Chapter Text
The turbolift contains only Spock, and a quantity of welcome silence. Since beginning service on the Enterprise, he has begun to prize brief respites from the incessant noise and chatter of the Human crew.
On deck twelve, however, the lift stops to admit James T. Kirk: boots dull, hair gleaming. He takes up a position, leaving the inadequate distance of seventeen centimeters between the two of them.
Spock acknowledges his captain's nod by pressing the button to close the door again, more emphatically than necessary.
Captain Kirk darts a look in Spock's direction.
"Got a new chess set." Kirk sounds inordinately pleased by this development. "The pieces are all starship sculpts. The Kumari, the T'Mir. Most of the really famous ships from the last century. The level of detail is incredible." He pauses for a moment, as if inviting a reaction. "Actually, they modeled the queen on a Vulcan combat cruiser I didn't recognize, I thought maybe you could—"
"Regrettably, I am not available to play chess this evening, captain."
Kirk falls silent.
Spock is forced to consider that he may have been too hasty in refusing, especially given that Kirk has invited him to play chess on seven different occasions since the start of the mission. If he takes offense to Spock's avoidance of his company, it might reduce the efficiency of their working relationship.
And truthfully, Spock has no compelling reason for continued avoidance. He has no rational objection to Kirk or his leadership. Kirk's impulsiveness simply clashes with Spock's preference for routine. His restlessness disrupts the order Spock expects from a professional environment. He reflexively challenges the institutions Spock has spent his career upholding, and since they began serving on the Enterprise together he has also made a point of challenging every assertion Spock makes. Nonetheless, the chaos Kirk generates is functional. In their first year of service, ship and crew have surpassed Starfleet's expectations even for seasoned veterans of space exploration, much less newly commissioned officers less than a year out of the Academy.
In short, Spock's difficulty with the captain is strictly personal in nature, and therefore irrelevant.
"As the designers of your chess board were undoubtedly Terran, it is possible that there is no Vulcan combat cruiser corresponding to the sculpt of your queen," Spock offers, as a kind of compensation.
"Good point, Mr. Spock." The reserve in the captain's tone is a relief.
"A Vulcan designer would not designate a combat vessel as the queen. That honor would likely go to a scientific survey vessel."
"Like the T'Plana-Hath."
"Indeed."
"They made the T'Plana-Hath a bishop, actually."
Spock sniffs, and immediately chastises himself for being inappropriately demonstrative in a professional environment.
But then, that is his captain's speciality—provoking others.
One night, just before the start of the mission, the newly commissioned Captain Kirk had chosen to visit Spock at his San Francisco apartment. His timing was unfortunate, as that very evening Spock had fallen to contemplating his mother's abiding wish that he strive to better understand the ways of her people.
Three months exactly from the day of her death had seemed a fitting occasion to experiment with the well-known Human custom of deliberate self-intoxication.
Spock sat at his kitchen table, serving himself tiny glasses of fine chocolate liqueur until his hand was no longer steady enough to pour, at which point it became more logical to drink directly from the fan-shaped bottle.
Kirk had knocked on his door at some point after Spock dispensed with drinking vessels.
What happened after that is a blur. He remembers almost nothing about their interaction. He awoke the next morning on his sofa, without his boots. On the table was a glass of water and beside it, a note: Drink me, dum dum, it said. Spock thought of hours spent in his mother's library amid stacks of antique Terran literature, and then of Kirk's glaring Cheshire grin, and a great quantity of blistering shame arose in him. He had humiliated himself no doubt—inebriation seems to inevitably result in humiliation, which was why Spock had chosen to conduct his experiment in the safe confines of his apartment. Kirk should have left immediately once he realized Spock's degree of incapacitation, but plainly he had not.
At least Kirk has had the decency not to make reference to the incident since they began serving aboard the Enterprise together. Of course, Spock has done everything possible to avoid giving him the opportunity. The only person Spock has confided in regarding the incident is Nyota, and she was less than perfectly sympathetic.
"I'm sorry: the captain called you what?"
"Your aural acumen is unparalleled. It is unlikely that you did not hear me."
"I need to hear you say 'dum dum' again. For my records, Commander."
Spock raised an eyebrow. Nyota burst into giggles. Her non-regulation earrings (three concentric disks in beaten gold) glinted in the light. The affectionate, laughing reproof in her eyes was so reminiscent of Amanda Grayson that his side clenched.
"I'm sorry you got bullied by a mean six-year old," she said solemnly, when her control, or a facsimile thereof, was restored.
"As ship's executive, I cannot condone your characterizing the captain as puerile. However, I agree, so I do not intend to report you."
Nyota's finger tapped the underside of her PADD. She did not usually intend it as a warning, but he had leaned to read it as such. "Spock. You were raised by the finest xenolinguist of the last century."
Spock nodded agreeably. His mother was prodigiously gifted, and Humans were culturally and biologically predisposed to excel in linguistic fields.
"So didn't she ever explain the concept of affectionate insults?"
Spock's response, to lift his chin and turn pointedly aside. Nyota laughed, as he intended, but had he been forced to respond verbally he does not know what he would have said. Interacting with Kirk makes him feel like a string of core system code attempting to elude a clever and deadly virus. Affectionate insults are beside the point.
In the turbolift, silence falls between Spock and the captain. There is no more talk of ships or chess pieces. The doors open in the cargo bay, where various crew members are already busy attending to the cargo transfer with Starbase 4, which they are currently orbiting.
Strictly speaking, there is no need for the captain to be present for these operations.
There is even less need for him to grow distracted and start telling stories to the small band of admirers and hangers-on that eventually flock to his side wherever he goes.
The mere sight of such a social formation forces Spock to control a low thrum of dread. In his youth, it was logical to cultivate wariness of individuals with a talent for influencing their peers. But this is not Vulcan, and Spock is a youth no longer. Nor, in justice, is the captain a bully. He is merely—somewhat irritating.
Over the course of the next hour Spock collects manifests and delivery receipts. Not until the last of these is in order does he have spare attention to process the chatter from the far side of the cargo bay. Captain Kirk is describing to his junior officers a ritual from his rural childhood which he identifies as a "snipe hunt".
"So Doc calls us over by the fire and goes, 'Snipes. They're fuzzy, ornery little critters. You gotta sneak up on 'em, shine a light in their eyes to disorient 'em, and toss 'em in your sack before they bite your toes off!'"
Spock tunes out the chorus of laughter by perusing his internal database, which confirms that there is a small bird called a snipe native to multiple regions on Earth. No North American mammal corresponds to this designation.
"My friend grew up in Iowa, sir," Ensign Delatrice chirps. "She talks about it like it's really boring, but your stories make it sound like so much fun."
Kirk's smile freezes, but his reply is lost in the commotion of the next float pallet arriving.
For the remainder of the hour, crewmembers flow out of the transporter bay doors, checking the contents of their float pallets against Spock's list. Though less senior officer or crewman could easily supervise this cargo transfer, given the general air of distractibility that Kirk's presence generates among the crew, Spock deems it wise to remain, a quelling presence.
One by one, officers who complete their assigned tasks drift toward Kirk, as if his quick gestures and mobile expressions draw them into his orbit. Since the captain is tolerating this dereliction of duty, Spock cannot justify intervening. The urgent portion of their task, the transfer of medical supplies intended for the plague-stricken population of Argos XII, has already been completed. The transfer of the remaining non-urgent cargo is proceeding at an acceptably efficient pace.
Uhura comes back to stand at Spock's side, and for a moment they both stand there, listening to the captain describe a group of adolescents frightening each other intentionally during a nighttime trek through a forest.
Jim catches sight of Spock looking, and a glint enters his eye.
"We were about this high," he sketches a line in the air 106.6 centimeters above the floor, "and Doc was the size of Mr. Spock over there, so when he came stomping out of the woods in a ghillie suit, obviously we thought we were gonna die…"
"It's funny, listening to him carry on like this," says Uhura, forcing Spock to switch focus away from determining whether the captain's unnecessary allusion to his person was intended as mockery. "I'm so used to watching him play dignitary or bad ass starship captain that I forget he's really a farm boy. But then he gets that Midwestern twang out." She shakes her head, a fond smile curving her lips.
"I do not have your ear for Terran regionalisms." When the captain speaks Spock hears only the expansive range of tones which make Humans sound excitable and childlike no matter what language they speak.
"He's an interesting case. He pronounces the short vowel in the middle of your name like a Deltan au, have you noticed?"
Spock frowns, because on reflection Nyota is correct. It is of no consequence, however, so he looks down at his PADD again, flicking between screens. The cargo transfer is completed, and there is no reason to remain.
Ten minutes later Spock again finds himself in a turbolift with Kirk. Spotting him, the captain strikes him painlessly on the bicep, in direct contravention of the courteous interspecies norms taught at Starfleet Academy. His grin suggests that he enjoys Spock's discomfort, or is oblivious to it.
"Call waiting for us on the bridge, Spock," says Kirk. "Officially, I don't know what it's about, but I heard a rumor that we're receiving a passenger from the starbase, by special request of the New Vulcan diplomatic service."
Spock scarcely can begin to sift through the various probable reasons for this before the captain shatters his concentration by murmuring, "You know what that means."
"Yes, captain, I flatter myself that I fully comprehend the meaning of those words, as spoken."
If Kirk hears him, he gives no sign. "Last time I checked, the Vulcan diplomatic service was made up of just your dad and your counterpart. So I'm wondering: is Sarek using his pull to get you to come home for a visit? Did you forget your dad's birthday, Commander?"
The turbolift doors open. Spock says, "Vulcans do not commemorate the anniversary of their birth. Even if we did, Sarek was born on 2165.02.21, so we are nowhere near the relevant date."
"Your dad is a hundred?"
"Captain, your ability to perform complex mathematical calculations without the aid of instruments is truly astonishing."
An ill-advised number of people squeeze into the turbo lift around them. It would be more logical for some to wait and take the next lift, but as this would exclude them from Kirk's immediate proximity no one is interested in that option. Spock resigns himself to breathing other people's air for a short time.
Kirk is still speaking. "One time I didn't respond to my mom's messages for so long that she called in a favor with Admiral Barnett and had him pull me out of class to take a call in his office."
"I have never ignored a message from Sarek."
Spock communicates dutifully with his father since the death of their planet. But he had spoken with his mother, when she lived, as often as he could find the excuse. Perhaps the son of the famous George Kirk values his female parent but little. Human males are somewhat culturally disposed that way.
"I guess we're gonna find out what your dad wants together. Should be fun!"
Lieutenant Darwin giggles, and Sulu coughs into his hand. Spock looks at them, and they regain their composure rapidly.
*
Jim Kirk has been an irritant (a thorn in his side, his mother would have said) since the day they first faced one another before a review hall full of their peers. However, Spock's skepticism about Kirk dates to a time even before that.
At the conclusion of a two-year mission aboard the Farragut, Spock had taken up his teaching post at the Academy, while Captain Pike agreed to serve in the interim as Commander of Cadets, a role which incidentally allowed him to be more heavily involved in overseeing the progress of the Enterprise, then a work-in-progress in the Riverside shipyard.
Pike had returned from one trip to Riverside looking oddly smug. At their standing monthly lunch appointment, he explained his air of satisfaction to Spock by saying that on this occasion he'd "caught a live one".
"You refer to a new recruit?" Spock clarified.
Pike's smile stretched his mouth to only one side. "I found George and Winona Kirk's kid in a bar, getting his ass kicked by a group of cadets. I persuaded him to sign up."
"When you say their son—"
"The younger one, Jim. The Kelvin baby. Uh, maybe pretend I didn't say that part."
"Given that both his parents were members of Starfleet until their deaths, I do not understand what further inducement Kirk would require before accepting your offer. Did he have more lucrative prospects in hand?"
Pike laughed softly, shaking his head, as if amused by the suggestion that a young man with a famous name would have prospects. "He's just skeptical of authority. Doesn't like being told what to do."
"If he is unable to obey orders—"
"I didn't mean that." Spock, apparently, was not to be allowed to complete a critical thought about Pike's new protégé. "It's just that he didn't exactly have a traditional upbringing or education. But his aptitudes are—" Pike made a whistling noise and pointed upwards, which Spock interpreted as meaning that Kirk's scores were high. "He wants to do an accelerated track. Lucky for me, we already designed one for you, so I was able to say yes, Jim, by all means, go for a commission in three years."
Spock had received his commission in 2.67 years, so the comparison scarcely seemed apt, but he chose not to offer Pike correction. "For what reason were the cadets in the bar 'kicking his ass'?"
"Kirk was chatting up a female cadet and a security track cadet saw a chance to throw his weight around. I was ready to throw the book at him, but Jim pushed his way into the conversation. Said he'd dared him."
Pike sounded admiring. Spock, however, was beginning to have concerns regarding Kirk's suitability for the service.
At the end of their meal together Spock went home and looked Jim Kirk up directly. A number of irregularities were present in his records. Kirk's education after the age of ten was represented by a string of equivalency tests and their scores, rather than the usual list of schools attended and grade point averages attained. This indicated home instruction, which, on a planet with universal education resources, indicated peculiar devotion on the part of his caretakers.
And Kirk had repaid that devotion by working as an itinerant mechanic until the age of 22, at which point he had gained admittance to Starfleet Academy via nepotism, high aptitude scores, and a single dissertation on 22nd century Orion poetry. Spock only hoped that those who had invested in the brilliant child's future were not too grievously disappointed in the use he had chosen to make of his talents.
Over the next three years Jim Kirk entered into Spock's awareness a few times each semester. Pike spoke of Kirk's academic triumphs in the same effusive tone that Admiral Barnett spoke of the accomplishments of his granddaughter, who had just learned to walk. With some delicacy, Spock managed to avoid a formal introduction. He had no intention of indulging Pike's protégé. James T. Kirk had been singled out more than was good for him already.
(On occasion, Spock noticed Kirk in passing as he traversed the campus grounds. On sunny days, the cadet's hair tended to catch the light in a way that drew the eye from a distance.)
And now Kirk is his captain. The decision to serve as his first officer was logical, since without the services of an experienced executive there was nothing to prevent Kirk from destroying ship, crew, and self through sheer reckless inexperience. Also, Spock's counterpart had strongly advised it. In his universe, he and Kirk had served together amicably for several decades, creating so strong an attachment that his elder was still sentimental about it a century later.
From time to time he still thinks about that long ago conversation with Pike, and finds himself comparing images of Kirk, past and present.
Kirk is a provoking individual. Deliberately so, when it serves him, but often his provocations are unconscious.
In a more just world, he would not be captain of a starship at the age of 25, any more than Dr. McCoy would be chief medical officer or Nyota head of communications directly out of the Academy. But the doctor has a striking aphorism for the situation they have all found themselves in: Needs must, when the devil drives.
Perhaps Spock will not disappoint his alternate universe counterpart, with his strange prophecies of fated friendship, altogether. Perhaps, in the universe they live in now, he and Kirk will also be friends—in ten or fifteen years, when Kirk finally settles down.
*
"Uhura, can I get that call onscreen." Kirk bounds onto the bridge, taking a moment to look back at Spock and smirk one last time. A taunt, perhaps. Spock is never sure.
He takes his seat in the center chair just as the viewscreen lightens and ripples. All at once the image resolves.
It is not Sarek after all.
"Greetings, Captain and crew of the Enterprise. Thank you for receiving my call. It is pleasing to see you all again."
Spock's alternate universe counterpart, ancient and dignified except for the faint spark of mischief in his eyes, lifts his hand in the ta'al. Almost in unison, every member of the bridge crew grins, many offering the ta'al in return. Certain survivors of the Narada mission are aware of Ambassador Spock's true identity, but even those who recognize him only as an elderly Vulcan straighten at their consoles and begin to focus more efficiently on their duties.
He must have made a superb first officer, Spock thinks.
Kirk steps forward, grinning broadly. "You're a sight for sore eyes, Ambassador. How are you? How are things in the new colony?"
"We are proceeding efficiently, thank you. Jim, I must tell you that I received your proposal last week. My reply is: knight to f6."
The captain's grin, impossibly, grows even wider. "Noted. I'll have to look at the board before I decide on my next move, but I'll get back to you."
Spock's nostrils flare. He had allowed himself to forget how his counterpart and his captain seem to delight in each other's very existence, to an inexplicable and sometimes mortifying degree.
The Ambassador steps closer to the video feed. His head tilts slightly and his face dims. "You have changed your hairstyle since last I saw you."
"Ah, yeah. Letting it grow out a little. Going easy on the hair gel. It's a little over regulation length, but the captain doesn't come down too hard on that sort of thing around here."
At her station, Uhura touches her earrings self-consciously.
There is something off about the Ambassador's expression, or perhaps his tone of voice. No one would notice, perhaps, except for Spock himself. He can see no obvious cause, however.
As if aware of Spock's train of thought, the Ambassador catches his eye. Spock feels a flutter in his torso at the scrutiny in that dark gaze.
"Commander Spock, it is also pleasant to see you. Sarek is in good health, and sends his greetings."
Spock stands to formally acknowledge this attention. "I thank you for the information, elder."
"You are well?"
"I am."
To Spock, the Ambassador is a source of equal fascination and unease. They are genetically identical beings, yet his counterpart is taller and more slender than he. Unlike him, Spock has never studied the lyre. Unlike Spock, the Ambassador never developed a short lived yet all consuming preoccupation with his teaching assistant; in fact, he never held a regular teaching post at the Academy, and had nothing to do with the programming of the Kobayashi Maru.
They are a study in the reach and the limitations of genetic expression. Their similarities far outweigh their differences. Yet Spock cannot help wonder, with a strange internal shiver, about other universes, other variables, forming other, less familiar Spocks.
"Gentlemen, this call is to formally request transport under the terms of Starfleet General Order No. 287 for a Vulcan survivor resident at Starbase 4, whose presence is now required on New Vulcan. His shuttle is currently awaiting permission to approach from the orbital station."
The Enterprise is nearly two weeks away from the colony at warp, but of course Kirk does not hesitate. "We're happy to lend a hand. What can you tell us about him?"
"He is a civil engineer, returning from his travels to aid the development of the colony. There…is another related matter that we should discuss, albeit in greater privacy. I invite you to call me at the end of your shift, if convenient."
At the helm, Sulu's eyes fly to his hairline at this blatant informality. Uhura turns in her chair, wide-eyed, to catch Spock's gaze, but he avoids it. His face feels overly warm.
"It's a date," Kirk says, oblivious. He glances over his shoulder, and Uhura whirls back around to her console and taps a screen.
"Starbase shuttle requesting permission to dock," she calls out.
The Ambassador lifts his chin. "I will not detain you further. I will, however, await your call, Jim."
"You'll get it," says the captain, warm and full of assurance.
Spock turns his chair around and fixes his eyes on the console. It is Captain Kirk's prerogative to allow this familiarity, to extend intimacy to whomever he pleases.
When Uhura announces that the shuttle has arrived, Spock approaches the captain's chair. "Sir, if you wish, I am able to greet our Vulcan passenger and show him to a guest cabin. I have no other pressing matters to attend to."
"That's a kind thought, Mr. Spock." The smile that Kirk gives him, angled upwards, makes Spock waver and want to take a step back. "In fact, I think I'll come with you."
"Sir."
Kirk rises, gathering up two of the five PADDs he was reading. "You are playing blindfold chess with my counterpart," Spock finds himself saying.
The captain's eyes widen. Spock had perhaps spoken more sharply than he intended. "Game just started," Kirk says. "Well, you heard."
"May I ask why?"
"I'm not sure how to answer that. You play, what would you say the purpose of chess is?"
That had not been the meaning of Spock's inquiry at all.
Kirk pauses next to Uhura's station, handing her one of the PADDs he carries. Spock pauses at the helm. "Course plotted to New Vulcan, sir," Sulu reports when he sees him.
"Thank you, Mr. Sulu. ETA?"
Before Sulu can reply, Uhura says, urgently, "What is that?"
Spock's head snaps around. Nyota has risen from her station, one hand on the back of her chair, mouth partly open. She is frozen, staring at—the captain, who is backing away from her as if he were on fire. He stares down at his hands.
Which are dissolving.
Spock stares, and Kirk stares back, wild-eyed.
"Status of our shields," Spock calls, without taking his eyes off the captain, who is now shimmering head to foot. He experiences the useless urge to fling himself atop Kirk, as if gravity and body mass could anchor him in place.
"Systems, including shields, are failing for intervals of under 90 seconds all over the ship, sir," Sulu reports, voice tense.
"Captain!" cries Chekov.
Pale eyes bore into Spock for one final instant, and then the air between them empties of all that is James T. Kirk.
The rest of Sulu's report is drowned out by the roar of static in Spock's head. Movement takes place in his periphery, but through the red haze he sees only the afterimage of shimmering gold.
A hand upon his arm brings Spock back to himself. Nyota's voice, low and urgent. She is asking for direction. There is no direction in which to go. Kirk has been taken from the ship as if plucked from reality by an invisible hand and Spock cannot think of a single way to trace him.
Chekov is babbling something about the transporter room. Spock grasps for that, turning toward the turbolift. "Contact Ensign Mainwaring in the transporter bay and tell her to seal the room," he orders.
He takes a breath, finally able to hear over the drumbeat of his own pulse, and looks over at the stunned bridge crew. "Chekov, Lieutenant Uhura, with me. Mr. Sulu, you have the con. Report instantly if there is—any development."
"Aye, sir."
In the transporter room, Spock and Chekov divide the task of discovering all that can be discovered, Chekov at the control panel and Spock poring over sensor data with a Vulcan eye for minutiae.
They, and the rest of the crew, continue to work the problem diligently for the next four hours, but by the end of Alpha shift there is little ground for hope.
Since the death of Vulcan, the media has turned Kirk into the face of the Federation, which makes him a compelling target for the Federation's enemies. And then there are those with personal vendettas—grudges, obsessions. There is also the captain's mysterious personal history, an entire life lived outside the safety of the core Federation worlds.
Spock begins his investigation with theories, but one by one they are ruled out until he is left with neither answers nor questions, only the cold dense fact of the captain's absence.