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"Damn it! Spock! No! Please! Wait!"
"I must decline."
Rejecting the desperate plea from his younger superior officer, the devotee of order and logic advanced the piece in his hand with an expressionless face.
Instantly, a sound—somewhere between a groan and a strangled yelp—erupted from James T. Kirk, the young hero of Starfleet and captain of the Enterprise, echoing throughout the Vulcan's private quarters.
The U.S.S. Enterprise, the latest starship in the United Federation of Planets' fleet, continued its voyage through deep space exploration. A journey into uncharted territory where no one had gone before. That said, it was not uncommon for them to traverse routes that were both environmentally and politically stable, as they were now. Lately, Kirk had been spending much of his free time during such periods playing three-dimensional chess.
He had graduated from the Academy in just three years and been promoted to Captain at the age of twenty-five. Not only had he been appointed captain of the newly commissioned Enterprise, but he was also a hero who had saved Earth twice—achievements unparalleled in history. Yet this traditional board game, beloved by many and considered a refined pastime for first-rate officers, had once been a terrible weakness of his. To quote Kirk's own words: "I never had anyone decent to teach me." During his lonely boyhood in Iowa and the subsequent wild years that followed, there had been no one to introduce him to such intellectual pursuits. Even after entering the Academy, he had made a name for himself as a troublemaker, and aside from that older doctor, no one had been willing to seriously engage with him—meaning he had no opportunities to play against real opponents. Even if his natural talent gave him the strategic instincts to grasp the overall flow of a game, without the chance to learn proper tactics to support that strategy, he remained at a disadvantage in actual play. Indeed, right after assuming command, Kirk had often made absurd moves that resulted in self-destruction. However, through patient lessons from a concerned younger navigator and countless matches against crew members night after night, his skills had improved dramatically. His progress was so remarkable that everyone noticed, and recently he had even begun to hold his own in games against Commander Spock, one of the ship's top players. Yet for this fiercely competitive hero, "holding his own" meant nothing more than "I still have not scored a decisive victory."
After more than ten off-duty sessions, the sight of Kirk cornering Spock to challenge him to a chess match had become a peaceful part of daily life aboard the ship.
"...Damn... Was this within your predictions too?"
Kirk clutched his head in both hands. Gazing down at him silently, Spock observed the board before them once more. Thanks to his opponent's rather idiosyncratic style of play—though improved compared to before—the game had developed into a position completely ignoring standard opening theory. However, with that last move, the general outcome seemed decided. Spock examined several moves ahead for the possible patterns his opponent could choose, but reversing this situation would be difficult even for Kirk. Nevertheless, the superior officer before him appeared to require considerable time to accept this reality. Although Kirk typically favored quick, decisive action, he often displayed this remarkably stubborn side when it came to games against Spock... Could there be a move visible only to him?
Just as that thought crossed Spock's mind, a curse-like groan leaked from beneath that golden head, and Spock slowly shook his head. Past experience had proven that once Kirk reached this state, his turn would not come around for another five or ten minutes. This extended futile struggle—there was no other way to describe it—was the primary reason their chess matches had migrated from the recreation room to their private quarters. Deciding to suggest a time limit for their next game, Spock rose from his seat and approached the replicator built into the wall. Ordering both the coffee Kirk preferred and Vulcan tea for himself had become a kind of ritual, repeated during each of Kirk's prolonged contemplations. And then... Spock exhaled softly at the suspicious movement reflected in the replicator's surface—the same movement he always witnessed.
"Moving pieces without your opponent's consent violates the rules. Do you resign?"
Without turning around, Spock issued his pointed remark, and the amber reflection in the metal surface flinched sharply. Retrieving the two cups that appeared with perfect timing, Spock turned to find Kirk glancing about the room restlessly, like a child caught in mischief. Clearly distracted, yet still unwilling to resign.
After some time spent aimlessly scanning the orderly array of alien artifacts, those blue eyes finally halted at a particular point.
"Hey, Mister Spock."
Accepting the offered cup, Kirk addressed the commander looking down at him.
"What's in that black case over there?"
He pointed toward a black piece of luggage that had not been present during his previous visit. Kirk recognized the shape, but... it seemed utterly out of place for someone of Spock's alien heritage to possess such an item. To this question, tinged with curiosity and slight confusion, the room's owner nodded. "Ah."
"That is a Terran musical instrument. It contains a standard classical guitar."
"...A guitar?"
"Yes. A stringed instrument with six strings, specifically classified as an acoustic guitar. Standard characteristics include a wooden body and non-metallic strings, and—"
"Mister Spock!"
Cutting off his first officer's misguided explanation, Kirk raised his voice.
"I know a guitar is a Terran instrument! What I want to know is why you have a Terran instrument in your quarters."
"There was a delivery error."
Spock, still holding his cup in both hands, stood at attention in a posture reminiscent of a duty report, answering in his characteristically flat tone.
"During our recent shore leave, a package intended for Ensign Smith in Security was mistakenly delivered to me. I have contacted the ensign, and he will retrieve it from these quarters tomorrow morning, after his night shift ends and before mine begins. I judged this to be a low-priority incident and planned to submit a complete report to you tomorrow, Captain."
"I see. But how did it end up here in the first place?"
"Ensign Smith was troubled by the number of individuals sharing his name and had been using a nickname. The delivery error was most likely caused by that nickname."
"A nickname?"
"Yes. 'Mister Stork' is the nickname Ensign Smith commonly used."
Snapping his fingers with his free hand, Kirk grasped the situation.
"I see. A package addressed to 'Mister Stork' aboard the Enterprise was delivered to 'Mister Spock' aboard the Enterprise."
"Indeed, Captain. The shipping tag used an outdated system and contained only the nickname and ship assignment, with no additional information. Whether the courier was unfamiliar with Terran languages, or whether there was an error during data entry—or perhaps both—these combined factors resulted in the misdelivery. While this incident involved only a personal package within the same ship, a similar error could have led to a serious incident under different circumstances. Upon discovering the error, I requested that the starbase implement preventive measures."
"Well done," Kirk said, offering words of appreciation as he rose to his feet, cup in hand. This time, making no attempt to conceal the curiosity radiating from his entire being, he approached the black case. Positioned not on the coffee table where the chessboard sat, but on the edge of the work desk, the case gleamed dully in the room's light.
"Hey, Spock. Since we've got it here, mind if I take a look?"
Even as he verbally requested permission, Kirk's arm was already lifting the case's handle.
"Don't look at me like that! I'm actually pretty confident with guitars. I could even play you a song right now if you want."
Whatever expression Spock might or might not be wearing—Vulcans trained from childhood to suppress emotions should not display such easily readable changes in expression—Kirk and his friend, the ship's Chief Medical Officer, sometimes insisted they could detect fragments of emotion within that impassive face. Interpreting in some way what Spock's silent bewilderment might mean in Terran terms, Kirk froze mid-motion, guitar in hand.
"Wait... Do Vulcans absolutely hate the sound of guitars or something?"
"Expressions such as 'like' and 'dislike' are not logical. However, if you are inquiring whether Vulcans experience physiological discomfort in response to the instrument—I can state with certainty that I, at least, have never experienced physiological discomfort from that instrument's sound, nor from the majority of Terran music."
"The way you phrase that makes it sound like you've listened to every kind of Terran music that exists."
"Yes. I have listened to a representative sampling."
Sensing something odd in the unhesitating response, Kirk immediately pressed his first officer.
"A representative sampling meaning...?"
"Let me see. By genre: symphonies, orchestral works, wind ensemble pieces, solo compositions, art songs, opera, major regional ethnic music, jazz, folk songs, rhythm and blues, rock, metal, techno-pop—"
"Wait, wait, wait! Why does this sound like you just 'played everything from the top of a computer list'?"
"Because, as you stated, I did 'play everything from the top of a computer list.'"
"But why?"
"When I was assigned as a student instructor at the Academy, my supervising officer forbade me from engaging in any activities related to duty during leave. Instead, I was ordered to pursue Terran hobbies."
Vulcan culture, the most advanced among the Federation's humanoid species, appeared bewilderingly complex from a human perspective. For them, every moment of existence constituted mental discipline—this applied at all times, even during leave, with no exceptions. They did engage in what might be considered conventional rest, such as meditation, but to the average human, the way Vulcans spent their time off seemed terribly dull and sterile.
Still, to issue such an order so abruptly to a young man from a different culture... Whether the superior had been insensitive to alien customs or had been somewhat presumptuous in trying to help this young man better acclimate to Terran culture, it seemed he had issued a rather harsh order.
"...So, out of all possible Terran hobbies, why did you choose 'music appreciation'?"
"When I inquired of surrounding humans what activities constitute standard human hobbies, music appreciation was suggested as the most readily executable option. Furthermore, I considered that engaging with aspects of local culture and art could serve as a logical approach to studying and understanding humanity. This was also among my reasons for selecting music appreciation as a hobby activity."
The situation—likely far removed from what his former superior had hoped for—was delivered in such a matter-of-fact tone that Kirk could only offer a wry smile.
"Music was also an important aspect of Vulcan culture."
The past tense of that statement made Kirk's head snap up.
When Spock's homeworld had disappeared beyond the event horizon, countless things had been lost along with the planet. In exchange for his mother's sacrifice, the "essence of their culture" had supposedly been preserved, but their civilization had still been destroyed beyond any hope of easy restoration. Though the species teetered on the brink of extinction, they appeared to maintain their composure through their ironclad logic and tradition of emotional control. But that was only on the surface—Kirk had learned from another version of his friend, one who had appeared from a parallel timeline, that Vulcans possessed emotions richer than anyone's.
Worried he had touched upon an old wound again, Kirk's distress was met with Spock giving a small shake of his head before continuing.
"Terran musical culture and history share many commonalities with what we cultivated. From the perspective of cultural formation among sentient species, it proved a fascinating subject. In that regard, I would say that music appreciation during that leave period was beneficial."
The words that followed carried an unusual tone—one that suggested he had actually enjoyed the subject matter. Rather than protecting an old wound, his friend seemed intent on developing this into an intellectual discussion. Kirk relaxed with relief, then grinned and leaned forward with interest.
"Speaking as someone more familiar with emotion-driven Terran music, I have a hard time relating to the idea that it shares much common ground with your logic-driven culture."
"That is a conclusion drawn from observing only a specific perspective. In fact, throughout Terran musical history, there is substantial evidence of music being regarded as sacred and of attempts to find logic within it."
Spock set his cup on the edge of the table and carefully laid the guitar Kirk had been holding flat upon the desk.
"In many primitive civilizations on Earth, music was considered the voice of the gods, and harmonies created by overlapping human voices were deemed sacred. In particular, certain combinations of sounds—chords—were thought to represent perfect harmony, considered identical to the concept of a perfect deity."
His bluish, long, slender fingers measured the length of a string, then plucked a single point on that taut line with mechanical precision. The wooden body amplified the sound, and a soft tone spread through the sterile room. Before that sound fully dissipated, he positioned his finger closer and plucked again. The newly generated vibration layered upon the previous note, and pleasant harmonies filled the space.
"...Beautiful sound."
"A major chord. The most important harmonic sound in music theory, constructed from integer ratios of four to five to six in frequency."
As Kirk listened in rapt attention, Spock continued pressing strings in sequence. The melody he played felt somehow nostalgic, like music heard long ago—soft and gentle.
"As time progressed, chords and musical theory—originally meant to express the perfect divine—changed in meaning, eventually transforming in various ways to delight the ears of many listeners. However, certain ethnic and religious music still retains the concept that music is a highly theoretical tool for expressing perfect harmony and divinity. A similar philosophy existed on Vulcan. Put another way: both humans and Vulcans devoted tremendous effort to forming culture from phenomena that are, fundamentally, merely air vibrations at specific frequencies. This is truly..."
"Truly romantic, isn't it?"
An enraptured voice interrupted the matter-of-fact explanation. Spock fell silent and shifted his gaze to find Kirk looking back at him with a mischievous smile.
"Well, isn't it? On planets far across the galaxy, different humanoids took interest in the same phenomenon, devoted passion to the same creative pursuit, and loved it in the same way. In Terran languages, this should definitely be described as 'romantic.'"
As he made this declaration, Kirk's hands moved with lightning speed to snatch up the guitar from the desk.
"You know what? Now I really do want to play a song. Something lyrical—especially romantic."
"I fail to see the connection between our previous discussion and your use of Ensign Smith's instrument to perform a song."
"Don't be like that. Just because I'm an amateur doesn't mean you should dismiss it. I got pretty good reviews singing in bars. If I hadn't met Pike that day, I might've made it big as a singer by now."
Though confused by the conversation's typical derailment, Spock repeated Kirk's words to himself.
"Indeed. You possess what humans consider superior physical appearance compared to their average, and in Terran entertainment industries where such external evaluations are excessively valued, you could certainly expect enthusiastic supporters."
"Come on. I meant because of my singing, not just... Never mind. You'll understand once you hear it."
Adjusting the tuning with practiced ease, Kirk pouted slightly. After strumming a few chords as if confirming the guitar's temperament, a magnificent singing voice filled the room.
That he was accustomed to performing before audiences was undoubtedly true. Both the slightly lower melody—different from his usual speaking voice—and the fluid movement of his fingers across the strings showed no hesitation whatsoever. Indeed, the way he let his voice ring out boldly demonstrated skill and expression comparable to representative Terran singers Spock had heard in the past. Whether the content qualified as the "romantic" Kirk had described, Spock could not judge—but upon finishing one verse, a satisfied Kirk received Spock's applause.
"I must apologize. I retract my earlier statement. You are indeed a singer of exceptional skill. Your voice is in no way inferior to any Terran singer I have listened to previously."
Kirk's blue eyes widened in surprise at the honest assessment.
"...Ah, thank you, Spock. If you evaluate me that highly... I suppose even if I screw up badly enough to get kicked out as starship captain, I could make a living this way."
The self-deprecating words that tumbled out alongside his spontaneous gratitude likely represented a lingering fragment from his childhood, still lurking behind his growth as a starship captain. The Chief Medical Officer, well aware of this fact, would have sighed—but what Spock returned was a strong negation.
"You are now a hero of Starfleet. It is absolutely impossible that you would be dismissed as captain."
"It's just a figure of speech. If I were to act in ways unbecoming of a captain—"
"Such a premise is impossible, therefore it is not worth discussing."
"Hey now... It's just a turn of phrase. Why are you getting hung up on such a small detail?"
Kirk blinked. Spock's voice had an edge to it—something sharp and unyielding that Kirk almost never heard outside the bridge. The Vulcan's jaw was set, his dark eyes fixed on Kirk with an intensity that made Kirk's chest tighten. Seeming to recognize his own uncharacteristic behavior from Kirk's reaction, Spock fell silent as if considering something. When he spoke again, several long seconds had passed.
"When a string is plucked with force, it distorts greatly, but simultaneously, a restoring force causes the string to vibrate. This motion transfers to the surrounding air, producing a characteristic tone. The tone varies depending on where and how the string is plucked, and how it is strung—but the fact remains that a vibrating string producing sound always has a force working to restore it to its original form."
While offering this sudden explanation, Spock plucked the string on Kirk's guitar forcefully from the front. Struck at an awkward angle, the string began vibrating greatly, producing a slightly distorted sound.
"When my future self and that Romulan vessel were sent to the past from their own time, our universe—which should have been their past—underwent massive changes. Much like this string, now vibrating from being struck with great force."
Following Spock's prompting, Kirk lowered his gaze to the guitar in his arms. There, he could observe the widely swinging string's motion gradually diminishing along with its sound. Watching from above, Spock continued.
"In the timeline where my other self existed, you were the captain of the Enterprise and I was your first officer. Afterward, my other self and those Romulans intervened in this universe, causing catastrophic changes in various places—yet ultimately, you became captain of the Enterprise, and I became your first officer. If that occurred due to some force by which the universe, having received a powerful impact, attempts to return to its original form... then perhaps, no matter what tone this universe plays, the fact that you are captain of the Enterprise and I am your first officer remains unchanged. Would you not agree?"
As if weighing Spock's words carefully, Kirk wore a serious expression as he contemplated, then after a prolonged silence, slowly nodded.
"I see. That's an interesting way of thinking. Some 'force restoring the universe to its original form' that we cannot perceive..."
"Yes. If I were to express it in a single word, 'destiny' would be appropriate."
"...'Destiny'?!"
Kirk's gaze shot upward as his voice cracked.
"Of all people! You! You're using an uncertain word like 'destiny'?!"
"I could find no other appropriate expression."
Ignoring the astonished human, the logic-prioritizing half-Vulcan answered smoothly.
"That said, the fact that you are currently here as captain is undoubtedly due to your own abilities."
"Obviously! And the fact that you're here as first officer is due to your own abilities too!"
"Thank you."
The response that came back—just as it had on the bridge when Kirk first assigned him as Science Officer and First Officer—was curt. But whether backed by destiny or earned through ability, it carried a strength suggesting Spock believed it was only natural this would be the outcome. Kirk looked up at Spock—really looked at him. The Vulcan stood there, precise and unshakable, exactly where he was meant to be. Kirk's throat tightened.
"Destiny, huh?" Kirk blinked, and a smirk returned to his face. "I like it. Thinking 'destiny' chose us doesn't feel bad at all. And in Terran myth, the goddesses of fate are usually beautiful."
"Captain?"
"Looks like 'she' has decided to cheer for me already."
No sooner had he spoken than Kirk handed the guitar to Spock and pounced on the chess board that had been completely abandoned in the center of the room. Feeling his first officer's disgruntled gaze on his back—having been tossed the precious borrowed item like a casual object—Kirk pinched one of his own pieces.
"Now, Mister Spock—no takebacks!"
After carefully returning the guitar to its case, Spock peered at the board once more and raised an eyebrow.
"...I did not anticipate this move."
The move Kirk had made matched none of the patterns Spock had predicted earlier. By conventional strategic standards, it could even be called reckless. Yet on this particular board, the situation appeared somewhat different. The single pawn had advanced boldly into enemy territory, yet attempting to eliminate it carelessly would expose one's pieces to knights positioned in normally impossible locations. On the other hand, leaving it alone would allow the pawn to shred his carefully constructed formation from within. With all his anticipated scenarios negated, Spock found himself forced to recalculate his entire position.
Watching Spock sink into deep thought in his stead, Kirk resumed his cheerful singing as if picking up where he had left off. Matching the low hum of the ship's engines audible in the distance, that leisurely layered melody flowed endlessly through the sterile quarters.
"I resign."
Amid the emotional melody, cutting through it, came that familiar flat voice—yet with something faintly seeping through from beneath the surface.
Just over a dozen moves since that reversal. On the chessboard, before the queen who had overcome her disadvantage, the enemy king's piece lay fallen. Kirk leaned back, grinning at the fallen king. Somewhere in the universe, he thought, a goddess of fate was smiling back.