Ex Machina Read online

  “You’re the one who always says a little suffering’s good for the soul.”

  “I never say that.”

  “Well, one of us does, so you’re getting no sympathy from me. Honestly, you’re as bad a pupil as you are a patient.”

  “Damn straight.”

  Spock considered leaving before Chapel registered his presence, but it was already too late. “Mr. Spock!” the doctor said as she stood in the doorway.

  “Doctor.”

  After an awkward pause, she steeled herself and spoke. “I haven’t seen much of you lately. I think you’ve been avoiding me.” At his uncomfortable silence, she smiled. “Not that I blame you. The way I used to carry on over you, it’s no wonder you’d think I’d see this as my big moment, now that you’ve… well, you know.”

  “Yes… I am aware of the circumstances.”

  “Well, you don’t have to worry, Mr. Spock. I’ve long since gotten over that silly little crush. I finally realized I wasn’t doing myself any good, constantly falling for distant, undemonstrative men.”

  Spock looked at her warily. “But I am no longer… entirely undemonstrative.”

  Chapel pursed her lips. “No, I suppose that’s true. But I think… you still have a lot of questions to answer before you’re even ready to consider romance. If you don’t mind my saying so.”

  “No.” In fact, he was quite relieved to hear it.

  There was another uneasy pause. “Well! Anyway, I have my rounds to get to. I’ll see you around, Mr. Spock.”

  He inclined his head. “Doctor.”

  Chapel departed, perhaps a bit more hastily than was consistent with her breezy manner, and Spock approached the office. But he winced as McCoy cried out again. “Chris! The damn thing says this crewman is breathing fluorine!”

  “That must be one of the Zaranites!” came Chapel’s voice from around the corner.

  “You mean to tell me there’s actually a species that breathes fluorine?!”

  “In fact,” Spock interposed, “the Zaranites’ main respiratory gas is oxygen. But there are abundant microbes on Zaranai that metabolize fluorides and release fluorine gas as a waste product. Since fluorine is highly reactive, it does not remain in the atmosphere for long, but the trace amounts that are available play an important supplementary role in the Zaranite metabolism, much as trace minerals do in yours or mine. Each of our Zaranite crew members’ breathing tanks contains a colony of these fluorogenic microbes and—”

  “Spock!” McCoy interrupted. “For someone who’s supposedly learned to understand emotion, you still seem to have an inordinately hard time telling when you’re irritating someone!”

  Spock threw him an innocent look. “Since irritation is your normative state, Dr. McCoy, it can be difficult to distinguish the individual causes.”

  “Well, whenever you’re around, Spock, there’s no need to look very far.” He harrumphed. “Though right now this blasted perscan unit’s just as annoying. Whose brilliant idea was it to put medical monitors in everyone’s belt buckles? Just gives people one more excuse not to go see their doctor. ‘Oh, they’re monitoring me anyway, they’ll just tell me if anything’s wrong.’ Just one more layer of technology getting in the way. Medicine isn’t about scans and readings, it’s about talking to a patient, looking him in the eye, listening to his voice. It’s about being kind and reassuring, god-dammit!” McCoy snarled. Spock unleashed an eyebrow at the irony, but the doctor either missed or ignored it. “Not to mention how much I hate the idea of everyone’s confidential medical information getting broadcast all over the ship.”

  “In fact, Doctor, the perscan units are passive, requiring the unit here in sickbay to scan them remotely, out of just such privacy con—” He broke off at McCoy’s glare.

  “I still don’t like it. It’s Orwellian medicine. It’s convenience and efficiency overriding human needs, and I’m gonna raise the biggest stink I can to get them left out of the next uniform design.” He pulled at his collar. “Blasted quartermasters can’t make up their minds anyway—we’ll probably have new uniforms in another six months. Well, maybe for once they’ll design something that doesn’t look like a pair of pajamas.”

  “Indeed,” Spock said. “If you have such difficulty telling the difference, it would explain why your uniform so often appears to have been slept in.”

  “Did you just come here to insult me, or did you have a reason?”

  Spock took a breath. “I am still having difficulty meditating.”

  McCoy sighed. “Now, Spock, you know we’ve ruled out a physiological reason for that.”

  “A neurological reason, yes. But perhaps there is some other factor involved. A hormonal imbalance, perhaps.”

  “Hm.” McCoy leaned back in his seat and fixed a piercing gaze on Spock. “Have you considered that there may be a psychological reason? Something you can’t get off your mind?”

  “That is generally what meditation is for—to clear one’s mind, or to deal with an individual problem in a focused way, without the distraction of other thoughts. If simply having something on my mind interfered with meditation, there would be no point to meditation.”

  McCoy harrumphed again. “Then maybe there’s something you’re not thinking about that you should. Something that’s bothering you in the back of your mind, but that you’re avoiding facing directly. So no matter how clear your conscious mind may be, your subconscious is still riled.”

  “I do not see how that could be,” Spock said, furrowing his brow. “Lately I have made a point of confronting ideas and issues I have avoided in the past. I have been in the process of reevaluating all of my beliefs.”

  “All while I’ve been doing my level best not to gloat too much,” McCoy interposed.

  Spock’s look showed what he thought of that. “You may wish to reserve your gloating, Doctor. I have not yet reached my conclusions. There is still much of merit in the body of Vulcan thought. And even if I have chosen to accept my emotions, they are still Vulcan emotions, not human. I cannot assume that the human path is valid for me.”

  McCoy quirked one of his own brows. “Then maybe you should be talking to Dr. Onami. She’s the new xenopsychologist. If anyone understands anything about Vulcan emotions,” and he shook his head at the phrase, “it’s more likely to be her than me.”

  Spock frowned. “I am… uneasy with that suggestion. As you know, I am a private man. Even though Dr. Onami is no doubt quite skilled, I would prefer not to share these matters with a stranger.”

  Spock could see in McCoy’s eyes what it meant to him to be counted among those Spock trusted enough to confide in. Still, evidently he couldn’t resist teasing. “Turning down the help of the most qualified person? That’s not very logical, is it?”

  “No… it is not.”

  McCoy grimaced. “Ahh, you’re no fun anymore.” He leaned back, thinking. “Well, there’s always family. Sometimes they’ll listen when nobody else will.” Spock just stared. “Oh. Yeah, right. If Sarek practically disowned you for choosing your own career, I can just imagine how he reacted to your coming out of the closet.”

  “ ‘Closet,’ Doctor?”

  “Never mind.”

  “In any case, I have not yet told Sarek or Amanda of my… recent insights.”

  Leaning forward again, McCoy said, “Well, maybe that’s it right there. Maybe you’re shying away from taking that step, and that’s what’s keepin’ your subconscious all hot and bothered.”

  “On the contrary, Doctor—I have been consciously examining the question every day since my epiphany occurred. If I have not yet taken the step of notifying my family, it is because I have not yet determined what it is I am to notify them of—since I have not yet determined where my new path is leading.”

  “Then I don’t know what to tell you, Mr. Spock.” The doctor sighed and shook his head, poking at the perscan display on his desk again. “Hell, right now I don’t know what to tell anyone. I’m just an old hermit who got himself y
anked back into civilization against his will. I’m still struggling to get caught up with all the changes around here. Chapel’s an M.D., you’re a born-again… whatever, Chekov’s gone from eager young space cadet to gung-ho security chief, the crew’s half-made up of species I can hardly even pronounce, let alone know how to treat, I can’t even find the bathrooms on this new ship yet—and don’t try to tell me, I see that look, you should know a figure of speech by now.”

  Spock studied him. “Is there something on your mind, Dr. McCoy?”

  “Ahh, don’t mind me, I’m just tired. Maybe we both are. Tell you what, instead of worryin’ about meditation, you just try gettin’ a good night’s sleep. Can’t overstate the importance of simply bein’ rested.” He sighed. “Back home in my cabin, that was restful. Middle of the Appalachians, nothin’ but nature for miles around, a secluded little fishin’ hole… Be there now if Jim hadn’t drafted me. I still can’t figure out how Nogura’s boys even found me….”

  Spock saw that McCoy would be of no more help to him today. “Very well, Doctor,” he said, rising. “I shall take your advice… and recommend that you do the same.”

  “Most sensible thing you’ve said—well, ever. Pleasant dreams, Spock.”

  Spock’s lips twisted in irony. “We shall see.”

  * * *

  Security Minister Tasari was frowning as he entered Natira’s hospital room. That in itself told her little, since it was his preferred expression. But usually it was less pronounced, just a general look of watchfulness or concern; with his rounded, unimpressive features, he sometimes looked to her like a small boy straining to follow a mathematics lesson. Now, though it never varied by any great amount, his frown seemed deeper than usual. “Governess,” he said in his flat, unpolished voice, “I regret to inform you that there has been another attack. A dissident attempted to smuggle an explosive device into the Federation consulate. Our guards became suspicious and attempted to search his robes. He detonated the device, taking two of my troops with him.”

  Natira was aghast. “He killed himself?” Tasari simply nodded. “Incredible. They are truly mad.” She shook herself. “The violence grows worse by the day. Tell me, Tasari, have you made any progress at all in your investigations?”

  “Very little, Governess. The explosives are apparently fertilizer-based, an easily made compound, often used by farmers to clear rocks and stumps. It would have been easy for anyone to obtain access.”

  “I see. Tell me, what of the boy you detained? Did he have any knowledge of the planned attack on my person?”

  “None that we were able to extract before…”

  Her gaze sharpened. “Before what?”

  “My lady, the boy… attempted escape. There was an… incident with a stairwell…. He is dead.”

  Natira closed her eyes. However much the upstart youth had humiliated her, she hadn’t believed him truly criminal, simply misguided. Perhaps his flight indicated guilt, but that didn’t feel right somehow. “So much death… all in the name of an ancient fraud.”

  Tasari took a step closer. “My lady… perhaps we should not be so squeamish about death. The Oracle dealt it out when it needed to, and order was well maintained.”

  “That was the way of the Oracle,” she snapped. “The way of the past, of our enslavement. We are building a modern world here, and we will not sink to the Oracle’s barbarism. Ours is the way of enlightenment, the way of the Federation.”

  “Yes, Governess,” Tasari said, not seeming convinced.

  But Tasari was not a thinker. He did what he was told. He had served her when she had served the Oracle’s madness, and now he served her as she strove to undo it. As long as she remained committed to the true way, he would follow obediently.

  Perhaps that is the problem, she realized. A man like Tasari could provide the stalwart strength and discipline to preserve the peace, but not the inspiration needed to find new solutions. She needed inspiration. And with that, Natira thought back to the one man in her life who had truly inspired her—and his friends who had saved her world once before. Perhaps they could help her save it again.

  CHAPTER TWO

  We are now of one mind.

  One heart.

  One life.

  —Traditional Yonadan wedding vows

  IT TOOK LONGER than McCoy had hoped before he was able to leave sickbay for the refuge of his quarters. With all the new crew members, the schedule of physicals was exhausting—and the sheer diversity of biologies involved made the process far more complex. It was hard enough keeping up when it was just Spock, M’Ress, and Arex, thought McCoy. Now we’ve got fluorine-breathers, plankton-feeders, big gray caterpillars…. What’s next, Hortas and talking spiders? How in hell do they expect an old country doctor to keep up with it all?

  McCoy sank down onto his bed, but it was still hard to relax in this unfamiliar environment. He missed his wooden walls, his fireplace, the rafters creaking in the wind. Why am I even still here? he asked himself for the hundredth time. Chapel understood the new sickbay and the new crew better than he did. And he’d essentially won his years-long argument with Spock. So what possible contribution was left for him to make here?

  If there was anything keeping him here, it was Jim Kirk. McCoy was still concerned about his old friend’s emotional state after the way he’d been yanked around for the past few years. No good deed goes unpunished, McCoy thought, reflecting on how straightforward the decision to save the Pelosians had seemed.

  By the time the Enterprise had discovered Pelos, its population had already been ravaged by the climatic catastrophes caused when a dense interstellar dust cloud had blocked their sun. Spock had projected that the new plague would wipe the rest of them out within two years. But their empress had believed that only the gods should determine who lived or died, that any medical intervention was blasphemy. Kirk had seen no choice but to give a little clandestine assistance to the rebels seeking the empress’s overthrow. Between that and the species’ total extinction, it had seemed the only sane choice to make. And he’d done it without revealing the existence of other worlds, passing off McCoy’s serums as a new discovery from a distant land. And if a little deflector-dish action happened to thin out the dust a little faster, nobody on the planet had to know.

  But somehow Starfleet Command had seen it differently. It had been around the end of their nominal five-year tour, and Command had been reviewing Kirk’s request to extend the mission. The Pelos affair had unfolded right under the nose of the petty bureaucrat who’d been sent to review the fitness of the ship and crew. Kirk had immediately been brought up on charges of violating the Prime Directive, and the ship had been ordered back to Earth posthaste.

  The scandal had only grown bigger as every one of Kirk’s past questionable decisions had been put under the microscope. Of course, the veteran officers on the review panel had appreciated that Kirk had upheld the Directive more often than he’d bent it, and that his apparent violations had usually been in response to other interference of one sort or another. They also understood that a captain in the field must be free to interpret the rules flexibly for each situation, and that Kirk’s record in that regard was no worse than that of any other effective captain.

  But it had been Kirk, not any other captain, whose record had been dissected in the media, and so in the public eye Kirk had gained a reputation as a rogue, a loose cannon, or at best a well-meaning cultural imperialist. It had been the biggest scandal to hit Starfleet since the M-5 debacle. Yet at the same time, there was no disputing the good Kirk had done, the lives he’d saved. That got exaggerated in the media as much as his “bad boy” image had been. Starfleet and the public alike were polarized on whether to keelhaul him or canonize him.

  So Fleet Admiral Nogura had found the most politically expedient solution: promoting Jim to a desk job with a fancy title, nominally rewarding him while in fact pushing him to the sidelines to keep him out of trouble. It worked at quelling the controversy, to be sure. But Mc
Coy had been more concerned about the cost to the man. He’d angrily confronted Nogura, telling him that getting stuck behind a desk was cruel and unusual punishment for a quarterdeck breed like Jim, a man whose spirit could only thrive out there on a ship. Even busting him to crewman and sending him out on a freighter would have been kinder. McCoy had threatened to resign if Nogura didn’t reverse the decision, and had then been forced to follow through on his threat.

  McCoy had tried to keep an eye on Kirk for a while, but it had been hard to do so as a civilian, and it had grown even harder as Kirk had fallen more under the sway of Nogura’s right-hand geisha, Lori Ciana. Nahh, I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, McCoy thought, remembering that Vice Admiral Ciana had died in that infernal transporter just hours before he himself had been compelled to go through it. But there was no question that she had taken advantage of Kirk’s vulnerability, seducing him into believing he could succeed as an admiral, or at least providing a distraction from his unhappiness. McCoy really didn’t know what had happened between them after he’d decided to join the medical mission to Daran IV. But though Jim had certainly grieved over her death—repressing his feelings until after the mission was over, but then facing them once he had the luxury—it hadn’t been the deep, love-of-your-life kind of grief he’d shown after Edith or Miramanee, but a more routine level of grief, the kind he’d feel for any colleague or crew member. With Jim Kirk, even that routine grief was sincere and heartfelt, but whatever he’d shared with Ciana must have pretty definitively ended some time before.

  Maybe that was why Jim had rediscovered his passion for command, and had ultimately managed to fight his way into a position to reclaim the Enterprise. But when McCoy had come aboard, he’d quickly seen how that desire had become an obsession to the captain, blinding him to the good of the mission and pitting him against Decker—his best advisor on the new ship—like two men fighting over a woman.

  Once McCoy had confronted his old friend and made him see how he was acting, Kirk had seemed to pull himself together. That had always been the man’s special strength, McCoy thought—he had a unique balance of self-confidence and self-doubt, always able to question himself and confront his flaws and follies, but always able to resolve them decisively and not let them get in the way of his job or his life. Well, most of the time. The way Nogura and Ciana had seemed to have Jim whipped, McCoy hadn’t been sure if he still had it. But he took the Enterprise into the belly of the beast and brought it out in one piece, and McCoy knew the old Jim Kirk was back again. Maybe he was still a bit tentative, but he’d find his way.