Series: Moments in Time
Characters: Spock, Kirk
Word Count: 3900
Rating: T
Warnings/Spoilers: Spoilers for Whom Gods Destroy. And thereby, foreshadowing for Requiem for Methusaleh, or my attempts at explaining the end scene of that episode.
Summary: After the events on Elba II, more than just a game is fought over a chessboard by the captain and first officer of the Enterprise.
A/N: I'd forgotten what a classic TOS story this one is, overlooked and sandwiched between some less-than-stellar episodes as were common in Season Three. There are some really great character moments in it, and some ludicrously laughable plot points combined with a disturbing storyline – crucial components that make this show what it is. Definitely worth a rewatch if you've forgotten about it like I had.
The minor crisis cared for, he returns to his seat after but a few moments, intent upon offering the usual token apologies humans tend to expect for interruptions to their personal routines. The words still unspoken, however, when it becomes apparent that it is likely this particular human did not even regard his departure as noteworthy, in fact only seems to notice he has moved when he re-seats himself at the table.
Kirk blinks as if startled from a trance, and straightens almost guiltily in his chair. Shoving a bishop into position without even glancing at the landing space, he makes a laughably obvious attempt at casuality. "Everything all right?"
"Quite so, sir. The Blue Alert was merely a precaution due to a dropped container of highly flammable substances which were in transit from Science Lab Eleven."
A sandy eyebrow rises in mild interest, but not alarm; obviously the captain is taking his cues from Spock's own lack of concern. "I take it there is no immediate danger to any persons involved?"
"Only to Lieutenant Bridger, who has already been warned twice regarding his unfortunate habit of, I believe you humans call it, tripping over his own feet?"
A brief, almost weary smile; no laughter. "Are we looking at a transfer?"
"Negative. Merely a safety refresher. I have already cared for the matter with Lieutenant Masters." He glances over the board, and raises an eyebrow at the position of the black bishop; but he is wise enough to not comment, merely moves a cautious pawn from the third level to widen the field for a Coridian frontal assault.
Kirk's eyes roam the board briefly, a finger tapping almost absently on the table. Finally he reaches up and moves his queen to Level Two.
"Interesting," Spock murmurs, studying the board.
"Mm?" Kirk scrubs a hand over his face, and appears to shake himself into alertness. "Surprising you today, am I, Mr. Spock?"
"That is one way of stating it, Captain."
He is favored with what appears to be a genuine grin, but all the light behind it is absent, faded – like a fast-eclipsing sun, leaving a sense of time slowly running out. He moves his own queen to counter, and Kirk follows up with the remaining black bishop to the same level.
This is…alarming.
He glances up from the board, and after a moment the captain senses the scrutiny and straightens, head tilted in question.
"Something on your mind, Spock?"
"I believe that is a question better asked of you, Captain."
"Other than trying to pull a stalemate out of this mess, Spock, no – nothing, really." The rueful chuckle is not exactly forced, but it is weary. "Why do you ask?"
Spock shifts in his chair, grateful now for the barrier of game and board between them.
Kirk's eyes sharpen, sparking in warning – the man has a sixth sense for when he is being cornered, and obviously he senses a trap now.
"If you've something to say, Mr. Spock, then say it."
"I have nothing to say, sir."
Kirk's eyes narrow. "Then why are you looking at me like I'm one of your experiments, Commander?"
"Perhaps because you are playing this game with all the strategic ability of a first-trimester cadet, when we both know you have a Level Three grandmaster rating. Sir."
To his surprise, Kirk seems to be completely taken aback by this instead of immediately denying it; he looks totally confused, and glances down at the board in consternation.
That, is far more concerning than it would be were he purposely losing the game due to distraction or some other reason.
"I…" A strange expression flickers across the human's face, as he picks up the black king and peers at it almost absently. Then it is gone as quickly as it had appeared, and the calm façade is back in place once more; the change is almost laughable, as if Spock will be taken in by it at this point, after so long in the man's company. "I am apparently too distracted to be taking on Vulcan strategy tonight, Commander. Perhaps a rain check is in order."
The words are calm, friendly, almost lilting in their familiar charm – and falling totally on deaf ears, tonight. Spock is not a fool, and with this particular human, one must utilize as much strategy in person as in the game itself. Jim's favored weapon of choice, in battle and in chess, is strategic misdirection; but he forgets, at times, that Spock too is a grandmaster, with strategies of his own.
"While I am amenable to postponing the game, Captain, I believe being given the truth for that deferral is not too much to ask. Or would you prefer I make the inquiry of Doctor McCoy?"
The color drains slowly from the human's face, to the point of being slightly alarming, given the events of the day. In all honesty, Spock had put the lack of concentration down to mere exhaustion, but Kirk had shown up at his door muttering about a wish for company tonight, and he was not about to turn the man away.
Now, Kirk's hand clenches almost protectively around the black king, and he clears his throat. "I don't believe this falls within your purview as First Officer, Mr. Spock," he says, and the tone is deadly as the piece retreats from play.
"I am aware of that."
"You're on very thin ice, Mister."
"I am also aware of that." He folds his hands on the table and raises a patient eyebrow. "However, the fact remains, that you are quite aware something is not right. And from your reaction, I can only assume you have concealed this fact from Medical?"
To his surprise, Kirk sighs, drops the chess piece back onto the board, where it rocks precariously for a moment. "No, Mr. Spock, I did not conceal this or any other fact," he says wearily. "It's standard regulation and I am an officer, thank you."
Alarm is no doubt an emotional reaction but the cause is sufficient; for if there is a regulation forbidding the concealing of the injury or assault, then it is more serious than he had thought.
"Captain, what occurred during the hours you spent in Captain Garth's company after I was removed from the dining hall on Elba II?"
A sour look, untempered by the usual fondness which he has grown accustomed to seeing. "I taught him to play fizzbin."
He sighs silently, tamping down on the all-too-human urge to strangle this frustrating human, a sensation which seems to be incredibly strong on these instances when the man is far too dismissive of his own safety.
"You are no longer in the company of the criminally insane, Captain; your bravado is not needed here."
The gentle reproof brings a slight look of remorse to the man's face. "Quite right, Mr. Spock. I am sorry."
"Apologies are unnecessary where no offense is taken. I merely wish an answer to the question."
"And you do love to ask the hard ones, don't you, Spock." Kirk shoves his chair back from the table with his boot-tips, then slumps in it, hands scrubbing wearily down his face. "It wasn't even that eventful, it's just…messing with my head a little. Between that and the phaser stuns my brain is a little scrambled. I'm having a hard time concentrating. That is all."
"And what, precisely, does 'that' refer to, Captain?"
"The…rehabilitation chair, I think he called it."
"Which we viewed in use before beaming back to the Enterprise."
Kirk's rueful laugh is bitter, almost brittle. "We viewed it in its intended use, Spock. Garth had…made some adjustments to it."
He can almost feel the creeping horror that swamps him at the conclusions which are too easy to draw. The damage that could have been caused, to a human mind unprotected as a Vulcan's is by mental shields? It is not the first time this particular human has been subjected to an assault of this nature in their exploits, and it never fails to fill him with an innate horror.
Kirk must see something in his expression, because he smiles for the first time and reaches across the table briefly. "It's not as bad as it sounds, Spock – Bones said everything checks out normal, I just have a massive headache. And, apparently, it is throwing off my concentration in chess tactics."
"While I do not doubt the doctor's medical expertise, he is by no means an expert in that field, Captain."
A head-tilt of curiosity. "We've had run-ins with torture devices before, Spock. And conditioning against such things is a part of command training, even for medical personnel. I daresay he's enough of an expert that we can trust his opinion."
"Captain. You are the only human I have ever encountered to last longer than twelve moves against myself in this game. If such a device had, as you say, left no lasting effects upon your mind, you would not now be making strategic errors so obvious a child could circumvent them."
Kirk's eyes narrow in annoyance, coupled with what looks like unease. "I said, I have a headache, Mr. Spock."
"And I have personally been witness to your directing a six-hour standoff with a Klingon warship while quite capably hiding the fact that you are suffering from an untreated shrapnel wound, Captain. Your excuses are not sufficient."
Chess pieces rattle precariously as the board is shoved to one side; a pawn goes rolling to the ground unheeded. A glare is leveled across the table, cold enough to flash-freeze plasma. "Are you seriously going to do this now?"
"Yes," he replies dryly.
For a moment the stalemate continues, for he can be as stubborn as any human when the cause is sufficient – and his skills in that area have become well-honed over the years with this one – but soon he sees the fire flicker out, dying like a candle-glow in a vacuum. Kirk leans sideways in his chair. One elbow on the table, forehead in his hand, he shakes his head.
"How did you know?" The words fall softly with a sigh.
Spock gently replaces the fallen pawn into its proper place beside the white king, and without explanation begins to reset the board. "You are aware that over time, a certain sense of being can develop between two individuals of a telepathic species."
A muffled snort, and Kirk sits back in his chair, a smile quirking the corner of his lips. "And if one is not of a telepathic species, that sense of being is quite unfairly one-sided. Isn't it, Mr. Spock."
Spock continues to replace the playing pieces into their original starting positions. A faint sigh draws his attention back across the table, and he finds the human shaking his head.
"I was hoping you hadn't seen that."
"I did not. In the specific sense you refer to, at least."
"But you could tell he was doing something?"
"I could tell you were in pain, Jim." The black king and queen are replaced on the top level. "I am aware that while this ability is common in Vulcan society, it could be considered invasive, by human standards."
Kirk shakes his head in obvious contradiction, takes the rooks from him and drops them on their starting squares. "I just…never mind. Forget it."
"An order I will take the liberty of disregarding."
A startled laugh, genuine this time.
"However, if the matter is of concern to you –"
"Spock. I said it's fine." Kirk drops the last pawn into place and fidgets with it. "I just wish it went both ways, is all."
"Ah." He contemplates the board and debates an opening move which will force a new strategy out of the man, something completely out of the ordinary. "I take it you had occasion to wish for the same ability during our mission."
Kirk snorts, and moves a pawn to mirror his opening gambit. A cautious beginning, but not indicative of any particular mental state. "You could say that. Garth was the greatest strategist of his time, Spock, and he was insane on top of it all. I'd no way of knowing there for a moment…"
Spock shifts his King's knight to the second level. "You believed him to have eliminated what he no doubt saw as the greater physical threat, just after revealing himself to us?"
Kirk shoves a bishop into play with a gesture of defiant recklessness. "You are quite correct, of course, Mr. Spock. I don't know why I bother trying to outsmart a Vulcan," he says ruefully.
"It is not, perhaps, your most sound strategy, sir."
"Mm, no. Perhaps not." A faint smile over the board. "Just the same, I'm rather glad he was too mad to realize his mistake in letting you live."
Spock shrugs easily, as he moves his queen into play. "Madness takes many forms, Captain."
"Vulcan philosophy?"
"Negative. Merely scientific observation."
"I won't argue with that." A rapid exchange of pieces rids the board of a bishop each and a few odd pawns. "Am I improving?"
Spock takes the black queen's rook with a raised eyebrow, and refrains from visible signs of amusement when the action is met with a muttered string of expressive colloquial Klingon.
"I believe such an action is anatomically impossible, sir."
A broken laugh filters between the tiers of the board, and the black king edges backward out of danger.
"Seriously, though, Spock."
"Yes, sir?"
"You really think something might be…damaged, that didn't show up on Bones's scans?"
The words are carefully void of any betraying concern or emotion, but he of all beings can discern the unease behind them, the vulnerability that would never be spoken of outside this room.
"I think it unlikely, but there always exists the possibility," he hedges. "The unknown factor, is what I find cause for concern, Captain. The mind is a fragile entity, and not one to be treated lightly."
"I don't feel any different. But if I…you say I'm making stupid mistakes, and if I do that in something more serious than a chess game…"
"Stupid is a drastic overstatement, Captain. Another would never have noticed the alteration in your strategic or playing habits; they are yet considerably above average for a human."
"Just the same, if there is a possibility that I could have been compromised…" Kirk worries absently at a discarded pawn before moving a knight on an intercept course toward the white queen; the first really offensive move the captain has made the entire game, and that not a very strong one. "I don't even know how long I was unconscious."
"One hour, seven minutes and sixteen seconds."
The man blinks. "If you could tell that, can't you tell if I'm compromised or not?"
"Not without directly joining with your mind to ascertain any damage. Such a thing is best left to mental healers; I have not the training nor skill set to perform such a kash-naf hakausu." (1)
"And I have not the trust or inclination to let anyone else rummage around up there, Commander, so if you think there's a possibility of my being compromised then we need to find a compromise between us, now don't we." Kirk's eyes are flashing fire, conviction about his Starfleet oath combined with worry regarding the safety of the endeavor. "Is this something you are willing to consider?"
He hesitates only briefly; he has done far worse, for far less important beings, in the intervening years. "If you believe it necessary, Captain."
"Is it dangerous?"
"For us both, equally, if I am unskilled enough to complete the process."
"I'm willing to take that risk, but I don't want you doing it if it will permanently endanger your telepathic abilities, Spock."
"The danger is less that of telepathic damage, and more that of physical and mental pain, Captain. I have no wish to inflict greater harm than you have already been subjected to."
Kirk's eyes soften. "Somehow I doubt that's going to happen, Spock."
"It may, however; I am not trained in such matters. You must be prepared."
"I am. Or, I can be. What do you need me to do?"
This human, this impossibly trusting human, will be the death of him someday, he has no doubt. Any other would likely shy away, frightened, from the intrusion, especially after the events of today; but this man faces the challenge head-on, and it is that very determination which makes the mind-link so absurdly easy to form, to what feels like both their surprise.
He will never grow accustomed to the study in melodic disharmony which is this human's mind, on the few occasions he has had to glimpse within it – colorful and chaotic and intensely powerful and strangely, almost severely controlled in the areas pertaining to his duty. It is of little wonder Kirk can pass a psychological examination where a lesser man would fail, that he can perform the job he does without breaking under the strain; this also explains, in part, why Spock is and has from the beginning, been inexplicably drawn to him.
Jim faces his demons in much the same manner as he plays chess; either by dancing around them as if they were not there at all, or by crashing and burning and taking everything he can with him when he does – and both, with all the subtlety of a type two phaser array. The process is a fascinating study in organized chaos, and it is this process which draws his attention across a vast expanse of colorful, dizzying thoughts and feelings.
It takes very little effort to reach the source of the darkness he can sense lurking deeper within, for seldom has he felt so welcome as he does in this particular human's thoughts – a consideration for another, less vulnerable time – and within moments he has discovered the origin of the sinister tendrils which have just barely begun to twine throughout a portion of Kirk's mind.
The reaction is almost instinctive, almost simple in its solution.
They are memories, specifically sensory memories – phantom sensations of agonizing pain which are overriding the normal neural impulses; a form of conditioning that is completely beyond a human's control. The brain is refusing to carry out certain commands, believing those commands will produce excruciating pain should the actions be followed through. He can quickly see that these sensory memories are tied quite strongly to the game in question – no doubt, because the countersign Jim had been tortured for had been the primary reason for that very pain.
The relief he feels upon learning this is almost palpable – enough so that he can sense Kirk's wary confusion echoing across the mental expanse – and the solution, quite simple. This much, every Vulcan is capable of doing, if the mental connection is strong enough between two individuals.
Less than fifteen seconds later, he is surfacing from the mind-link with only minimal disorientation – again, a strange consideration for another time – and is looking hesitantly across the short distance which separates them.
Kirk blinks for a moment in silence, frowns, and pinches the bridge of his nose.
"Captain, are you well?"
One eye peeks at him in amusement from around the hand. "You've just been rearranging my brain, Spock, I believe you can drop the title."
"There was no 'rearranging' done," he protests, a strongly reflexive urge to defend the action. "Merely –"
"Spock. I haven't the faintest idea, what that was. But…" The man shakes his head, a look of almost awe crossing his face. "…whatever it was, it was a gift. And I thank you."
"It is merely a technique used to remove the sensations associated with certain memories, to lessen the emotions attached to those memories. The Vulcan Way is to completely remove those sensations; however, a human has no training in this mental discipline."
"So you…what, removed the pain association? Which is why I can still remember the event, but not what it felt like?" (2)
"Correct."
"Amazing." Kirk's eyes are far away as he goes back to the game, moving a knight almost absently. "And…a little frightening, to know you have that power, my friend."
"It is never to be used for harm, sir."
"Of course not. But it is frightening, all the same. To know you have that ability to cut off all emotion completely, on yourself or someone else? Well. Humans fear that which we don't fully comprehend, Mr. Spock."
"A natural reaction."
"Our pain makes us who we are, as humans – but there have been times where that would have been a gift," the man adds softly, as if to himself. Spock shifts the white king's rook to level two as he continues. "A very dangerous one, but a gift nonetheless."
"There may yet be such times, Captain."
"I don't think I would be able to remain impartial and make that call, Spock."
"Then do not." He lifts an eyebrow as Kirk glances up from studying the board. "As you said earlier, sir: you have faith in Doctor McCoy and his medical staff to be the experts in such matters of the mind as well as the body. Much against my own judgment, I will follow your direction should you defer to his in these matters."
Kirk stifles a laugh, and moves his queen to level three. "I believe you have a deal, Commander. I trust you both to rein each other in where I'm concerned, at least."
"A wise decision. Check. And mate in six, sir."
Kirk removes the check by taking Spock's queen.
He stares at the board for a moment in consternation, wondering how he had not seen that knight lurking on the lowest level for the entirety of the game, obviously waiting for that precise move.
The captain's eyes are wide with innocence. "You were saying, Mr. Spock?"
(1) Literally, a healing mind-fusion
(2) Personal head-canon alert: This is personally what I believe happened in the closing scene for Requiem for Methusaleh. I seriously doubt Spock would have removed the memories of Rayna entirely from Kirk's mind; not only is that a serious privacy invasion, but it's also pretty stupid, given that he can't mind-wipe McCoy and change the mission logs and everything else that would need to happen to keep Kirk from finding out. It's just not a logical solution when there's an easier one available, in my opinion. I think he probably made Kirk forget how painful her death was; for example, making the loss feel several years ago instead of quite recent.