until he made out the wings. He sagged slightly as anticipation left him.
Rappelling the Crystalline Trench, Scott said suddenly, in the same indignant tone. Rafting down lava flows … orbital skydiving … Its like the man is running a bloody decathlon across the galaxy.
Chekov frowned at the note of disapproval in Scotts voice. Certainly there was nothing wrong with orbital skydiving; in fact, Chekov had hoped to try it himselfafter he saw how Jim Kirk fared with it. He opened his mouth to say something in the captains defense. Perhaps Scott, with his comfortable family life, did not understand what it was to feel restless, unanchored, eager for excitement.
But Chekov never got the chance to explain things to Scott; a sonic boom, followed almost instantly by another, distracted him. That should be him now, he said. I think hes just crossed the sound barrier.
The two shaded their eyes from the sun and stared up at the sky. For a few seconds, Chekov thought he might have been mistaken again;