Ex Machina

by Christopher L. Bennett

  When McCoy arrived with the medical team, he took in the scene with wide-eyed disbelief, but then caught sight of the patient and was all business. “What happened?”

  “I don’t know, she just started to have trouble breathing!”

  “How sudden?”

  “I think… thirty seconds, a minute.”

  McCoy reached for where a human’s mouth would be, and looked stymied by the baleen lips Spring Rain had in its place. After a moment of uncertainty, he grabbed his tricorder and started scanning. Spring Rain’s struggles were subsiding as she lapsed into unconsciousness. “For God’s sake, do something!” Onami cried.

  “Can’t intubate…. Tri-ox!” he snapped at the medic. In moments he had a hypo in his hand. “I just hope this can penetrate that thick hide.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “It’s my first Megarite! I’m doing what I can, Doctor Onami!” He scanned her again. “She’s stabilizing… but not by much. We’ve got to get her on the exam table. You two,” he said to the women, “shower that mud off before you track it into my sickbay!”

  Uhura went through the sonic shower and dressed as quickly as she could. She almost let it beam a uniform onto her, but was afraid the unreliable system would slow her further. Once she got to sickbay, Spring Rain was on the exam table, motionless but showing life signs. The wall screen above the table showed a full-length tomographic scan of her body, peeling it back layer by layer. McCoy was alternately peering at it and the patient, frowning fiercely. “Respiratory edema… antibody count through the roof… heart racing… it looks like anaphylactic shock. Let’s try 10 cc’s epi,” he said to the nurse. “Hopefully it’s close enough to what her body uses.”

  “You’re just guessing!” Onami said. “Where’s Dr. Chapel?”

  “She’s still on Lorina. You and Miss Rain here are stuck with me, so I recommend you stay the hell out of my way!” Onami subsided, still glaring at him sharply, and McCoy administered the epinephrine. “All right,” he said after a moment. “She’s starting to breathe again, barely… but something’s still poisoning her systems, and I can’t get rid of it until I figure out what it is. I’ve never seen a biochemistry like this… how can I tell what’s out of place?”

  Onami was seething now. “I’ll tell you how. You call the person who’s actually qualified to practice medicine on this crew.” She strode over to the comm panel. “Sickbay to the bridge. Get me Dr. Chapel, now!”

  Despite Onami’s urgency, it took a minute before Gerry Auberson at communications could track Chapel down. Once contact was made, McCoy explained the situation tersely. “It sounds like she aspirated something in that mud,” Chapel concluded.

  “It was sterile,” Uhura insisted. “And I got it as close to Megaran conditions as I could.”

  “It wasn’t actually Megaran in origin?”

  “No, I used soil from the arboretum. That’s from Earth, basically. But she’s been in the arboretum with no ill effects.”

  “Then there had to be some other factor involved. Something you introduced on your own bodies, perhaps, that reacted unexpectedly with something in the soil or water. Were either of you, say, wearing any unusual perfume?” Uhura shook her head, and Onami followed suit. “How about… some sort of painted jewelry?”

  “Just metal earrings and a Deltan garter,” Uhura said.

  Chapel reacted to that. “Deltan? Was it Ilia’s?”

  “Yes, she gave it to me.”

  “And she’d worn it?”

  “I assume so.”

  “Oh, then it would’ve been covered in Deltan pheromones. Leonard, that could be it. Deltan pheromones are aldehyde-based—certain aldehyde compounds are toxic to Megarites. A Terran enzyme in the mud could’ve lysed those pheromones, turned them into one of those compounds.”

  After that, things sank into medical jargon for a time, and Uhura could only watch tensely. But the data seemed to confirm Chapel’s hypothesis. Once the toxin was identified, the display showed it spreading through Spring Rain’s respiratory and circulatory systems, damaging tissues in its wake. And once the doctors knew what the enemy was, they could choose a drug to counteract it.

  In minutes, Spring Rain was stabilized, but McCoy didn’t look happy. “There’s extensive lung damage, and her brain was deprived of oxygen for some time. I’ve administered minocycline to fight ischemic brain injury, but at this point there’s no telling how much damage there might be, or when she’ll wake up. There’s nothing more we can do except let her rest and trust in her own healing ability.”

  Uhura clasped his arm. “Thank you, Doctor.”

  “No,” Onami said angrily. “Doctor Chapel deserves the thanks here. And if she’d been here in the first place, Spring Rain wouldn’t be in a coma, maybe brain-damaged because her physician didn’t know enough about her anatomy to identify the problem! What right do you have to be chief medical officer of this ship when you’re clearly not qualified to treat its crew? For that matter, why wasn’t Christine here in the first place? This should’ve been her shift!”

  Uhura would’ve expected McCoy to match Onami’s anger with his own, but instead he looked shaken, distraught. “She’s… been filling in for me on Lorina the past couple of days…. I asked her to go in my place… because I…” He trailed off.

  “No, Leonard,” Chapel said over the comm. “This wasn’t your fault. You couldn’t have known.”

  McCoy winced and rubbed the bridge of his nose tiredly. “Isn’t that exactly the problem—what I don’t know?” Uhura was struck by the desolation in his eyes.

  * * *

  Once Chapel returned to the ship to take over Spring Rain’s treatment, McCoy retired to his quarters. At first he headed straight for the liquor cabinet, but then stopped, deciding he’d been relying too much on that remedy lately. He knew he didn’t have the genes for alcoholism, so that wasn’t a concern. But dependence could be psychological as well, and retreating from one’s problems could only work for so long.

  So maybe it’s time to face the problem, he thought. Maybe it’s time to solve it. And maybe the problem is me.

  Reversing course, he went to the computer terminal and sat down. “Computer, record text message.”

  “Ready,” said the computer voice, which the designers had made more human-sounding this time around. It was easier on the ears, but McCoy wasn’t sure he liked the change. The old voice had been given a mechanical monotone deliberately, to make it easier to distinguish from a human voice. McCoy had approved of that. The more people started humanizing their machines, the closer they came to mechanizing humanity, to forgetting what it was that made living beings superior.

  Right. Things like screwing up and being cowards and useless old fools. Don’t change the subject. He cleared his throat. “I, Leonard H. McCoy, hereby resign my commission…. No. Computer, erase. Resume. Ahh, owing to recent circumstances, I, Leonard H. McCoy, feel it would be inappropriate for me to continue…. Ahh, the hell with that, I sound like Spock. Computer—”

  Just then the door signal chimed. With a sigh, McCoy got up and headed into the other room to answer the door. Wouldn’t it be ironic if it was Spock? Speak of the pointy-eared devil and he will appear. Nah, what are the odds?

  He opened the door, and there stood Spock. McCoy let out a faint chuckle, leading the Vulcan to react with puzzlement. “Something amuses you, Doctor?”

  “Nothing much, really. Sorry, Spock, come in. What can I do for you?”

  Spock appeared underwhelmed by his level of enthusiasm, but came in and said, “I presume you are aware of my research into Yonadan history.”

  “Yeah, Jim mentioned it. How’s it going?” he asked without much interest.

  “There have been… obstacles, but Mr. Lindstrom and I have made some progress.”

  “Really.”

  “Yes.” Spock took it as a request for elaboration. Maybe he hadn’t gained that much emotional insight after all— or maybe he was just caught up in the work. McCo
y doubted that even emotions would change Spock’s single-mindedness about solving problems. “I have improved the algorithms for the quantum reconstruction of the Fabrini intelligence files, though the results are still fragmentary. However, somewhat to my surprise, Mr. Lindstrom’s research into Yonadan oral histories has revealed some intriguing anomalies.”

  McCoy threw him a look. “You’re taking oral histories seriously?”

  “Not in themselves, but when checked against other data their contents are telling. For instance: Mr. Lindstrom has assembled a list of all the Yonadan high priestesses, purportedly dating back to the original person to bear the title. Such rote lists are a part of many oral and traditional histories, and due to their specific content and the emphasis on repetition, it can be assumed that they are less prone to inaccurate retelling than other oral accounts might be.”

  “Yeah, I remember Sunday school and all those lists of ‘begats.’ So what about them?”

  “The versions of the list which Lindstrom has compiled have a few inconsistencies, but they agree on the total number of priestesses to within six percent, and they all agree on the identity of the first, a woman known as Ganela.”

  “So what’s the anomaly?” McCoy settled himself down on the bed, not wanting to lead Spock into the other room where his abortive resignation letter still showed on the screen. Normally by this point he might have been asking what any of this had to do with him. But right now he welcomed the distraction, and knew he could count on Spock to make it a lengthy one.

  “We are able to date the terms of certain priestesses by reference in the accounts to historical events whose dates are known, the earliest being a meteoroid collision which occurred some four thousand three hundred years ago. However, the number of priestesses dating from before that incident is not sufficient to account for the approximately five thousand nine hundred years preceding it in Yonada’s journey. Depending on the assumptions we make about the life expectancy and terms of service of the priestesses, the original priestess Ganela could not have lived more than seven thousand five hundred years ago. Six thousand would be a more probable estimate.”

  McCoy shrugged. “Maybe some names got left off for some reason. Somewhere along the line, somebody didn’t like their predecessors and purged a few names.”

  “That is a possibility, and that is what we need to determine. Have the historical accounts been altered, and if so, for what purpose? But there is other evidence that we can correlate with this.”

  “Such as,” he prompted, leaning back and closing his eyes.

  “One of the origin myths Lindstrom has collected states that the Oracle arose to save the People from a disaster brought on by the evil, godless regime which preceded it. It states that the People were wicked and profligate, carelessly squandering their resources and fouling the land, making it barren where before it had been lush. The Oracle and its disciples emerged, overthrew the previous order, and created the Instruments of Obedience to keep the people’s baser urges in line as a necessary measure to prevent their annihilation.”

  “Sounds like a typical enough sermon to me. ‘And God saw that the wickedness of man was great in the Earth.’ ”

  “Yes, but it contradicts other accounts of the creation of the World, which tend to be more consistent with what we know about the destruction of Fabrina and the building of Yonada. The traditions pertaining to the Creators and those pertaining to the Oracle do not entirely agree.”

  “Hm.” McCoy tried to think of a comeback, but nothing came to mind. He was content to let Spock’s lecture lull him to sleep.

  “And when I heard this tale of environmental collapse, it reminded me of an observation made by Ms. Spring Rain on Still Water two weeks ago.” McCoy was jarred out of his relaxed state. Why did Spock have to mention her? “She remarked that Yonada’s inner surface appeared as though it had once had more water, and presumably more life. Our prevailing assumption has been that it was deliberately designed that way to emulate the appearance of Fabrina. But some researchers have postulated that Yonada was actually created with a more fertile biosphere, which deteriorated over the millennia. Their theories interpret certain geological features of Yonada’s surface as evidence of an ecological collapse… which they have conjecturally dated to five thousand six hundred years ago.”

  McCoy hadn’t quite heard all of that, since the name “Spring Rain” had been resonating in his mind. But he struggled to make sense of it. “So what are you saying? That the Oracle wasn’t originally there? That it was only built six thousand years ago to… to punish the people for wrecking their world?”

  “Or to enforce the strict regulations, population controls, and austerity measures necessary to prevent the total collapse of the Yonadan biosphere. However, it is only speculation at this point—an inference from hearsay several hundred times removed from the actual events. We need more tangible evidence to determine its validity. That is why I have come to you.”

  McCoy raised his brows. “Why me?”

  “You have spent more time among the Lorini than anyone else on this ship. You are familiar with the Fabrini language and the mindset of the People. I am hopeful that you might be able to offer useful insights into the texts and oral accounts, or to suggest where to look for further evidence. Perhaps you have heard reference to ancient artifacts or texts passed down as heirlooms. At the very least you may be able to clarify certain translation issues.”

  “I dunno, Spock,” McCoy said, frowning. “I never was that great with the language. And I can’t think of anything that was ever mentioned to me about artifacts.”

  “I would not expect you to have the information at your fingertips, Doctor. Certainly not at the end of what I know has been a difficult day for you.” He paused, as though offering the doctor a chance to talk about the incident. McCoy was struck by that, but he didn’t feel particularly forthcoming. After a moment, Spock went on. “I meant merely to request that you accompany me to Yonada tomorrow to review the data. And perhaps after you have ‘slept on it,’ as I have often heard you say, you may recall something further.”

  Spock looked at him with what seemed like eager anticipation, and McCoy found he didn’t like the thought of letting him down. He sighed and said, “Look… Spock… I appreciate you coming to me for help and all, but I… I just don’t think I’m much good to anyone these days.”

  “Mmm.” The Vulcan took a moment to absorb this. “After today’s events, it is unsurprising that you would have such a perception of yourself. However, I have observed that the reaction tends to pass in time.”

  “It’s not just today, Spock. I… I’m out of my depth. I was happily retired, settled into a comfortable rut, and then a month ago I got dragged back here without so much as a by-your-leave. And I’ve been feelin’ out of place ever since. You remember—hell, of course you do—how I always said I was just an old country doctor?”

  “Indeed,” Spock said wryly.

  “Well, now I really feel like one. I feel like life’s passed me by, like I got caught in a time warp and woke up in a future I’m struggling to understand. One I didn’t choose to come to.” He turned away. “One I’m not sure I want to be in anymore.”

  There was a pause before Spock replied. “Given that access to the Guardian of Forever is heavily interdicted, I assume you’re speaking metaphorically about a wish to resign from Starfleet.”

  McCoy glanced over his shoulder, but Spock was dead-pan as ever—actually more deadpan than he usually was these days, which was a pretty sure sign he was kidding. “Re-resign, Mr. Spock. In my heart I’m still a civilian.”

  Spock’s manner grew more grave. “That would be… unfortunate, Doctor,” he said hesitantly. “I had been… counting on your assistance.”

  “Well, you don’t have to make it sound like pullin’ teeth. And it’s not like I could leave until we get back to a starbase. I could still come over and take a look at your relics and such… though I doubt it’d do you a lot of good. The
re’re plenty of people who’ve spent more time studying ’em than I ever did.”

  Spock fidgeted. Yes—he actually fidgeted. “That… was not the assistance I was referring to.”

  McCoy studied him quizzically, then rose from the bed and opened the partition to the next room. “C’mon in, have a seat.”

  “I am content to stand.”

  “Maybe, but this is startin’ to sound like a conversation we should have at eye level, and I’d rather sit.”

  “Very well.” He followed McCoy in, and his eyes happened to wander across the console screen. “ ‘Ahh, the hell with that, I sound like Spock’?”

  “Never mind that, just siddown.”

  Once seated, Spock placed his elbows on the table and steepled his fingers. “I have been having… more difficulty coping with my emotions than I have let on.”

  He paused, as though expecting McCoy to gloat. It was tempting, but McCoy knew it wouldn’t be appropriate, not when Spock was leaving himself open like this. “Well, it’s only to be expected,” he ventured. “You’ve been denying your human half your whole life… it’s bound to take some time to get the hang of it.”

  “It is not my human half I am concerned with.” He lifted a brow. “It has always been a convenient fiction, to blame my failures of control on my human blood, but it is profoundly illogical. Vulcan control is learned, not hereditary. Indeed, the very reason we embraced logic was that our innate emotions are dangerously intense. Pre-Reformation Vulcan’s history makes Earth’s history look placid by comparison.

  “Other Vulcans before me have tried to embrace their emotions. The result has often been violent behavior— armed insurrection, homicide, telepathic or physical rape. Sometimes they become obsessed with irrational ideas, fanatical beliefs—” He broke off and turned inward for a moment. It looked as though he’d touched on something very private that he wasn’t ready to speak of further.