I knew from the first time I saw him that he was capable of this. I don't know how; the evidence certainly wasn't there. He was an arrogant, self-absorbed child, making excuses for himself that even he couldn't really believe. And today, I look up at him, and I wonder what exactly it is that's changed. He's still cocky, it's obvious from the twitch of the corner of his mouth that he's suppressing a smirk, and there's a shine in his eyes that can only be self-satisfaction. But as I shake his hand, I know there's something different.
What is it about Starfleet that does this to people? There's something about the call of the universe that takes the brightest and best, and makes them better - but even more, it takes the ones who aren't the geniuses, aren't the daring heroes, and it holds them to those same standards. This young man, I think, was a mixture of those two. He was brilliant, that much was obvious from the start, but there's a quality there now, something indicated in the simple act of a handshake, that wasn't there before.
I've watched him move through this place, leaving his mark wherever he has gone. I have watched him make stupid mistakes, correct them, learn from them (some more easily than others), but most of all, I've watched him transition from undisciplined rabble-rouser into this young man who stands in front of me now. He has become everything I hoped that he would be, the first time I met him.
When I was assigned the USS Kelvin for my dissertation, I could never have imagined that it would have the profound impact on my life that it has. It was one of the most fascinating things I had ever taken it upon myself to study. The story was a fascinating and inspiring one, but there was an element of tragedy, one most people dismissed as a heroic example of Starfleet's best. I spent hours writing my dissertation, but I spent as many again contemplating the final thoughts of George Kirk. What went through someone's mind when they were faced with that kind of decision?
Some people say that you don't choose your destiny, it chooses you. Looking back, I'm certain that I've been used in the creation of James Kirk's destiny. Everything I have done and studied seems to have led to this moment. I'm not as bothered by that as I might be. What's the use arguing with destiny? I was meant to study the Kelvin, if not for my own career ambitions, then surely so that I would know the right things to say that night when I was given that brief conversation in which to convince this young man of his calling in life. I was meant to endure the things I was put through on the Romulan ship, if only for him to prove himself in a rescue.
It is, in a sense, the evolution of the Starfleet officer. The future of this institution does not lie with the straight-laced, by the book students who know all the answers by heart. It can be found instead in the ones who do not necessarily follow the textbook, the ones who are capable of writing answers of their own when there are none to be found. George Kirk had that, and perhaps it is arrogant of me to think this, but I believe that it has been my duty, my solemn privilege, to carry the message he was unable to bring here himself. I have bridged the distance between that man and his son, and there is only one thing I have left to give before that passage is complete, one more thing he has to know before he is ready to go out and take his calling to the universe.
"Your father would be proud."
