Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Chapter One: An Infinite Number of Possibilities

He had come here prepared to die.

Ambassador Spock of Vulcan, once Captain Spock of Starfleet, and before that, simply Spock cha’Sarek of the House of Surak, sat the helm of his experimental ship. The ship had been sucked through a wormhole in space and time and was now—Spock was not certain. There would be time later to consult star charts and databases—assuming that he lived for longer than the next ten minutes.

Spock was not afraid to die. That was not simply a philosophical assumption; it was the truth. He’d already died once—a long time and place ago, at the hands of a madman called Khan. But he’d been brought back to life by a series of fortunate events—and through the love and determination of James T. Kirk, his commanding officer, his best friend, his brother, his mate. Even now, in mortal danger, Spock spared a moment to miss Jim Kirk. T’hy’la—perhaps I will find you now. Now he was in a different universe, perhaps similar in some ways to the one he’d know, perhaps completely alien in every way. He had no way of knowing if there was a Starfleet in this universe, if Vulcan even existed or if his people had destroyed themselves a thousand years before Surak was alive to offer enlightenment. Perhaps the Romulans ruled here; perhaps the Klingons had finally defeated their old foes. All available research on space/time continuums indicated that there were an infinite number of possibilities. Spock probably would not have time to find out which possibilities this universe held, and that saddened him. Kaiidth. What was, was—even here in this strange new universe.

Spock looked at his view-screen, seeing the Romulan ship waiting for him, the ship commanded by the renegade Nero, filling the screen. Nero’s ship had gone through the worm hole first, and Spock did not doubt that however much time had passed, Nero had been waiting right here, waiting for Spock, waiting for the one who had failed in his quest to save Nero’s planet, the one Nero blamed for the death of his wife, his child, and his people.

Nero’s hatred of Spock was illogical—Spock had not created the conditions that had led to the Romulans’ star going super-nova. However, he had promised to save a world—and he had failed. For that reason, Spock could not blame Nero for wanting to see him dead. At the same time, if he could, he needed to stop Nero from killing others, from taking his vendetta to this parallel universe and destroying missions of lives in an attempt to balance some equation that could never be reconciled.

The console signaled an incoming message and with resignation, Spock hit the switch, seeing Nero’s grim and tattooed visage appear.

“Spock,” Nero hissed. “How wonderful—at last. I have waited for you so patiently, and at last you are here. Now my revenge will be complete.”

Spock stared back at the maddened features. “Kill me as is your desire,” he replied calmly. “I have no fear of the final darkness.”

Nero grinned, broken and blackened teeth only adding to his sinister looks.

“Oh, I have no intention of killing you, Spock—not now,” he sneered. “No, I intend to capture you and take you along on a pleasant little voyage to a planet called Vulcan.” He laughed at the look in Spock’s eyes. “Oh, yes—it’s here, and it’s filled with mealy-mouthed, lying pacifist Vulcans—vermin whom I will slaughter. My ship has a marvelous little device on-board—a phaser-fueled drill that will split Vulcan apart. And you will stand on the bridge of my ship and watch, Spock, watch all those Vulcans die. If the gods are truly kind, your mind will be able to hear their screams of fear and agony. Only then will you have truly paid for what you did to my planet and my people!” Nero glared at him “And when the pain and grief have driven you mad, when there is no light left in the galaxy, only then will you have my permission to die,” he finished softly.

Spock’s heart went cold in his side. “You cannot have any quarrel with the Vulcans of this universe,” he argued. “You cannot logically hold them responsible for what...”

“I hold you responsible!” Nero screamed, face flushing emerald. “You, Spock, you! I will see you die in mortal agony, carrying the katras of three billion Vulcans with you! I...”

“Commander!” The cry came from off-screen, off to Nero’s left. He frowned and glanced away from Spock. Even at this angle, Spock saw the horror on his face. He quickly switched his own view screen to a shot outside his ship—and there it was, bearing down on Nero’s ship. It was a Federation starship; Spock could not be mistaken about that. The design was familiar, not identical to one in his Starfleet, but close enough. By uping the magnification on his screen, Spock could make out the name on the saucer—USS Kelvin. There was a brilliant flash of light as Nero’s ship fired on the new vessel.

Spock’s ships carried no weapons except for red matter—and he could not risk imploding that here. He sat and watched, horrified, as the Kelvin and Nero’s ship destroyed each other. In les than ten minutes, it was over. Nero, his crew, and all the Starfleet officers and crew of the Kelvin were nothing more than atoms scattered across the quadrant.

Spock bowed his head in silence for a long time, mourning so many useless deaths, including Nero’s. One more time, Spock accepted the burden of failing to save the Romulan home world—and then he put it aside. Logic dictated that he survive, and in order to do so, he must learn about this brave new universe. His fingers danced over the console, calling up various data links. Fortunately, the universe had a ‘Net with safety guards that were no match for the only individual in Starfleet with an A-7 computer rating. His ship floating peacefully, Spock read far into the night, seeing the parallels and differences between this universe and his—and learning about the USS Kelvin and its now-dead commander—one George Samuel Kirk.

Six Months Later

Orphanages still existed.

Even on 23rd century Earth, there were occasionally children who had no family. Life expectancy was somewhere around 130 years and many diseases had been conquered, but once in a great while, a woman died in childbirth, and the same random factors occasionally meant that the father of the child she bore was also deceased.

Such was the case of one James Tiberius Kirk, the posthumous child of Captain George Kirk of Starfleet and his wife, Commander Winona Kirk.

Everyone at St. Diana’s orphanage in Des Moines, Iowa knew little Jim’s story. His mother had been serving aboard the USS Kelvin with her husband, but the ship’s CMO had sent her back to Earth for the last two months of a difficult pregnancy. Unfortunately, she had barely arrived and settled into an apartment before going into labor at least six weeks early. James had been born premature and frighteningly small, and despite all that the doctors could do, Winona Kirk barely had time to name her son after both his grandfathers before she bled to death in the delivery room.

There was worse to come.

Starfleet immediately attempted to contact Captain George Kirk aboard the Kelvin—but the Kelvin wasn’t there. It took more than three weeks for the final message capsule launched by the Kelvin to be picked up, with its fragmented images of a large and hostile ship and a decisive battle, as well as the captain’s final log entry. Starfleet determined that George Kirk had died the very day his son was born on Earth—the very day his wife had died.

Naturally, Starfleet officials had immediately made the tiny Kirk baby a ward of the Federation, and an exhaustive search was mounted to find any living relatives. But other than a ne’er-do-well half-brother of Winona’s, one Frank Carlson, whose current whereabouts were unknown, there was no one. Accordingly, little Jim Kirk was placed at St. Diana’s.

The staff confidently expected that Jim would be adopted—but one possible set of parents after another refused him. He was skinny; he was allergic to almost everything; he had rashes from his allergies and he cried constantly. When he wasn’t crying, he lay nearly unresponsive in his crib, huge blue eyes looking at nothing. If the staff hadn’t known better, many of them would have sworn the baby was depressed, that somehow he knew why he was alone. But regardless of why he was the way he was, the weeks went by and Jim lay in his crib, not dying but certainly not thriving. The staff did all they could, but Jim simply didn’t respond as expected. It was worrisome, to say the least.

The nurse escorted the visitor through the halls of St. Diana’s, shooting curious looks at the tall, cloaked figure whenever she thought he wasn’t watching her. It was rare for a single man alone to come looking to adopt a child—same-sex couples, of course, but not usually one man. It was even more rare for a Vulcan to come looking for a human child to adopt—everyone knew that Vulcans loved children, but they usually adopted from among their own species. Finally, this solo male Vulcan had to be at least 160 Standard years old. Of course, Vulcans lived much longer than humans, but still; it was an odd age for someone to decide he wanted a baby. However, this—the nurse raked her brain for the name—ah, yes, Selik—had passed all the screenings and had all the right paperwork, so it wasn’t her business what he did. It was her business to show him the available babies and young children. There were seven available at this time, all between the ages of six months and two years. The nurse motioned towards a door.

“This way, sir,” she said courteously. She punched in a code and the doors opened into the nursery, a bright and sunny room with murals of animals on the walls and plenty of mobiles and toys to stimulate young brains. The aide on duty nodded from her chair, where she sat with a toddler girl in her lap, reading a story.

“I...I’m not sure what type of child you’d like,’ the nurse said, “but there’s a darling little boy, Gary, just over a year old and...”

“No, I thank you,” the Vulcan said politely but with an unmistakable note of command in the deep, soft voice. “I know precisely who I seek.” He moved with long strides across the room to the crib by the wall, the nurse scurrying to keep up, taken aback when she realized he was making his way straight to Jim Kirk’s crib, where the baby lay whimpering softly, as he so often did.

“Um, sir, Mr. Selik, I’m not sure that Jimmy is the right prospect. I mean, he’s such a heartbreaking little tyke; his story’s so sad, but he is...well, he’s sick a lot and he...I mean, his crying, even for those of us who are trained to bear it...”

She was talking to the air. The old Vulcan stood at the side of the crib, looking down at the sickly, scabby, unhappy morsel of humanity that lay there. He pushed back the cowled hood of his cloak to reveal a lined, noble face and a head full of silver hair, as well as two elegantly pointed ears. Pitch-black eyes stared down into large blue ones, and Jim ceased his fretful whining. Clever, long-fingered hands reached into the crib and carefully, tenderly lifted the tiny body, holding it close to a warm chest. Little Jimmy Kirk actually cooed as the Vulcan cradled him in his arms, snuggling closer to that soothing warmth. Within moments, he was asleep in Selik’s arms, a faint smile on the tiny, pinched face.

The old Vulcan looked at the nurse, who was frankly staring as the nursery’s problem child slept like a little angel in Selik’s arms.

“This one,” Selik said, gently but firmly. “We will complete the paperwork, and I will take him home—today.”