WHOM HATH CAST THE DIE?
A Star Trek one-shot by SuperMudz
"According to their scripture, it was, loosely translated, the hand of God. They thought we were gods! Fulfilling their holy word. The real thing showing up, awe and almighty!"
Bone collapsed back into the chair, weariness evident on his face – the decanter at his hand, but barely touched.
"Just like that, we destroyed thousands if not tens of thousands of years of tradition. We just displaced their religion and created a fanatic Federation-worshipping cult in its place."
The man shrugged and took a sip from her own finely made glass, just an inch in diameter and filled with an odd green liquid that was both light and occasionally bubbled – a rare spirit from a far-off world. He made a face. "One superstition is as good to another for a developing culture, really."
"Oh really? And what do we do when these worshippers show up looking for their God? What do we tell them? Sorry – but you got the wrong number?!" He gesticulated wildly with his hands in emphasis.
Kirk smiled, and pushed the cup back. "I'm sure you'll think of something, Bones."
"Besides, who's to say they're wrong? Maybe us showing up really was the will of whatever deities they worshipped."
McCoy shuddered. "After the things I seen, that notion is even worse. I don't take to that kind of hogwash at all."
"Are we some sort of angels, going around saving civilisations? Is that what you're asking, Bones?" Kirk interjected, seemingly momentarily distracted from his datapad with whatever secrets it held. Bones harrumphed.
The Vulcan made an odd gesture, like an inclining of his head, making a very rare interjection. "Many might see us that way. I have often had that thought myself."
"That's very odd coming from a green-blooded logic-worshipping Vulcan." Dr McCoy replied with his usual suave understanding.
"Good lord, I thought you had left us, Spock. I hadn't gotten two words out of you all evening." Kirk added with a laugh.
He inclined an eyebrow and said nothing to that – often, he had found that was the best or only answer out of many unsatisfactory ones. In logic as well as many personal situations, patience was the wisest course. He found it was only a sensible deduction, one had to consider these things when debating the effect of the Federation (and he deliberately excised them from the thought, with proper Vulcan distance) on less developed worlds. There was a reason for the Prime Directive, and all such logic must be examined and evaluated constantly to ensure it was still effective, and the reason for it remained effective.
Fortunately, discipline was a highly cultivated attribute on Vulcan, and he found his meditative traditions quite useful for a variety of topics. He had much time in his sanctum to develop his thoughts, which he would then discuss with the captain, both deferring to his authority as well as expertise and surprisingly keen sense of judgment. If there was time. As of this moment there was a list of no less than forty six things he needed to bring to the captain's attention.
He did not drink, but a glass of water was at hand, and he occasionally took note of its perspiration. If there was time.
(*)
The evening dimmed warm and full of companionship which was well to all.
Later, many had retired to bed, and only Bones had remained a moment to speak with Jim. They were good and fast friends, and often had a few more words to say to each other before retiring or leaving after everyone else.
"No-one ever thinks it applies to them, Jim. That's what growing up is." Bones was saying.
Kirk made a face at that and gave no response. As usual, Bones had a damnable logic that was near impossible to argue with.
(*)
He was dying. A fatal disease.
He awoke. And frowned. It was not like him to succumb to the human idiosyncrasy for fantastic nightmares – not without apparent purpose. His dreams had always been valuable things, if experiencing them at all – for there were many disciplines one could employ to ward off such unnecessary mental devolutions. Sometimes, it was true, the mind attempted to teach one things, but the Vulcans believed it was their place to instruct the mind, not the other way around. It had been a long time since the prophets and the mind-sorcerors forced and controlled the way Vulcans did things.
Although much of it still remained in their art and philosophy, as one needed to remember a lesson to benefit from it, Vulcans no longer indulged in such frivolous things, instead seeing it as an opportunity to train the mind. Once the mind obeyed you, all other things became possible through it, including that which, even humans, sadly, considered impossible.
Slowly, they hoped to bring this wisdom to their allies, such as was appropriate – but that time was happening but slowly, and they were patient. In many ways, the humans were still learning, still evolving, but Vulcans had a great belief in their human compatriots, witnessing time and again their capacity for intelligence, resolve and compassion – things, which, despite assertions to the contrary, they valued very highly as signs of true civilisation.
He had visions before. Once, in his youthful rites, he had spent six weeks with a small amount of food and water in the deserts, until he had experienced one on the sands. One he had never revealed to anyone else, but had pondered ever since – every vision and thought and notion of the universe was a key of one kind of another, and this was a very special one in the life of a Vulcan, and thus it was a key he often used to turn others. Like a multi-faceted gem that acted as a mirror and a microscope, Vulcans studied all aspects of the mind, even if they no longer wielded it as the weapon they did long ago, and much care was made to arrange these encounters with oneself. His brother, half by a different mother, had been a particular and brilliant devotee of this study, and Spock had learned much from him himself.
Much knowledge and wisdom had survived that torturous age of their past, but to a more enlightened, refined, intelligent time and purpose, so every Vulcan hoped. Every Vulcan knew what it was to be savage and without civilisation, purpose, peace and restraint – the path without logic – and knew what they had gained by learning the will and strength to move beyond such a chaos and onto a path. From the passions of the animal into the thoughts of a… well, not a human, as Kirk would put it, he thought with some amusement – but into the place of the truly civilised. The path of true enlightenment. He shook his head, a small lament for the terrors past they had inflicted upon their own race. Could they truly look down upon humans for their war-torn primitive history, when their own had been no less brutal and violent? He had never done so, but he asked this of himself anyway, for he was Vulcan, and if you asked it of one, you asked it of all – for each path to knowledge began there, with oneself, and each one in particular.
Spock knew that Dr. McCoy himself had visited the world of Vulcan before, on an adventure that not all present at the table were aware of, though it had been dangerous and involved matters of deepest secrecy and tradition to Vulcan.
And so, perhaps, he studied these other cultures and ways specifically because of this connection. There was a time when his own life, his "resurrection" in a sense, depended on James Kirk making that precise leap of faith for which his species regarded itself so highly, and was so necessary in this instance. Reuniting his katra with his recreated body.
Although it was rare, especially while unwitnessed, his mouth and expression moved slightly, conveying humour to the cosmos if it had any such awareness. It was a wise man, human or Vulcan, who did not discount such things, he had come to believe.
Frowning he went to the terminal, softly illuminated on the wall of his personal domicile.
"What is your request?"
"I am exploring a theory." He replied.
And he discovered something he did not expect, but confirmed his suspicion.
(*)
"I am sick." He told them. It had surprised him as well, but it seemed he had been correct after all – his mind was attempting to convey important information from outside his focused awareness. Perhaps he should pay closer attention to those traditions of the mind he was forced to forsake of the Kolinahr. He had felt such an influence before – but this was different. His pointed ears twitched slightly, another almost unprecedented event, and one only the most observant would have noticed. It was no more usual for Vulcans than for humans. It spoke to something deep and primal that his body itself would rebel against his firm control in such a way, something not yet… tamed…
The thought resounded in his mind, and he knew it was indeed a deep matter. So he was right to seek the counsel of his friends, who might become a necessary balance, as he had no fellow Vulcans to whom to turn, and they may have provided a Vulcan perspective only, to one who had practised the perspectives of two worlds. For he was not only Vulcan, but also half-human, although the distinctions involved were difficult and complex to convey, and also absurdly simple, as most things were.
There were times he wished his fellow ship-mates understood the symbols of art a little better – he always had good conversations with Vulcans in such a way, and sometimes mere language was not sufficient between cultures and species and worlds. But he was Vulcan, and he would persist.
"I ran every level one and two physiological and biometric scan and analysis known to man short of autopsy, and I even did thermal-accelerated scans on five different skin cell samples. Nothing. If you have a disease it should have at least picked up some kind of micro-biological anomalies. But no, just an agitated lymphocyte count and a slight variation in temperature and – I…" he looked at the slide. "I can't explain the behaviour of these cells, but you damn Vulcans have anomalies for every cough and sneeze; if you had some kind of infection or disease, I should be seeing at least some revealing physical signs. The Enterprise has the most advanced medical facility in the fleet, if it doesn't show here, it wouldn't show anywhere!" Although he added a comment or two about Earth facilities, which would easily take them a few hundred light-years off course.
Spock quirked an eyebrow at the notion that a Vulcan would sneeze, but what he said was: "A biological disease, yes, doctor."
"What are you suggesting? What kind of disease isn't biological? Are you suggesting this was done with little machines? The scan didn't pick up any kind of nano-technology, and I should know, I've had experience in this sort of thing, you know!"
"I am well aware, doctor. But even so, there are other possibilities."
"If this is more Vulcan mysticism, I'll quit right now." He threatened.
"That would be quite rash, doctor, but your surmise is at least formally correct. At the very least, you might consider looking for psychological abnormalities."
The doctor smiled for a moment, briefly hidden. "If this is your way of confessing to psychosomatic psychosis, I always knew it!"
"Please, doctor, none of your frivolities. This is quite serious."
Dr. McCoy did indeed return a sober expression. "Alright, well I'm going to need to keep you here awhile then."
And he grumbled to himself, the usual invectives that Spock had gotten quite used to. The captain shot him an amused look, crossed with concern.
Spock didn't expect either of them to dismiss it. But the word Spock did not say was that it might have been a spiritual affliction. Quite possibly someone on board the ship was exerting a psionic force to influence him this way, and if that was the case, their motives were a mystery. Spock had to get to the bottom of this as soon as possible, but he would not approach the captain unless he had some strong logical evidence for the argument. Until then, their suspicions and alertness had been raised at least, and that was perhaps all he could expect yet until more developed. This was a starship, and there were many things requiring the attention of its crew besides theoretical insidious plots with no substance.
Later, he had returned to his quarters. The good doctor had been baffled, as he had expected. Something, or someone, seemed to be influencing his mind. And somehow, he had transferred some kind of illness to him. All any of them could find was that his cells were agitated and responding hostilely to some unknown cause, apparently entirely invisible. It was perhaps only thanks to his Vulcan physiology that it had taken this long to manifest in the first place.
He mused. It could perhaps be something entirely accidental, and that was not something to rule out. After he had explored some theories of his own, he would indeed talk to the captain about it. But for now, he felt he should employ those lessons he had learned on Vulcan to their fullest extent, and only when he had used those options to their fullest would he disregard them.
He sat by the windows and watched the stars. A mystery.
TO BE CONTINUED. PERHAPS.
"Who is this who is obscuring my counsel and speaking without knowledge?
Brace yourself, please, like a man;
I will question you, and you will inform me."
– Job 38:2