Ex Machina

by Christopher L. Bennett

  She appeared unimpressed. “And what about the tale itself?”

  Kirk answered slowly. “It was… an interpretation of your beliefs which I haven’t heard before. Quite an education. I have to wonder if you chose the topic knowing that I’d be here today.”

  “I like to hope that all my sermons are educational.”

  “And are they always so different from the orthodox line?”

  Rishala smirked. “Orthodoxy. What is it? I’m high priestess now,” she said, sounding singularly unimpressed with the title, “so does that make my view of things the orthodoxy? Maybe.” She moved among the cushions, straightening them out. Perhaps she meant to make a point by performing the menial task herself, but it didn’t seem so affected. “But then, if Tavero becomes the next high priest, or Tanila with her reverence for the Book, or Nikuri with his Fedraysha lessons, won’t that make their views the orthodoxy? And if so, then what does the word really mean, when everyone will just go on believing as they already do?”

  Kirk crouched down and began adjusting a few cushions himself, getting another look of surprised approval from her. “For a long time, orthodoxy meant what the Oracle said it did. On pain of death.”

  “Yes,” was all she said.

  “So I have to wonder how a… an alternative tradition could’ve thrived for ten thousand years.”

  “Alternative?” She shook her head. “For ten thousand years, we’ve all accepted what the Oracle taught: that the Creators made the World, and promised us that we would one day attain a new one. That the laws of Yonada were laid down by the Creators and must be obeyed. We have questioned none of the Oracle’s doctrines. We simply… haven’t dwelt on them much. While the Oracle and its priesthood concentrated on the laws of Yonada and the daily lives of the People, many of the rest of us have concentrated on the love of the Creators and the ultimate fate of our souls. There’s no conflict there.”

  Kirk nodded, understanding. “Simply… a difference in emphasis.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Still—I wouldn’t have expected the Oracle to be so… accommodating.”

  Pain showed in Rishala’s eyes. “Sometimes it wasn’t. Or sometimes it was, but the priestesses were not. Their enthusiasm about enforcing their… emphasis often went beyond what the Oracle required. Natira was like that.”

  She caught his gaze meaningfully. “Why do you suppose she needed armed guards, when we all had Instruments of Obedience? The priestesses and their cronies often exercised their will where the Oracle saw no need to intervene. But the guards acted in the Oracle’s name, so it gave them great license in their methods of enforcement. And the rest of us could say nothing against it.” Her voice remained level, but Kirk could sense the underlying anger. That wasn’t a bad thing, though—it meant they were getting to the meat of the issue.

  “But Natira’s changed,” Kirk said. “She no longer follows the Oracle.”

  “Has she changed? I said before, the Oracle was just a tool. A tool of the Creators’ will… and sometimes, a tool of the priestesses’ will. The Oracle may no longer speak, the Instruments may be gone, but the guards still bear arms, and Natira still gives them their orders.”

  Kirk frowned. “And… what does she order them to do?”

  “The Fedraysha’s bidding, of course,” she answered, skeptical that he really needed to ask.

  “The Federation… doesn’t operate that way. Your people are free to make their own choices, without our interference. It’s our highest law.”

  Rishala strode from the classroom, and Kirk followed. “Laws. Like all material things, they’re illusions. The powerful use them to serve their ambitions. You let us make our own choices… so long as they’re the choices you think are right.”

  Kirk thought before answering. “You seemed to be saying to the boy—Nikuri—that it was all right for him to believe the things being taught in the Federation-backed schools.”

  She looked disappointed in him. “What I said was that the forms of things don’t matter, that the truth lies on a higher plane. Your Fedraysha schools teach that the forms are all there is. All they teach are more laws. Laws of nations, laws of nature, laws of mind—everything codified and ordered and locked in place, as if putting names to things and sorting them in charts meant that you understood them. Laws of what to say, what to build, what to wear.”

  Kirk strode in front of her, stopping her. “Wait. Are you saying Natira’s government… regulates your speech? Your forms of expression?”

  “Not according to what’s written. The laws say we have those freedoms. But there are other laws that warn against sedition and threats to the common peace… and it’s where those laws meet that the illusion becomes clear. Excuse me.” She moved around him, resuming her course. It brought her to the nearest of the saintlike icons, a golden-armored figure working at a forge. Rishala bowed her head and murmured a soft prayer to the image Kirk realized must be Vari the Mighty.

  When she was done, Kirk spoke again. “Even if what you say is true… you can’t believe that blowing up buildings and killing innocent people is the right way to deal with it. You don’t strike me as the type who approves of bloodshed.”

  She glanced at him as she made her way to the next Creator icon, a burly shirtless male bearing a golden scepter that on second glance appeared more like a hoe, and surrounded by grains and fruits at his feet. “And you? Do you approve of bloodshed?”

  “…Not if it can be helped.”

  “Ahh.” She made another murmured prayer, then continued her rounds. “Yet you’ve inflicted it. And you’ll do so again if you feel it can’t be helped. You have outside a man and a woman carrying weapons that can inflict far more bloodshed than anything on Lorina.”

  Kirk was surprised; she was well-informed. “We are trained to use force… but only in defense, and only when all other options have been exhausted. And we don’t use it indiscriminately against innocent people.”

  Rishala recited another brief prayer, then gestured to the icon, a plump, matronly nude with snow-white hair cascading around her body. “Baima the Wise,” she said. “I love all the Creators, but I think I feel closest to her. Not that I’m anything like wise, mind you—I think she holds me close because I need a wise guiding hand more than most. And right now I think she wants me to ask you whether that’s true—have you really never struck down an innocent? Not even once? Are your weapons so precise that they only destroy the guilty?”

  Kirk imagined the icon’s eyes glaring down on him in judgment. “I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t. But there is a difference. I didn’t target them specifically.”

  “I’m sure they appreciated the distinction.”

  “And I fought openly,” he went on, raising his voice. “Gave my enemies a chance, and a fair warning. I didn’t strike from hiding like a coward.”

  Rishala was unimpressed. “Of course not. You had your mighty ship to protect you. But what if you had nothing? What if you were against a mighty foe, and had only the crudest of means to strike with? What if you had no way to deliver your weapons, except for the sacrifice of a dedicated defender who could carry them on her own person? Would you just abandon the fight? Would you sacrifice everything you believed in to salvage your warrior’s pride?”

  Again Kirk realized his arguments were hollow. He was a trained soldier, and he understood that in war you used whatever means necessary to stay alive and win the fight. He’d engaged in tactics that could be called terrorist— destroying the munitions dump on Organia, blasting the Eminians’ computers and disintegration booths. And he’d do it again if he were forced to. But that was the key. “If I had no other choice, no. I’d do what needed to be done. But I wouldn’t go out of my way to encourage such tactics. I wouldn’t start the war, like your Dovraku has.

  “And what about those ‘dedicated defenders’?” Kirk went on. “Don’t tell me—young men and women, right? Passionate, enthusiastic, concerned about the future. A lot like those kids back there
in the classroom. They’re the ones with the most at stake, with the strongest commitment, so they’re the best ones to turn to if you want someone willing to give everything for the cause.” Rishala nodded, watching him curiously. “But doesn’t that also make them the ones most qualified, most motivated to build a better future? And what does it do to your future if you throw them all away on suicide bombings?”

  “Why do you think I have them here?” Rishala cried, her serenity giving way to a deep pain. “Do you think I haven’t made those same arguments to Dovraku? Haven’t tried to sway his followers to a better path? Do you think I want to see my People torn apart? But Natira gives me no alternative! She’s determined to purge Lorina of our faith, to turn the People away from the Creators. At least before we only differed in ‘emphasis,’ and could usually coexist. But now she’s changed her mind,” she went on mockingly, “and won’t rest until she’s changed all of ours to match.

  “Yet the faithful are drifting apart, unable to agree on whether it’s the Creators or the Oracle or the Book or the blinking husk of Fabrina that defines who we are. I wonder if you’ve heard about that. When the ‘fanatical cultists’ attack the workings of the state, it’s widely reported and denounced—but you never see the information networks reporting on the fights that break out between the sects, fiercer every day as the People lose more hope, grow more desperate for answers. We cannot unite enough to stand against Natira and hold her back in any way except force.”

  Kirk saw the dilemma in her eyes. She clearly hated what the militants were doing, but felt compelled to stand with them, for losing the unity of the faithful would be the greater of evils. He took a moment to choose his words. “In a case like this, it often helps to bring in a neutral party to mediate. I’d be happy to—”

  Rishala laughed. “Neutral? Have you forgotten your own name, James T. Kirk? Have you forgotten who silenced the Oracle and brought the Fedraysha to us?”

  “Everything that I did,” Kirk answered, trying not to sound too defensive, “was done to help your people, and the people of Daran V. Yonada had to be put back on course, or billions would have died. To do that, we had to convince Natira that it was really a spacecraft. We had to override the Oracle and take manual control. All we did was show your people the truth—a truth you would’ve had to learn anyway a year later, when Yonada reached here and it was time for you to leave it. What you’ve done with that truth, the decision to leave the Oracle shut down… that was the choice of your own leaders.”

  “And since you only kicked the first pebble, that absolves you from any further interest in the avalanche?” She moved closer. “You say your highest law is not to interfere. To leave others alone.”

  “As much as possible, yes.”

  “But when you do interfere in someone’s life, is it right to leave them alone afterward? Do you have no obligation to take responsibility for what you’ve started?”

  Her eyes held his, and he was transfixed once more. Finally she broke their gaze and stepped away. She prayed under one more icon, then spoke again. “You are far from neutral here, James Kirk. But that’s exactly why you must be involved in seeking solutions. If you can bring Natira to the table, I will come too, and I’ll try to bring the other factions as well. But only if you understand the nature of your own place there—not as someone outside the problem, but someone right there at the heart of it with the rest of us.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The difference of opinion in my community is a divine mercy.

  —The Prophet Muhammad (Peace be unto him)

  “LEONARD, WAKE UP!”

  On the fourth or fifth iteration, McCoy finally mustered up the energy to speak. “Computer, don’t call me ‘Leonard.’ ”

  “Do I sound like the computer to you?” The lights went up to their full, blinding magnitude, and McCoy squinted through the tears until he finally made out the form of Christine Chapel. She didn’t seem pleased. “You’re over an hour late for your duty shift. You wouldn’t answer your door. I used a medical override to get in here—I thought you might be in trouble!”

  McCoy scoffed. “Why not… just read the damn belt-buckle thing?”

  “Because you’re out of uniform.” She peered at him. “Though I’m surprised it couldn’t read your blood alcohol levels from across the room. Now listen to me, Leonard. Back home in the mountains maybe you could sleep all day if you wanted.”

  “Bull,” he countered, struggling to his feet with limited success. Christine declined to assist him. “I woke up with the rooster every morning.”

  “That’s between you and the rooster. The point is, now you’re back on the Enterprise and you have responsibilities again.”

  “Wasn’t my idea.” He’d managed to find the lavatory and splashed some water on his face. “Look, Chris, I’m sorry…. I had a really rough night. Things didn’t… didn’t go so well.”

  She crossed her arms. “Don’t tell me—you’ve come down with another incurable disease.”

  He blinked. “No.”

  “Then things can’t be that bad, now can they?”

  McCoy’s brain was too muzzy to think of a comeback— or maybe she just had a point. “Okay… so what’d I miss?”

  “Mostly routine.” She rattled off a brief status report that McCoy absorbed almost subliminally, recognizing that there was nothing in it demanding closer attention from him. “But we have received a request from the main hospital down on Lorina. They’d like our assistance with some of the people injured in the attacks.”

  “Lorini doctors asking for our help? That seems a bit backward.”

  “Not when it comes to dealing with paralysis victims, amputees…. They want to know what we have to offer in terms of prosthetics, motor assist units, that sort of thing.”

  “Oh.” Made sense. Fabrini medicine was unparalleled when it came to pharmaceuticals and therapeutic techniques, but when it was a question of hardware, they were pretty much medieval. And this was an area where McCoy had some experience—the cerebellar bypass unit he’d devised as a “remote control” for Spock’s body when the Eymorgs had stolen his brain (ouch—that was not a sentence he wanted to think sober, let alone with a hangover) had been adapted in recent years as a means of treating paralysis patients who didn’t respond to standard nerve regen techniques.

  But at the moment, the last place McCoy wanted to be— the last place he felt he deserved to be—was anywhere on the same planet with Natira. “Look, Chris… any chance you could handle that for me? I can handle the sickbay stuff… but right now I don’t think I’d be a good choice to represent the face of Starfleet.” He glanced at the mirror. Hell, if Starfleet’s face looked like mine does right now, it’d send the Klingons screaming for cover.

  “Uh-huh,” Christine said. “You really think you can go the rest of the mission without seeing Natira?” He winced; she knew him too well. But she softened. “Oh, all right. I wouldn’t wish you on injured children in your condition. I’ll cover for you this time. But only if you promise not to be late again.”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  “Honestly, Leonard. Do I look like somebody’s mother?”

  * * *

  Spock entered the private meeting room of the officers’ lounge to find the captain standing before the viewscreens, lost in thought. The room was set apart from the public portion of the lounge, enclosed and shielded to permit secure conversations, but this was compensated for by the two large holographic viewscreens on the aft wall, which were styled to emulate windows and could project an image from the vantage point of any visual sensor on the ship. When Spock had first come to this lounge, before his V’Ger-inspired epiphany, he’d found it a pointless extravagance. Now… well, now he still found it a pointless extravagance. Yes, emotions should be acknowledged, but shouldn’t the design of a secure meeting room serve to enhance the emotional sense of caution and shelter, rather than working against it with an illusion of openness? The more Spock explored emotion, the more he
realized that he still didn’t understand human emotional behavior. Which wasn’t doing him a lot of good in figuring out his own.

  In any case, the holographic “windows” seemed to fill some emotional need of Kirk’s. At the moment they projected an image of Lorina as it would appear from the arboretum at the base of the ship. It was a fertile world, its colors made vivid by the short-wavelength illumination of its F7 primary star. Enterprise was on the sunlit side, but slowly circling around toward the terminator, and in the darkened crescent to the right of his field of view, Spock could see a solitary concentration of light, marking the sole humanoid presence on this world. Over four million people, yet on the scale of a planet they took up but a tiny patch.

  Also in evidence from this field of view were two bright glints of light, representing two of the Shesshran pods that continued to shepherd the Enterprise. As yet, they showed no inclination to let their guard down while the ship was in their system. Indeed, Spock had learned that their ships still routinely monitored Lorini orbital space, alert for any hint of hostility from its settlers, even though the Lorini had shown no interest in spaceflight beyond the occasional maintenance visit to Yonada.

  But Kirk’s attention appeared to be on the planet, not the ships. At first Spock wasn’t sure the captain had noted his arrival, and was about to announce himself. But Kirk beat him to it. “Mr. Spock.”

  “Captain. How was your meeting with High Priestess Rishala?”

  “It was… enlightening. On many levels. She’s a compelling woman, Spock.”

  A long-suffering brow rose. “Indeed.”

  Kirk chuckled. “Not like that. At least… not at first glance. There are subtler forms of beauty.” He shook himself. “But that’s beside the point. She gave me… a lot to think about.”

  Spock waited, but Kirk had fallen silent again. “Sir?”

  Kirk furrowed his brow, appearing disturbed. “Spock… do you think I have a… pattern of abandonment?”