Jim - Memoirs of S’chn T’gai Spock

by WeirdAddictions

Summary:

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It is almost amusing that I once believed myself immune to his influence.

I had supposed that Vulcan discipline would be sufficient to shield me from the charisma that so readily bent others toward him.

I miscalculated.

Of all who served under his command, none was more altered by him than I.

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In the final years of his life, Ambassador S’chn T’gai Spock undertook a project unlike any other: a personal account dedicated to James Tiberius Kirk. Long preserved in the Vulcan Archives and published here for the first time, these writings reveal not the legend history remembers, but the man as seen through Spock’s eyes. Part diary, part memoir, and part testament, this incomplete manuscript bears witness to a bond that defies easy definition. More than comrades-in-arms, more than colleagues, Kirk and Spock forged a devotion that shaped the destiny of the Federation and left an indelible mark on each of their lives.

Chapter 1: Preface

Jim

Memoirs of S’chn T’gai Spock

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Editor’s Note

The manuscript presented to the reader was found among the private documents of S’chn T’gai Spock, preserved in the Vulcan Archives of Shi’Kahr and made accessible only after his death. There are no precise indications regarding the date of composition, but it is believed that the work was undertaken in the final years of his life.

Some internal elements suggest that Ambassador Spock had initially conceived the text with the intention of publishing it. Yet as his writing progressed, the pages took on a different nature: less formal, more personal, increasingly intimate. For this reason, the manuscript, left unfinished at the time of his death, has reached us in incomplete form.

The original title of the manuscript was simply Jim. Out of respect for the author’s will, the text has been preserved in its entirety without substantial modifications, with only minimal interventions of formatting and orthographic standardization. The reader is also advised that the work presents different styles: pages of diaristic tone, dated annotations, reflections, and memories recalled with greater completeness. This variety has not been altered, as we consider it an integral part of the nature of the document.

Published with the consent of the Vulcan Archives
All rights reserved
First Edition: Stardate 2398
Printed and distributed by the Historical Archive of Starfleet, San Francisco, Earth

Note: Certain phrases and annotations originally written in Vulcan have been translated and reported in notes by T’Laris and Dr. Amelia Zhang, Starfleet Linguistics Division.

PREFACE

by Jean-Luc Picard, Admiral of Starfleet

When I was asked to introduce this volume, I hesitated. It is not easy to find words that can truly rise to the level of what follows. The voice that the reader will encounter here belongs to one of the greatest thinkers, diplomats, and officers the Federation has ever known. And when the voice is that of Ambassador Spock, any comment risks appearing superfluous.

I reflected at length on how to present these pages. It is not an official report, nor a diary in the strict sense, nor even a biography. It is something that escapes any simple definition. And perhaps it is precisely this indeterminacy that makes it so valuable. Ambassador Spock, who always embodied the discipline of logic and Vulcan restraint, chose in the final years of his life to turn to the memory of James Kirk. In this gesture there is a quality I do not hesitate to call profoundly human: the need to hold on, through words, to the presence of one who is no longer there.

Within these pages lies an intimacy that surprises, and that moves. Not so much in what is directly said, but in what emerges between the lines. One understands without difficulty how deeply Spock loved James Kirk, how much he respected and admired him, and how greatly he suffered for his loss.

James Tiberius Kirk and S’chn T’gai Spock were comrades-in-arms, colleagues, and—as these pages clearly demonstrate—bound by a tie that defies any simple definition. For decades people have spoken of their complementarity: human instinct alongside Vulcan logic, charismatic command alongside unwavering discipline. Yet these formulations, though accurate, belong to the language of legend. They do not capture the essence of their bond, which was not only the foundation of countless achievements, but also an example of reciprocal devotion without precedent.

With the publication of this manuscript, Starfleet does not only pay homage to two figures who profoundly shaped our shared destiny. It also honors that which united them, and which gave meaning to their every endeavor: a bond that survives both time and death, and that in these pages reveals itself in full.

May the reader, in approaching these memoirs, see not only two extraordinary men, but also recognize the simplest and most enduring truth they preserve: that the greatness of a life is measured not only by victories or discoveries, but by the strength of the bonds we forge, and the meaning we draw from them.

Chapter 2: On the Necessity of Memory

 

I should not have written these pages. It is neither a logical act, nor a necessary one. Of James T. Kirk there already exists an immense historiography: official archives, holographic recordings, mission reports, treatises, academic theses, authorized and unauthorized biographies, articles, studies in behavioral psychology, anthologies of speeches, commemorative volumes, even collections of private correspondence. His name has been engraved on the plaques of academies, proclaimed in the speeches of political leaders, celebrated in history manuals, and even immortalized in plays and popular ballads. Therefore, nothing I write here can constitute a contribution of any significance to that already overabundant corpus. And yet, despite this awareness, I find myself compelled to do so.

The decision is illogical, I acknowledge that. I have spent my life containing every deviation from the principle of logic. And yet, at my present age, I cannot wholly suppress what presses upon me. I am, undeniably, an old man. The discipline that has guided me for decades now yields, at times, under the weight of memory.

However extensive the record concerning James T. Kirk, none of it conveys the man as I recall him. I am troubled by the prospect of departing this life without bearing witness to that which lay beyond the legend. Biographies enumerate events; they do not capture the significance those events possessed. I write, therefore, not to amend the record, but to supplement it: to preserve, at least in part, who James Kirk truly was.

The task is not without difficulty. Words, though abundant, are imprecise instruments. They capture the outline of a man, never the totality. In attempting to recall James T. Kirk, I must therefore accept imperfection. What I set down will be partial, selective, inevitably distorted by the limitations of memory and by my own perception. And yet, even fragments may suffice to suggest the whole. If these pages succeed in evoking even a shadow of his presence, they will not have been in vain.

Chapter 3: I.

It is not simple to begin.

Logic dictates that a narrative commence at the point of first encounter. Yet memory does not arrange itself so neatly. It resists chronology. It presents itself in impressions, incomplete and disordered: a voice before a face, a presence before a name.

The official record states that James T. Kirk assumed command of the Enterprise on Stardate 1312.2. That is fact. Yet the record cannot convey the quality of that moment. I remember assessing him as one evaluates any superior officer: methodically, without indulgence. Within hours of assuming command, he demonstrated an instinct for decision that defied conventional analysis. He absorbed information rapidly, calculated risk with apparent ease, and executed orders with a clarity that left no room for hesitation. The crew responded at once; their confidence in him was almost reflexive. I observed this with a degree of skepticism, which I did not voice. It was, however, unwarranted.

[Annotation in Vulcan, translated: “I had underestimated the Human capacity to inspire loyalty without precedent or proof.”]

My own response to him was more complex.

For over a decade I had served under Captain Christopher Pike. His methods were steady and grounded in caution. He invited discussion, but rarely permitted discord; our disagreements, when they occurred, were resolved with quiet efficiency. His command style was a constant, much like the stars we navigated.

James Kirk was not constant. He was momentum. His decisions often appeared precipitous, his strategies improvised. He welcomed contradiction, and he met objection not with dismissal, but with challenge. The result was conflict. In our earliest days aboard the Enterprise, our exchanges were frequent and often contentious. He was not inclined to follow protocol for its own sake, whereas I regarded protocol as the necessary framework of command. Where I advised adherence, he pressed for flexibility. He challenged my reports in open conference, dismissing procedures I deemed essential, while I questioned what I perceived as his recklessness in disregarding established directives.

At the time, I regarded such conflict as evidence of incompatibility. In truth, it was the basis upon which our working relationship was established. He did not seek agreement; he sought resistance. When I contradicted him, he did not interpret it as insubordination. He considered it proof that I was willing to test him as rigorously as he tested himself. More than once he concluded a heated debate by saying, with unmistakable satisfaction, “Good. I need you to argue with me.” I found the statement perplexing. For me, conflict was an inefficiency, a disruption of order. For him, it was the crucible in which better decisions could be forged.

Gradually, I discerned that his apparent disregard for regulation was not the product of negligence, but of discernment. He observed when a directive safeguarded the crew, and when it constrained them. He weighed the letter of the rule against the purpose for which it had been written, and chose accordingly. More often than I anticipated, his judgment proved correct.

This realization was disquieting. For years I had relied on codified order, the clarity of structure, the stability of discipline. To follow a Captain who treated rules as instruments rather than absolutes required adjustment. It demanded that I revise assumptions I had long considered unassailable. I did not welcome the process. Yet resistance proved futile. James Kirk’s command did not permit complacency; it required continual reevaluation. Each decision he made compelled me to measure logic against outcomes, principle against necessity.

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The bridge was not, in truth, the place where I first met him. My first sight of James Kirk occurred in the Enterprise's recreation lounge. He was in conversation with Lieutenant Uhura and his brother, George Samuel Kirk. At that time he was still First Officer of the Farragut—the youngest in Starfleet history, surpassing even the record once held by his father.

It would be convenient to claim that the first time my eyes fell upon him was a moment of consequence, that I recognized at once what role he would come to occupy in my life. Such a statement, however, would not be accurate. At the time it was nothing more than a brief observation, a simple introduction. I regarded it as such and no more. I was aware that Samuel Kirk’s younger brother had risen with unusual speed through the ranks and that he had done so at an age unprecedented in Starfleet. Reputation, therefore, preceded him, as it so often did. As I saw him beside his brother and Lieutenant Uhura, I experienced the impulse to enter their conversation. I wished to hear him speak directly, to test whether the substance equaled the reports. My hearing, being Vulcan, distinguished their words even across the distance. It was a fraternal exchange, veering into rivalry, punctuated by humor at one another’s expense. I found it… unexpectedly diverting. I was already familiar with Samuel Kirk. He had served aboard the Enterprise for some time, and our interactions, though professional, had led me to form a judgment. He was capable, though inclined to embellishment, and his temperament often betrayed impatience with procedure. I regarded him as adequate in his duties, though not distinguished. James Kirk, however, was of an altogether different order. Even in so brief and informal an encounter, it was evident that he possessed qualities his brother did not.

He listened with an attentiveness that suggested both calculation and genuine interest, and when he did speak, his voice carried a clarity that drew the attention of all present.

"James, meet our Chief Science Officer, Mr. Spock. Spock, meet James Kirk, First Officer of the Ferragut," Lieutenant Uhura said.

He rose at once, the movement fluid, and extended his hand toward me. It was a polite gesture, conventional by Human standards, and yet, in context, daring. Humans are generally aware that Vulcans do not encourage physical contact. Many avoid the attempt altogether, out of courtesy or apprehension. James Kirk did not hesitate. I considered, briefly, the propriety of declining. Instead, I accepted. His hand was warm, his grip firm but not excessive, his eyes fixed on mine.*

[Annotation in Vulcan, translated: "This detail is unnecessary. Consider deletion.”]

The exchange that followed was pacate, measured, and unexpectedly engaging. James Kirk inquired regarding a subject of astrophysics—an area in which I anticipated offering instruction rather than dialogue. Instead, I discovered an interlocutor thoroughly versed in the material. He posed his questions with precision, not to display knowledge but to test its application. He referenced theories and research with fluency, citing sources I had myself consulted. His observations were not superficial; they revealed both study and original consideration.

Soon after, he excused himself with courtesy, and the moment concluded. Circumstance did not permit further acquaintance. He was obliged to return to the Farragut, and our paths diverged once more.

I did not expect them to converge again. I thought him a stranger I would soon forget. I know now that no man would ever be less a stranger to me.

Chapter 4: II.

It is almost amusing that I once believed myself immune to his influence.

I had supposed that Vulcan discipline would be sufficient to shield me from the charisma that so readily bent others toward him.

I miscalculated.

Of all who served under his command, none was more altered by him than I.

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Chapter 5: III.

 

Of his childhood, he spoke rarely. When he did, it was never with nostalgia. I concluded early that those years had not been, in the Human sense, “happy.” His father, George Kirk, was most often absent, consumed by duty. His mother, Winona, bore the greater weight. What he conveyed of her was a portrait of brilliance contained by circumstance. She was, by his account, a woman of sharp intellect and exacting discipline, whose abilities might have carried her far had they not been redirected toward the raising of her sons. She educated them with rigor, instilled in them a respect for knowledge and for effort, but he implied—without ever naming it—that she considered her own life diminished by the task. He did not accuse her of neglect, nor did he romanticize her sacrifices. He spoke instead with the clarity that characterized him in all things: his mother had borne responsibilities she had not wholly chosen, while his father pursued a vocation that removed him from the daily weight of family.

From this, James Kirk appeared to draw two conclusions: that devotion to Starfleet was rarely compatible with life at home, and that to embrace such a path was to relinquish the prospect of family. He did not wish to repeat the pattern he had witnessed in his parents: a father absent in duty, a mother left to bear its cost. Thus he chose Starfleet as his life entire, and sought no children to divide his allegiance.

On some occasions, he spoke of the place in which he had grown up: Riverside, Iowa. He described it with simplicity. Fields, wide and unbroken; skies that seemed excessive in their expanse; winters that imposed themselves with severity. Of himself, he said only that he had been “a good kid,” always first in his class, quick to master a lesson, and quick as well to contest a teacher when the lesson itself seemed flawed. His instructors, he claimed, adored him, though he related this with a smile that suggested he was aware of the exaggeration. What I discerned, however, was that he had indeed impressed his teachers, not merely through ability, but through the energy with which he approached every subject.

Once, by chance, I saw a recording from his childhood. He had not intended to show it to me; it appeared while he was searching for another file.

“Sam sent it to me last night. He digs these things up when he’s bored.”

The recording showed two boys—James and his brother—running across an open yard, colliding as they fought for a ball. Their laughter was sharp and unrestrained. James was smaller than his brother then. His hair, lighter than in later years, caught the sunlight as he ran.

“That was the summer Sam broke his arm,” he said. “I’d convinced him to climb a tree with me. Told him it would be easy, that we’d see the whole town from the top. He slipped before he got halfway.” He gave a short laugh. “Mom was furious.”

Though absent for much of his childhood, his father’s shadow loomed large. Where others followed in their parents’ footsteps out of loyalty or pride, James Kirk did so for reasons more complex. He sought not only to understand his father, but to test himself against the same horizon. The stars that had drawn George Kirk away from his family became, for James, both a challenge and an inheritance. Yet he did not merely follow the path that had been set before him. He surpassed it. Where his father had served, James commanded. Where his father had been absent, James made himself present—unceasingly so—for his crew, for his ship, for those who depended upon him. What had once been a source of loss he transformed into a vocation of constancy.

When James assumed command of the Enterprise, his father was present at the ceremony. “Afterward, he pulled me aside. ‘You’re a captain now, Jim,’ he told me. ‘That word means more than a rank. It means every soul aboard will look to you as the measure of their safety, their purpose, their hope. You’ll carry them where they cannot carry themselves. Never forget that their lives are the weight behind your every decision.’”

Those words, though solemn, were in truth unnecessary. James required no instruction in the weight of command. The burden of responsibility was not a lesson imparted to him by his father, nor by Starfleet regulations. It was intrinsic to his nature. He bore his crew not as numbers in a ledger, but as lives entrusted wholly to his care. He rejoiced in their triumphs, defended them with ferocity, and grieved with equal intensity for their losses. Each life extinguished under his command left a mark upon him, subtle to the casual observer but unmistakable to one who stood at his side.

To serve beneath him was to witness a paradox: a Captain whose decisiveness never faltered, and yet who felt the full cost of every decision.

Chapter 6: IV.

"You all right, Mister Spock?"

"I am functioning within acceptable parameters."

"That’s not what I asked."

"The effects of the intoxication have passed. I regret the… display."

"I think we all said and did things we wouldn’t, under normal circumstances."

"Precisely. It was a failure of discipline."

"Or maybe it was just the truth, stripped bare."

"Truth, Captain, is seldom so inelegant."

"Still, it sounded like truth to me." He hesitated. "When you said you were ashamed of your Earth blood…was it really that hard for you? Growing up, I mean. You don’t have to tell me if you’d rather not—"

"Inquiry does not offend me, Captain. If you wish to ask of my past, you are… welcome to do so."

"I don’t want to make you uncomfortable."

"You do not. Vulcans are taught to guard privacy, but not to fear examination. If your questions stem from curiosity, or concern, they are not unwelcome." I folded my hands behind my back. "You ask if it was difficult. It was. On Vulcan, emotion is weakness. To feel, especially as a child born of two worlds, was to be… less. I concealed what I could, rejected what I could not. That is the discipline of my people."

"But Spock… forgive me if I’m stepping out of line. Isn’t that a little illogical?"

My brow lifted. "Illogical, Captain?"

"You said it yourself—your people value logic above all things. Yet everyone on Vulcan knew you were half-Human. They knew. And still they condemned you for showing emotion, when logic should’ve told them it was part of who you are. Part of what you were born with. How can it be logical to expect you to erase it?"

"Logic is not immune to cultural prejudice. Vulcans may claim otherwise, but even they shape reason to preserve custom."

"Spock, uh… I want you to know that here, on the Enterprise, it doesn’t have to be like that. I don’t want you thinking you have to— I mean, you are allowed to be… who you are. However much Vulcan, however much Human."

"You suggest, then, that I should embrace the Human aspect of my nature more openly. That to exhibit emotion would be… preferable, in this environment."

"No! No, that’s not what I mean at all. I don’t want you to change for anyone’s comfort. You don’t need to prove anything to me, or to this crew. All I am saying is—however you choose to be, you’ll be accepted here. Always."

"Your assurance is… noted, Captain. Yet it does not alter what I am. I have chosen the Vulcan way. That will not change."

He smiled. "All right, Mister Spock. That’s good enough for me. Now… how about a game of chess? Unless, of course, you’re still recovering from the last defeat."

"I believe, Captain, that it was your king who was cornered within twelve moves."

"Which only means I need the rematch more than you do."