Ex Machina

by Christopher L. Bennett

  “I had hoped the same would not be true with me,” he went on. “Unlike those others, I have not renounced Surak’s teachings. I simply believe that, when Surak said we must govern our passions lest they be our undoing, he did not intend for us to deny them completely—simply to manage them, to balance them with logic.” He met McCoy’s eyes more directly. “Much as you and I have always balanced each other as Jim’s advisors. Or as V’Ger’s logic is now balanced by Decker’s intuition and Ilia’s passion.

  “Yet despite my best efforts, I am finding that balance elusive.” His tone grew more grim, even embarrassed. “I am prone to inappropriate bursts of emotion, particularly anger, which threaten to overwhelm me. I have felt… a desire to inflict physical harm on those who have angered me.”

  McCoy studied him. “Like who? What did they do to make you angry?”

  Spock told him of his confrontations with T’Hesh and Soreth, and how they had reawakened the frustrations felt by a helpless child. “Now that’s perfectly understandable,” McCoy said. “They were both deliberately trying to get your goat. Bullying you, just like those kids who taunted you when you were growing up. That kind of pain—you can suppress or control it all you want, but you never forget it. Hell, all the years you’ve been lettin’ it fester inside, it’s no wonder it’s such a sore spot.”

  “You may be right,” Spock said. “But what if Soreth is right as well? He was not taunting me merely out of spite, but in order to make a point. And my reaction may have proven his point. What if Vulcan emotion is too volatile to set free?” His frown deepened. “Other Vulcans have tried to master it and failed. Why should I be any more successful?”

  “Sounds to me like you let Commissioner Sorehead get under your skin,” McCoy observed. “Just ask yourself, why should you care what he thinks?”

  “It is not just him. Every Vulcan I’ve encountered since the meld has treated me the same way.”

  “Just more schoolyard bullies. They’re just afraid you’ll prove ’em wrong.”

  “Or they are concerned that I may lose control. As am I, Doctor.”

  “So what’s the alternative?” McCoy asked. “Go back to the way you were?”

  Spock shook his head, but without great conviction. “I don’t see how I could, after what I saw in V’Ger’s mind. But neither can I see how to move forward safely. How do I release these emotions without losing myself to them? Without jeopardizing others?” The need in his eyes was startling. “For years, Doctor, you told me how much better my life would be if I allowed myself to feel. You lectured me on how essential emotion was to mental health. Very well—now I am ready to believe you. But you need to explain to me how it works. How do you manage to give your emotions rein yet remain functional? How do you keep them from driving you to harm the ones around you?”

  McCoy was dumbstruck by what Spock was asking of him. To discover that Spock had such confidence in him—it was truly moving, yet at the same time it forced him to realize how misplaced that confidence was. “Aw, Spock… of all the times to start listenin’ to me…”

  “Doctor?”

  McCoy stood and turned away. “I hate to tell you this, Spock, but you’ve called my bluff. I’m the last person who can tell you how to lead a balanced emotional life. I’m the kind who wallows in emotion, lets it run away with me and make me say and do stupid things. Maybe… maybe I indulged my emotions a little too much sometimes, made a point of it just to counteract that confounded logic of yours. Maybe…” He gingerly met Spock’s gaze again. “Maybe I figured I could get away with it because you were there to be logical for me.

  “Anyway, the last thing I can tell you is how to keep emotions from hurting people. That seems to be all I’m doing lately. I’ve got all these different feelings that I don’t have a clue what to do with, and I just keep hurting people as a result.”

  Spock looked at him with puzzlement and a sympathy that burned. “I fail to see how you can blame your emotional state for the incident with Ms. Spring Rain.”

  “Chapel should’ve been the one on duty, Spock. I just sent her to Lorina in my place because I was afraid I might have to face Natira again. Because I was a fool for hurting her, and a coward for hiding from the consequences.” He sighed. “So don’t look to me for a role model, Spock, if you know what’s good for you. In fact, I’d give a lot for some of that logical clarity of yours right about now.”

  Spock lifted a brow, folded his hands before him on the table, and met McCoy’s eyes attentively. “If you wish to delineate the problem, I will attempt to suggest a logical approach.”

  McCoy gave a mocking laugh, but then realized Spock was serious. “Hell… why not?” He sat down and tried to explain the situation with Natira as best he could, though it was a struggle to sort through all the conflicting feelings.

  “I just don’t know what to do now. Maybe I didn’t love her before, but now I might be willing to give it another try. But I don’t know if she could forgive me for letting her down. My God, Spock, we were married! And I threw it away, just like that. How can I have a future with her after that?”

  Spock pondered for a moment. “Is that what you would wish to do, if you chose to leave Starfleet?”

  “I don’t know, Spock. If it could work, it would beat bein’ a lonely old hermit up in the mountains. Maybe I could do more good there, too. I could help more people than I could as a hermit… and they’d be people whose anatomy I actually understand. But Natira… I just can’t see how we could ever go back to the way things were. So much has changed, for both of us.”

  Spock spoke slowly. “In science, if the initial conditions of an experiment have changed to a great enough degree, the original data can cease to be relevant. In which case, the logical response is to restart the experiment from the beginning, and keep the new data separate from the original results. In short, to wipe the slate clean.

  “So perhaps, if you and Natira could set aside the past and simply… start again, it would be easier for you to determine your prospects for a relationship in the present or future.” He tilted his head in what for him was a shrug. “Though I cannot say whether the analogy is at all applicable in this case.”

  “No… no, it’s a good thought,” McCoy said, turning it over in his mind. “At least… well, it’s worth thinking about. If nothing else, it’s… a comforting idea.” He smiled. “I wouldn’t have known you had it in you, Spock. I’m just sorry I couldn’t be more help to you.”

  “You may have other opportunities,” Spock suggested, “if you remain in Starfleet.”

  “Well—who knows? I may have somewhere else to go after all,” he said, not truly believing it, but willing to hope.

  “Perhaps.” Spock rose to leave, but then halted. “One more factor to consider, though—you said that your original relationship with Natira failed because, for you, it was merely solace and escape from an unpleasant situation.”

  “I think that’s a mild way of putting it, but yes.”

  “In that case… would it not be unwise to let your guilt over your performance on the Enterprise be a factor in deciding whether to stay with her again?” The words bore his usual formality, but his voice was gentle, his eyes absolving. McCoy could only look at him for a long moment.

  “Good night, Dr. McCoy,” Spock said with a nod. “I shall contact you tomorrow about scheduling our visit to Yonada.”

  “G’night, Spock. And… thanks.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  History is written by the victors, true. But another history is whispered by the losers: a quiet, moving target, keeping to the shadows, biding its time until it can rise up into a shout.

  —Alexander M. Brack, 2073

  TAVERO STROVE to cast out fear as he approached the Fedraysha school. “There is no fear,” Dovraku had told him. “There is no doubt. There is only the One and the Zero. Either you succeed or you fail. Simply choose not to fail me.”

  There was nothing Tavero wanted less than to fail Dovraku. He tried
to see what he was about to do with the pure clarity Dovraku had shown him. To his shame, doubts still lingered, though he kept the prophet’s counsel in mind. It wasn’t so much that he feared dying. Dovraku had spoken to him of mighty V’Ger, and how He had the power to scan those He deemed worthy and absorb their digital essence into His being. Naturally the Oracle would do the same for His martyrs, for their courage earned them life everlasting in His realm of mathematical perfection. At first Tavero had been puzzled, for what Dovraku asked seemed to negate his earlier promise to provide him with his perfect mate, or mates if he were worthy enough. But of course he had been a fool to think so, lacking the clarity of Dovraku’s thought. “Naturally your ideal mate will be chosen from among the martyrs who have gone before you,” the Great One had told him. “For who else could be worthy of you, after all?” Tavero had seen pictures of some of the martyr women. They were heroes of the People, of course, and most boys found them quite glamorous and exciting. And many were beautiful, too. It thrilled Tavero that he would have his pick of such desirable women while the others had to settle for immature sluts like Ribasi and Semila.

  The doubts he had more trouble casting aside were those about the target Dovraku had sent him to destroy—or rather, the timing of the attack. Certainly the Fedraysha schools were founts of blasphemous filth, tools of the oppressor, and needed to be smashed by the fury of the People. Tavero was happy to cleanse Lorina of this one; what hurt was having to do it while people were inside, especially children. “I know it is a grave burden to bear,” the Great One had told him. “These are the hard choices we must make if we wish to cleanse the World of its alien poisons. But remember that they are already lost, their souls corrupted by Fedraysha lies. It is written that those of the People who sin or speak evil will be punished. Not out of cruelty, but out of need, to purge the People of evil before it can spread. They who stray from the Oracle’s will in life redeem themselves in their sacrifice to the good of the People. And you, Tavero, are to be the means of their redemption. You are an Instrument of Obedience, the hand of the Oracle. Let Him do His will through you, young man, strong man, and you need feel no guilt.”

  Yes. Yes, he felt it now. He was simply the tool of the Oracle, acting as it guided him. There need be no guilt, no doubt, for he was not the one who made the choice. He was a cog in the divine mechanism, fulfilling his destiny.

  The sinners let him in, as they did every day when he bothered to show up. They scanned him first, but Dovraku was too smart for them, always changing his formulas. This time, he had only half the formula, and he had been told where the other half had been left by another loyalist. A loyalist, but apparently unworthy to be a martyr. Tavero would have that honor alone. Today, at last, he was the most important boy in the school.

  He made his way to the hiding place and retrieved the other half of the compound. He had been told where to set it off to do the most damage. But then Semila strode by, blind to him as always, and nearly collided with him. He jumped, afraid of detection, and the smug bitch laughed at his startlement and mocked him for his lack of coordination. The tall, athletic older boys on her arms joined in her laughter.

  And Tavero decided it didn’t matter where the blast went off, as long as she was caught in it. He shoved her to the ground, tore open the two bags, and poured their contents over her wavy black hair. The compounds reacted, and the last thing Tavero saw was her haughtily beautiful face dissolving in a blaze of light.

  * * *

  Natira looked over the scene of the bombing with a mix of outrage and relief. Commander Spock’s scans had shown that the death toll could have been far worse, if the explosion had happened slightly closer to one of the primary stress points of the building. What stroke of fortune had prevented the bomber from reaching what had no doubt been his intended target would probably never be known. But nonetheless, over a dozen children and nearly as many adults were dead or trapped beneath the collapsed section of the education center. Grieving families and shocked bystanders clustered around the building, while S.C.E. personnel scanned the rubble for survivors. Natira began moving toward the onlookers, formulating what she would say to reassure them that the perpetrators would be found and brought to justice.

  Still, she couldn’t help thinking this might have been prevented if Kirk had been more proactive, if he’d provided the help she’d requested rather than wasting time trying to negotiate with fanatical fools. Natira trusted that this attack would persuade him of his folly.

  Some of the People, she noted, were climbing through the rubble along with the S.C.E. and Federation Security personnel, having no tricorders but applying raw muscle to lift debris away and look and listen underneath. It was a moving sight, though of course their efforts served little purpose with Starfleet technology on hand. She felt a twinge of regret at their reflexive rejection of the new, even as she admired their courage and determination.

  But then she noticed a familiar face among those searching the rubble, and her mood soured. “You!” she cried out, striding toward the cursed presence. “How dare you show your face here, Rishala?”

  The priestess looked up at Natira impatiently. “Where else could I be at this time?”

  “Where else indeed, but admiring the fruits of your madness!”

  The impatience turned to cold fury. “You’re blinder than I thought, if you could believe I would approve of this. Dovraku has gone too far this time. This is not what the People want, and you will find very few who stand with him now.” She blinked away dust, or so it seemed to Natira, but then she saw that it was tears. “I lost pupils of mine in there. Some of our freshest, brightest souls, the hope for our future. I only pray to the Creators that they will be reborn to us soon… and that some may have yet been spared by Their mercy.”

  Natira’s anger sank into uncertainty. “Then… you condemn Dovraku’s acts against the state? Are you prepared to say this publicly?”

  “There is a great deal about the state I disapprove of,” the older woman said tiredly. “But none of it justifies this. And that’s what I will say to any who’ll listen.”

  Natira gave her a grudging nod. “I am gratified.”

  “Keep your gratification. Are you going to come down here and help us, or are you too afraid to soil your gown?”

  She should have known Rishala couldn’t stay civil for long. “I have called the Enterprise. Their transporters can free any survivors far more easily than we can. You are wasting your effort.”

  “Trying to help is never a waste, whether it makes any change or not.” Rishala bent down once more to her work.

  To her grandstanding, more like—trying to make it look as if she were accomplishing something in order to win popularity. Natira had more faith in the People’s ability to recognize real accomplishments, in the fullness of time. But if Rishala was indeed ready to break with the insurrectionists, Natira supposed that positive publicity for the priestess would do no harm. “As you will, then,” she said. “But there are people over there who need my encouragement in these trying times.”

  Rishala threw her an odd look. “And what do you suppose these times are trying to become?”

  Captain’s Log: Stardate 7438.7

  The final toll of the bombing at the education center is twenty-seven dead, forty-eight injured. More than half are children. The toll would have been significantly higher if not for Transporter Chief Janice Rand’s prompt efforts to locate survivors and transport them out from the rubble, and for the Enterprise medical staff, who worked alongside Lorini medical personnel to save those that they could. Commendations are hereby granted to them all (full list hereunto appended).

  Given the severity of this attack, and the likelihood of more, I have now decided to grant Governess Natira’s request for Starfleet security assistance in tracking down the terrorists. I have resisted this request until now, for the reasons cited in earlier entries (cf. SD 7435.5, 7436.4). However, Natira believes that the public has turned in our favor due to thi
s attack. Observations by Lieutenant Commanders Lindstrom and Uhura would seem to bear this out, though Lindstrom advises that strong-arm tactics at this point may undermine that advantage. Although I appreciate his concerns, I feel the immediate threat to life and limb overrides them. And I trust in Lieutenant Chekov’s discretion and fairness in dealing with the local population.

  Meanwhile, I’ve urged Commander Spock and his team to redouble their efforts to reconstruct the origins of the Fabrini belief system, in the hope that we can find some common ground to bring the factions together—only to be reminded by Mr. Spock that he was already putting his fullest effort into it, and expecting no less from his team. Naturally.

  Hrrii’ush Uuvu’ it crowed with pride as the sensor data came in, forgetting the sensitivity of the Vulcan ear. “Sorry, sir,” he said to the wincing Commander Spock. “But we’ve triumphed!”

  “Amazing,” Sara Bowring said as she gazed up at the science briefing room’s main screen, studying the outlines of the ruins which the new sensor algorithms had revealed just under Yonada’s surface. “Why didn’t anyone else find these in four years?”

  “Because we’re better than they are, of course!” Uuvu’ it reminded her.

  “Rather,” Spock predictably began, “because they had 296,092 square kilometers to search and sensors less powerful than the Enterprise’s at their disposal.”

  “Which doesn’t negate our being better.” After all, it had taken the sensor team hours to construct protocols that could penetrate the outer shell’s radiation shielding with sufficient resolution. Uuvu’ it felt that was a valid justification for bragging rights even by logical standards. Spock just wasn’t getting into the competitive spirit.

  “So now we have evidence that there was at least some long-term habitation of the surface,” said Jade Dinh.

  “Which tells us the climate was probably more temperate.” That was Edward Logan, a burly human ecologist with a clean-shaven head—he called it “the Deltan look” and was convinced it made him more alluring to human females. Uuvu’ it thought it was an improvement, anyway. “It supports the ecological-collapse theory. Why didn’t this get figured out before? I mean, the evidence was there in the surface morphology, like Spring Rain said.”