NEW:Ghost in the Machine-VOY/TOS NC17 m/m 4/5

[Killashdra]

SEE DISCLAIMER IN PART 1.


Before I can think of anything to say, he turns on me.
"Just tell me one thing, Paris. How could you do it?
How could you actually go through with it?"
I recoil defensively. "You weren't supposed to know."
His face twists, the force of his fury like a storm in
the room. "Is that supposed to change anything?"
I'm utterly speechless. Why Spock would have told
him, I cannot imagine. But that's not even the worst of
it; what's really horrifying about the whole thing is that
he's *saved* that knowledge into the matrix of the AI. I
can't imagine what it would be like, to learn that
everything you knew, everything you were, existed only
inside a computer simulation. And then to be cursed with
that knowledge and forced to live with it...
He's close to me now--too close; I can smell the heat
coming off him, can feel it. He's clenched his fists
around the ends of the towel, as if to prevent himself from
releasing the violence that's churning under the hard green
surface of his eyes. His voice has sunk to a growl. "Do
you really think that changes anything?"
"I know this is hard for you to understand--"
He shakes his head in disgust, mouth twisting. "You
don't know a damn thing about it." His eyes go dull, as if
I have lost whatever interest I might have held for him.
He swings around again, making as if to leave. And again I
stop him at the door.
"I know enough to know he loved you!"
The look he turns on me... all I can say is that no
man should ever have to face a look like that. Rage and
pain battle for dominance in his face, and his lips go
white with anguish. "What did you say?"
"That's why I did it," I say recklessly. Too late to
turn back. "I saw how much he needed to find some peace."
That pushes him over the edge. His eyes fill up with
darkness, so bleak I almost can't look at them any more.
And then he begins to laugh. It's a bitter sound, like
broken glass under boots. "Peace." He laughs again, then
cuts it off abruptly. He takes a step toward me, and this
time I think that he's going to break my neck for sure.
"Then he was a fool, and so were you."
If he's going to kill me, there's probably nothing I
can do to stop him. Might as well try one more time to
reach him. "No," I say, forcing myself to meet his gaze.
"He wasn't a fool. He was desperate."
That's done it. Oh, shit, you're in for it now, Tommy
boy.
The shattering sound of something breaking makes me
jump a foot. It takes me a second to realize he's hit the
metal divider screen, and not me. I make myself breathe
and take a mental inventory. No, nothing damaged. I
summon courage enough to look at him.
He's standing there, staring dumbly at the blood
that's dripping from several small cuts on the edge of his
fist. His shock is so eloquent I can see it on him; he
can't believe that he's actually bleeding. I want very
much to say something, but nothing comes.
The silence goes on so long I feel that maybe I've
gone suddenly, inexplicably deaf. But at last he covers up
his bleeding hand with his undamaged one, bringing them
both to rest in front of him. I can see he's embarrassed
that he lashed out like that, and I'm embarrassed that I
drove him to it. He's not a man who's accustomed to losing
control.
Still not looking at me, he draws a deep breath,
steadying himself. The anger has gone out of him entirely.
When he speaks at last, I have to strain to hear him.
He says, miserably, "Don't you see?"
My throat is so dry I can't make a sound. I shake my
head once, helplessly.
His mouth curves in a lopsided, painful expression
that might be a smile, except for the awful brightness in
his eyes. "Don't you see... you're wrong. It wasn't *me*
he loved."
For a second I don't understand.
And then I do.
In spite of everything mirrors and memory and instinct
tell him, he knows that he isn't James Kirk, not really.
Not where it counts. And that's when it occurs to me,
belatedly, that although I got the disk back years ago, for
him it's only been hours. From his perspective, Spock has
only just left. His pain, for all that it's been delayed
almost a decade, is still just as fresh.
I reach out to him, unable to do anything else--but
I'm not surprised when he stiffens and turns away from me.
I've just realized that there are tears on my face.
Well, they've been a long time in coming. I guess I can
cry some for him, too.
"He wanted to," I whisper, knowing it's no consolation
at all. "He wanted to love you."
His back is to me. I see him shudder, a slow
vibration which starts at the small of his back and runs
through him. I can see him control it with a fierce
effort. "Why do you say that?"
"Because it's true." I have to bite my lip, or I'm
really going to come apart. "Do you want me to tell you
about him? About how we did this?"
It's the story of his own creation I'm offering him;
my delusions of godhood persist, I guess. But I can't let
him hurt like this without trying to do something. Maybe
talking about it will help.
He doesn't *want* to want it, that's obvious. But he
doesn't say no, and I take his silence as acquiescence.
Okay then, begin at the beginning.
"I recognized him as soon as I saw him standing on my
doorstep. I would have, anyway, from my history classes,
even if he hadn't been all over the news holos a few months
before."
He looks at me sharply. "News holos?"
Oh shit, I've already put my foot in it. "He didn't
tell you?" I say in a small voice.
Something shifts in his face, as if he'll defend the
Vulcan from me, even now. But he says only, "No."
It's hard to tell him this. "His wife died. She was
killed on a civilian ship near the Romulan neutral zone.
The ship went down under very suspicious circumstances, and
there were broadcasts about it for weeks afterward."
"What was her name?"
It's hardly more than a whisper.
I try, I really try to remember. But for me it's been
almost ten years, and memory fails. "I'm sorry... I don't
know."
He just nods acceptance. I blow out a sigh, rubbing
at the ache behind my eyes. It's been a long time since I
slept. "I know this is pretty hard for you to take in," I
say lamely.
There's that scapegrace little smile again, not quite
so painful this time.
"You could say that."
Man, he really is something. His face is so
expressive that you can't help but stare at him. His
charisma's like a weapon; I can feel it undermining what
shaky composure I've got left. Well, it's not like I
didn't have some idea what to expect. Had I really thought
I would be in control of this situation?
I push on doggedly, praying that I've made the right
choice in telling him.
"So, he showed up on my doorstep, and I recognized him
and invited him in. He grilled me for over three hours
before he'd tell me what he'd come for. Had I ever done
any component algorithms based on existing people? Did I
know anything about high-level engram mapping? I told him
about the--programs I'd written."
I have to swallow. At the word 'programs' he's gone a
shade paler.
"He asked me a lot of personal questions, too. Why
wasn't I studying programming at the Academy? Could I be
discreet?" I blush furiously, and curse my fair coloring
for the thousandth time. "Did I have any moral objections
to the practice of homosexuality?"
His shocked look registers before he can keep it from
me.
"Did he tell you--?"
"No," I hasten to reassure him. "No. We never
discussed it."
I can see him swallow, his throat moving almost
imperceptibly. "Go on."
I start to pace a little, back and forth in the
cramped space between his bed and the partition with its
dented metal screen. "It was obvious to me that he was in
a great deal of pain."
I can hear him shifting, but I don't look at him.
"How do you know that?"
I stop, at right angles to where he's standing near
the bathroom door. I can see him out of the corner of my
eye. He's got one hand propped against the doorjamb, as if
he needs the support.
"He wouldn't have come to me in a million years
otherwise."
There's no response to that, and I'm not surprised.
I start to pace again. "Who knows why he came to me
when he did? I'm not sure even he knew. Maybe his wife
dying made him face up to some things he'd been holding
inside for a long time. All I know is that he was driven.
He put his heart and soul into you." I meet his eyes then,
across the room. "I did, too."
He's silent for a minute. Finally he says, "He didn't
tell me... how I died."
That sounds so damn surreal that for a second I want
to laugh. But I hadn't really thought of it like that.
For me, James Kirk is a figure of legend, eighty-five years
dead. But *this* Kirk is living outside of time,
perpetually thirty-five years old, surrounded by the
trappings of another century.
I weigh my answer carefully, not sure how much I
should say. How much would I want to know in his place?
"You died saving the Enterprise," I tell him at last.
I watch him digest it. He doesn't say anything, but
after a moment, he nods, once. His eyes have regained a
little of their natural luster, and I can see that in a
strange way I've pleased him.
"He wrote some of the code himself," I say, as gently
as I can. "Did he tell you that?"
He averts his face before I can read what it betrays.
"No."
"Yeah. He did--he wrote a lot of it in fact." I look
at the carpet, feeling the warmth in my face. "If the
module was self-contained, if I didn't need to work on
it... a lot of times I put it into the compiler without
running it first."
It's almost an insignificant technicality, and I feel
embarrassed for saying it as soon as the words are out.
He's a hologram, for godssakes. How much privacy can he
have, realistically? But it seems to mean something to
him.
"Thank you," he says softly. "I--didn't know that."
It's the first time he's spoken to me without anger,
without condemnation. The quiet gratitude in his low,
liquid voice makes my heart skip, makes me look up.
He's come a step closer. For the first time he's
looking at me without the shield of his bitterness between
us, and I find that I've suddenly forgotten how to breathe
properly. His eyes on mine are so compelling that I can't
look at him without needing to do something, say something,
though I don't know what. All I know is that I have to
respond somehow, or my heart will implode on itself.
It occurs to me that I now know the answer to a
question I'd had years ago. I'd wondered, in my foolish
youth, how the memory of one man long since dead could have
cracked Vulcan ice so cleanly.
I'd wondered what would drive a man like Ambassador
Spock to seek out a man like me.
Now I know.
I take a cautious step toward him, mindful of this
fragile vulnerability he's let me see. I know I shouldn't
mistake it for forgiveness. I want so much to reach out to
him that I have to clench my fists to avoid doing it.
"Tell me what happened."
He knows right away what I mean. I can see it's hard
for him. He wants to talk about it, needs to tell someone-
-but he doesn't know for sure if he can. Not and keep hold
of his fiercely exerted self-control.
He tries for that hard bitterness, but what comes out
is more like a plea. "Why should I tell you?"
Gently, I ask, "Who else can you tell?"
For a second he doesn't say anything. Then he makes
that sound again, the laugh that sounds like glass getting
crushed underfoot. "Well, I can't argue with that one."
He gives me a look that's at once so ironic and so
uncharacteristically uncertain that a lump rises in my
throat.
He goes past me into the office area, raking his hand
through his still-damp hair. He sits in the single chair
and rests his elbows on the desk, pressing his fingertips
to his lips as if he's thinking, trying to decide. Or
maybe trying to find where to begin. There's no place else
to sit in there; I take that to mean he doesn't want me to
look at him. If he's going to do this, he doesn't want to
have to face his audience.
So I sit on the bed, watching him through the mesh
divider.
At last he laces his fingers together, leaning forward
until his forehead is resting on his joined hands. His
face is now hidden from me, his broad shoulders hunched
protectively, the muscles of his back clenched tight. For
the first time I can see the graceful curve of his nape; I
make myself avert my eyes, look down at the precise,
metallic weave of the coverlet, waiting for him to speak.
"This is a lie," he says at last, his voice harsh.
"You know that, don't you?"
I'm at a loss. "What is?"
He makes a violent, jabbing motion with one hand in
the air. "This. This... thing that you wrote for him.
It's all a lie." I want to protest, but manage to keep a
leash on it. Don't interrupt, Paris. Let him get it out.
His left hand has gone back to its spot, clenched once
again in his right. The control he's exerting to sit still
like that is making my gut ache in sympathy.
"We were never... we never..." He draws a breath that
I can hear, even from three meters away. "It never
happened in real life."
I am so stunned I cannot for a moment process it. Is
he saying...? What exactly is he saying?
It's a possibility that has never even occurred to me.
He's laughing softly, bitterly. "I know the rumors
said otherwise. I know people think--well, I know what
they think. I've worked damn hard to make sure that Spock
doesn't--" he catches himself "--didn't hear about it."
His voice sinks to a murmur I can barely make out. "I
don't think he ever did."
My mouth's open, ready to say something. When Spock
first came to me, I'd read everything I could find on the
two of them, spending days poring over old news broadcasts
and written commentaries. It's a matter of record that on
the day James Kirk died, his former first officer--some
three hundred light years distant--fell down where he stood
and lay comatose for fifteen days. It had been the end of
the decades of rumors about the two of them; after that,
the rumors had been mostly accepted as fact, had become an
essential part of the legend. It's never crossed my mind
that history might be mistaken.
But of course, I cannot possibly say any of that. I
shut my mouth quickly.
"Spock was a fool." His hands are pressed flat
against the surface of the desk now. His face is turned
toward the wall, away from me. "And so was I."
When he doesn't say anything else, I risk the
question. "I'm not reading you. What did you do that was
so foolish?"
He's shaking his head. "It's not what I did--It's
what I didn't do. Which is to say, I never... pushed." He
gets up then, unable to sit still any more. On the other
side of the divider, he begins to pace, gesturing
impatiently at the room around him. "In this reality, I'm
thirty-five. I've got my whole life ahead of me. Every
day I see him on the bridge, or across a chess board, or at
my side on some planet, and I want to tell him how I
feel... make him face up to what I see in his eyes when he
looks at me. And every time my courage deserts me." The
irony is thick in his voice. "Just a little longer. I'll
wait just a little longer. There'll be plenty of time for
us once the five year mission is over..."
There's a funny little choked sound then, and I can't
be sure which one of us has made it.
"Yeah," I say, "I know that particular brand of
foolishness quite well."
But he's not really listening to me.
"We were both guilty of it. I just never thought..."
He drifts off, not finishing the sentence. He stops at the
far corner of the room, obscured by shadow, but I can see
him put his hands over his face for a moment as if he's
trying to hold himself together to tell the rest of it.
Finally he straightens, looking around at these
familiar things I've created for him, these unreal phantoms
of a life that was never his. "This..." he says, almost to
himself, "this *travesty* was the worst foolishness of
all." Dreamily, he reaches out to brush a fingertip along
the leather-bound books, the cloth rosette in its crystal
casing. I might as well not be in the room. "Ah,
Spock..." he whispers huskily, "...my friend, what did you
think would happen?"
For an instant, I almost believe his whispered words
will conjure another ghost, one with pointed ears and
haunted eyes. But no. That one's already come and gone,
and left this wounded specter in his wake.
I clear my throat, acutely uncomfortable. "Forgive
me." My voice is hoarse and sounds like an invasion. His
eyes turn to mine and tell me that it is. The anger is
back now, the bitterness. But this time it's not directed
at me.
I look down at my hands, pale and ineffectual against
the scarlet coverlet. I clear my throat. "You have to
believe that I don't want to do any more damage than I
already have. If you want me to go, I will. You don't have
to tell me any more. It's just--" I hesitate, not sure if
I should speak further. But I look up then, and his eyes
are wide and deep as the sea, and they demand honesty from
me if nothing else. "It's just that he sent the disk back
to me. I've got the strongest feeling that there was a
reason, something he wanted me to do."
He blinks, too slowly. I see that with the mention of
the disk, I've shocked him back into awareness of his
reality, or lack thereof. I feel sick to my stomach,
ashamed, as if I've hit him. My hands open involuntarily,
as if there's some kind of appeal I can make that will
reach him. I don't expect him to forgive me. But I need
him to understand.
"Do?" That one word is an awful sound, edged with
hysteria. He grimaces, as if he's biting back a laugh.
"Haven't you done enough?" The hysteria spills over, and
his mouth twists in something that might have been meant
for a grin. "There's only one thing you can do, if you
want to help me, and that's turn this thing off and wipe
the file. Now."
I'm on my feet, facing him. There's about a meter of
space between us. He fights down a shudder, the strongest
one yet, and his facade of calm is betrayed.
In spite of myself, I feel a thrill of recognition.
He truly *is* self-aware! In spite of his pain, in
spite of what we've done to him--he doesn't want to die.
This must be how Pygmalion felt.
In that moment of understanding, he is as real to me
as anyone ever has been, and I begin to perceive the
faintest shadow of what it is Spock wanted of me, what it
is he hoped for when he sent me this poor damaged soul on a
ten centimeter by ten centimeter storage wafer.
But first I have to convince him to let me help.

(end part 4)