snowdarkred

Title: Interpolate
Series: Reality Check, 003
Author: snowdarkred
Word Count: 5308
Pairings: Kirk/McCoy pre-slash, background Spock/Uhura, hints (*cough*like a sledgehammer*cough*) of Sulu/Chekov
Rating/Warnings: R, for language, general mindfuckery, gore, and a badly written fight scene
A/n: This chapter contains my first fight scene in over a year. I'm pretty sure it sucks, but I'm tired of fighting with it. I'll twitch it later. Sorry this is so late, I just had the WEEK FROM HELL. I live in metro-Atlanta, and it's been awful here. I got stranded at my uni due to the floods and my basement became a pond. D: I'm sure this chapter is full of errors, so be a doll and point them out to me. ;) Oh, and just in case it's been a while since you saw The Matrix, this is what a Sentinel looks like.

Thanks muchly to

pixelmayhem for her help!

Chapter summery: As McCoy struggles to find his place on board, the ship is attacked, thrusting him into the thick of it and teaching him that this world's morals were even more gray than he'd thought.

Reality Check 001: Verisimilitude
Reality Check 002: Interpolate

Umbra

McCoy stared at himself in the mirror dispassionately, taking in the changes in his appearance. He was in Gaila's quarters, because evidently she was the only one on board willing to spend a huge amount of money on something as nonessential as a mirror.

“Nonessential, Doc?” she said playfully from the bed. “Bite your tongue.”

He glanced at her reflection, smiling in spite himself at the sight of her laying on her back on the bunk with her head hanging over the side. Her hair cascaded to the floor in a way similar enough to a waterfall to make McCoy want to run his hands through it. He pushed the thought away, knowing that Gaila didn't consciously set out to embody the sin of lust; that was just the way she was.

He returned his attention to the mirror. The reflection didn't look like him, didn't look like what he remembered. Here, his skin had never been touched by the sun. Here, he had never mucked out a stall or lifted a barrel of hay. Here, his hand had never slipped while slicing up that apple. His skin was unmarred, except for the round scars that dotted his flesh at regular intervals. Tokens from his body's time spent in that pod while his mind was trapped in the Matrix.

His stomach rolled at the thought of that hellish place, of people caged in their own heads. God, the sight of all those pods attached to the dark towers, the feel of the cold air on his hairless skin.... Ugh.

“Leo, seriously, give yourself a break,” Gaila sighed. She flipped over onto her stomach, her bare shoulders rolling with the motion.

“I'm bald,” McCoy hissed. It felt like a stupid thing to mention, but dammit, he hasn't seen this much of his scalp since his dorm mates at Ole Miss decided it would be funny to shave his hair off after a night of drunken revelry.

He had been so glad he hadn't sworn to “do no harm” yet after he woke up.

“I'm bald, I'm pale, and I've got fucking scars on my—” Shit. He glanced at Gaila, but she didn't seem to notice his slip up. 'Great, McCoy,' he snarked to himself. 'Open mouth, insert foot.'

“Whatever,” Gaila shrugged. “You're still better looking than Doc Puri ever was.” McCoy may have just let that comment slide—he was depressingly used to the crew talking about people and things he didn't know—had Gaila not slammed her hand over her mouth and gasped, “I wasn't supposed to say that.”

McCoy turned fully away from the mirror and stared at the tattooed woman. “What? Who's Puri?”

“Er, no one, Leo, ha,” she giggled nervously. “Um, just another doctor. Before your time.”

“Don't break. We need you. I picked you out, al special and everything. Don't go, don't, not like all the others.”

McCoy felt something, a realization, nudge at the back of his mind. “He was one of the others, wasn't he? One of the other doctors Jim brought over?”

Gaila hesitated and then nodded, her red curls falling around her face as she sat up. “He...didn't make it.”

There were so many things he should have been asking, like what had happened to him, what was going to happen to McCoy. Instead he asked, “How did Ji—the Captain deal with it?”

Gaila licked her lips and glanced away to her right. “Badly. He,” she paused again, weighing her words before she spoke them. She squirmed around until her feet touch the floor, and then she stood in one fluid motion. “He was much more careful picking you out. We trailed you for weeks before he made the decision to recruit you. You're special.”

“But how? How am I so special?” He didn't ask the why, though the question burned in his mind, dragging on his thoughts and actions. Gaila approached him cautiously, no doubt remembering his previous tantrums. McCoy paid her no attention, his thoughts spinning. Why? Why him, why now, why was he so goddamn unique?

“McCoy,” she said, her hands reaching up to rest gently on his shoulders, “he's never called anyone 'Bones' before.”

“And why is that important? Why does that matter?” he whispered.

“Let's go eat.”

He blinked and stared at her in shock. Was she not taking him seriously? He wanted, needed, to know what made him so important to Jim. 'I need to be needed,' he'd said, and as fucking messed up as it sounded, it was true. He needed to be needed, to know that he was useful. So far, there had been no indication that his presence on the ship affected anything, one way or another. He did nothing, all day, but get bounced around the ship from crew member to crew member, getting taught stuff he didn't fucking understand, didn't get, didn't want to get. He—

“Breathe, Doc,” Gaila said, her hands tightening on his shoulders. “Just breathe.”

“I'm bald,” he croaked, as if that had anything to do with anything.

Gaila smiled like it was the exact thing anyone would say after having a panic attack. “Don't worry. Your hair's already starting to grow.” She ran her hands over his scalp, grounding him with her nonchalant responses. He breathed deep and then swallowed, the weight on his chest easing slightly. His body wasn't ready to handle this kind of stress.

“C'mon,” she grinned suddenly. “I'm hungry, and Janice and Nyota are having a cook off for Spock's affections.” McCoy choked and started laughing in surprise as she dragged him out of her room and out to the hall.

----

The mess hall, as the deranged members of the crew called it, was not particularly large, but the collective group was small enough that it never felt full, even with all thirty-six crew members plus McCoy everyone piled in once a week for movie night. Long tables cut through the room in parallel strips, perpendicular to the open kitchen on the far side. McCoy hadn't yet been here by himself; he always had a crew member with him during the day. It had taken him an embarrassingly long time to realize that they were afraid to leave him alone in case he tried to self-harm.

McCoy tripped over a tool kit that the maintenance workers had left outside the door of the mess. He swore violently, making Gaila giggle. For a moment, standing there with an innocent expression of amusement, she reminded him of his daughter, his little girl, for all Gaila's skin was green-dyed and scarred and his Joanna's was not. The thought must have showed in his face, because Gaila's smiled faded and was replaced by one of sorrow. McCoy shock his head and looked into the mess hall.

Most of the crew was there, huddled around the kitchen and watching as the two women squared off under the bright lights. The air was cold enough that McCoy felt grateful for even the rough fabric of the long sleeved shirt he'd been given. Gaila directed him over to Sulu and Chekov's table, ignoring McCoy's pleading eyes. Spock's gaze flickered to him from where he sat at a parallel table before sliding back to Uhura. Sulu stiffened as McCoy sat down. Jesus, he didn't want to deal with the bitchy pilot right now.

Sulu glared at him, and McCoy fought the urge to roll his eyes. God, it seemed so juvenile. He was about to make a snide comment, just to give the guy something real to get pissed about, when Jim's voice echoed in his head, “Sulu saw his crew murdered.” McCoy pursed his lips and looked away, the words shaming him into acting civilized for a change.

“All right, all right, attention please!” Karen shouted. McCoy turned his gaze to her, a smile twitching at his lips at the sight of the tiny blonde woman with her hands on her hips. She spent far too much time with Christine. The crew continued to talk regardless, however, and McCoy felt a tinge of irratation at their disrespect. He was just about to do something about it—it didn't matter that he wasn't really a member of the crew; he wasn't about to sit by and watch a woman get ignored—when an ear splitting whistle sliced through the air.

“I believe the woman told you to shut your goddamn mouths,” Jim said from the doorway with a raised eyebrow. McCoy swallowed at the image he presented, his pale skin contrasting with the basic black shirt he wore. It gave him an almost unnatural glow under the synthetic lights. Jim grinned, ruining the strict facade he'd tried to present. He meandered over and sat next to McCoy, planting himself firmly between him and Sulu.

“Well, Miz Tracy?” he drawled in a mimic of a Southern accent. “Go on.” He flashed a smile at Leonard to take away any offense he may have inspired, but McCoy didn't give a damn about the accent.

Jim wasn't ignoring him.

“With us on this fine evening, presenting live from the mess hall of the Enterprise, is one Nyota Uhura of the Communication Department versus Christine Chapel of the MedBay Queens!” Gentle laughter from the crew at what was a long running joke; McCoy didn't get it. “Once again, they meet to cook it out for the handsome and logical Spoc—”

A rapid beeping cut her off, and she fell silent instantly as everyone in the room tensed. Jim stood up slowly, his expression slipping from engaged attention to distant focus. The room seemed to hold its breathe. Ji—no, he was the Captain now, walked over to the wall comm and hit the button with a studied calm.

“Kirk to Bridge, come in,” he said, his eyes sweeping the mess hall looking for anything out of place. His gaze settled on McCoy, and the doctor felt a cold hand grasp his heart. Kirk? Where had he heard that name before? “I repeat, answer me. What's going on out there?”

There was long, agonizing moment of silence in which McCoy tried to ignore the number of people who were turning to stare at him with expressionless faces. He shifted in his seat, but he stopped himself as soon as he realized what he was doing. They were looking at him as if he was guilty of something, but he didn't know what and shifting in one's seat could be seen as an admission, though an admittance to what, he had no idea.

The comm crackled and popped ominously when the Bridge responded. “...Didn't see them, C..tain! We didn't see them—Oh fuck!” The ship rocked unexpectedly, causing McCoy to grab the table and struggle not to vomit. “Fuckfuck—where the hell...” There was a grinding noise over the static. “They—they're drilling in! I.... shit, do something!”

“Numbers!” the Captain shouted into the comm. “We need some fucking numbers, Decker! Spock, Sulu, battle stations! Chapel, get to Sickbay! Decker! How fucking many—”

Over the comm they heard the grinding stop abruptly. The were jarred by the screech of metal on metal and the sound of human screaming made tinny over the distance. Then there was silence.

“Shit,” Jim swore softly. McCoy watched as he swallowed hard. Jim took a deep breath and turned to the crew. “Well? Get the fuck out there!”

The crew rose as one and ran toward the exists, the stomp of their boots drowning out the whine coming from the comm unit. McCoy sat frozen, uncertain as to what to do. Should he go with Chapel? Go with Spock? Stay where he was? The ship shook again, and McCoy felt his insides seize in anxiety. Shit, he didn't want to think about how this ship was flown from place to place and that they were supposed to be parked in the goddamn air. Jesus Christ.

“No time for a panic attack, Bones,” Jim said, grabbing his arm and tugging him back the way he came in. “We've go to get you the fuck out of here.” They reached the door when the ship tilted sideways before righting itself again; Jim clutched at the door frame with his free hand.

“W—what's going on,” Leonard yelled as the ship shuddered beneath him. He tripped over the maintenance tools and fell to his knees. Jim hauled him up, his hands gripping hard enough to bruise. McCoy choked on his protest, looking at Jim's hard expression. The pair heard a shout from further down the corridor. Jim and McCoy turned as one to look and saw—Shit, damn, and motherfuck.

A machine, a monster, a, a, well, fuck, a machine, had Chekov pinned against the wall with its claws, and by pinned, fuck, pinned. Like a bug on a fucking children's science fair project. Blood washed down the kid's torso in a steady stream, and McCoy's underused doctor side began frantically calculating how much longer before the teen bled out. It didn't look good.

Jim swore, his tone more vicious than anything McCoy'd heard the Captain say before. His hands fumbled at his waistband, his eye locked on the sight of one of the machines killing one of his crew right in front of him. McCoy knew in that instant the kind of agony a true commander must experience every second of every day. To have so many lives resting on your shoulders, just like doctors did, but different some how. More tangible, slightly more terrible.

There was another grinding noise, one that echoed down the corridor from another direction. It took McCoy a second too long to realize that it was coming from behind him. A cold metal limb gripped his shirt and he was pulled back with a click. His hands scrambled uselessly, and Jim swirled, his eyes flashing. Jim froze for one long, horrible moment, his eyes flickering between Chekov and Leonard.

'Save the kid, save the kid, save the...' McCoy thought furiously, even as his terror consumed him. A roar interrupted Jim's dilemma, and Jim, McCoy, and even the robot turned to see the source. Sulu rushed at the machine holding Chekov, welding nothing but his fists. Jim used the distraction to whip a lethal looking knife from his waistband.

How the hell had he managed to hide that?

Jim leaped towards McCoy and the robot, the blade clinched in his hand. The machine struck at him with one of its many tentacle-like appendages. Jim ducked and rolled with perfect timing, coming up under the robot and slamming the knife into the base of its head. He pulled back his left hand and threw it atop of the hand holding the hilt with all the strength he could get behind the blow. The dagger sank deeply into the machine's twitching form, but Jim kept driving it further.

The arm grasping McCoy loosened, and he slithered free, stumbling to the other side of the corridor. Jim seemed intent on submerging his blade in the gushing wound he had caused, his muscles tense with anger and hate and rage. The sight took McCoy's breath away, but not in a good way. Not in a way he could deal with.

Shit, he'd forgotten, for only the briefest of moments, about Chekov. He realized it the same time Jim did, and he saw Jim turn to face the other attacker, leaving his knife buried hilt-deep in the other machine's round head. They watched as Sulu was flung away by one of the tentacles, and he crashed halfway between where Jim and McCoy were standing and where the robot was holding Chekov against the wall. Jim bent down and scooped up something from the maintenance kit, and he ran towards Sulu as the Asian pilot regained his feet.

“Sulu!” he shouted as the robot shifted its grip on the teenager, preparing to do something nasty and likely irreversible. “Catch!”

Sulu barely glanced at his Captain, but his hand reached out unerringly and snatched the—crowbar? Jim had given him a crowbar? But Sulu caught the crowbar and ran toward the machine, holding the crowbar out in front of him like a sword. Oh. That made more sense. He sprang at the machine and flipped over one of it's arms? Legs? Tentacles. The machine jerked, trying to repel Sulu and keep its prize at the same time.

Sulu used his momentum to slice at the arms holding Chekov. To McCoy's surprise, it worked, one of the arms falling apart, cut clean through. The machine abandoned Chekov's body completely, pulling the other tentacle out of the kid's torso completely, apparently trying to focus more on the current threat. Jim ran forward as Chekov slid to the ground, leaving a bloody trail along the wall. The Captain grabbed Chekov and tugged him away from where the machine and Sulu were battling furiously.

McCoy stood frozen, staring at the bloody teenager. The kid had two gaping holes in his chest, one of which was still filled by a squiggling metal limb. McCoy could hardly see the boy's original shirt color through all the blood. Shit. Shit, shit, shitmotherfuck!

“Goddamit, McCoy!” Jim shouted, his hands clamped over the empty wound. Jesus, he was red up to his elbows. “Quit staring like a fucking idiot and get your fucking hick ass over here!”

McCoy blinked and swore, profusely, as he rushed over to the pair. The change in location brought him closer to the fight. Sulu twisted with an almost unnatural grace and stabbed the robot through the underside of its head, right were Jim had stabbed the machine that had grabbed him.

But McCoy had no time to contemplate what that meant exactly; he was too busy trying to see if the wiggling severed robot arm was going more harm than good. If he pulled it out, there was a chance that Chekov would bleed out even faster, but if the thing was ripping tissue it may be better to take the chance and get rid of it.

“Captain! Captain, report,” a voice said over the intercom. McCoy was pretty sure that it was Uhura, but he was a little too occupied to give a damn. Fuck, the thing would have to come out. “Ship out of danger. Scanners say that all machines are accounted for and neutralized but one, currently being held in Engineering. Come in, Captain. Report.”

McCoy grasped the struggling appendage and pulled sharply while Jim held the kid in place. The arms slipped free easily with a sickening pop. More blood pumped from the kid's chest. McCoy covered it with his left palm and placed his right hand over his left. He leaned forward, putting pressure on it and ignoring the way he could feel bone sliding beneath his weight.

“Fuck! Sulu,” Jim shouted, his hands still firmly on the navigator's chest. “Call Chapel, tell her to get someone here now! Check in with Uhura, see what happened. And get me whatever fucker that was on the bridge that's still alive.” He nodded at McCoy over the kid's torso. “Can he make until the others get here?”

McCoy looked at the amount of blood on their hands and chests, and the amount of blood on the walls. He shook his head. “I'm amazed he's not dead yet,” he said, because sure enough, there was a heartbeat. Painfully slow, but there. Chekov's breaths were shallow and slow, with a slight whistle that didn't bode well. Nothing about this boded well. “We should move him now. We can't really do much more damage.”

McCoy turned to Sulu, who was staring at them—at Chekov—with an anguished expression.

“Sulu saw his whole crew murdered.”

McCoy cleared his throat and said, “Tell Chapel to met us on the way. The infirmary isn't to far from here.”

“Save him,” Sulu whispered, his eyes meeting McCoy's. “Save him, dammit.”

“I'll try,” Leonard replied, before he and Jim lifted Chekov's limp body between them, the severed metal limb still in his chest, and began carrying the kid to sickbay. McCoy tried to ignore the way blood and oil squelched underneath his boots. Jesus, he hadn't seen this much blood since that three car pile up back when he was an ER doctor.

Chapel met them at the door to the infirmary, a blood IV already prepped. Inside, one of the beds held a body, covered by an old graying sheet. At least one member of the crew was dead. Shit. They got Chekov onto a gurney and wheeled him to what passed for the surgery room. Chapel was completely professional the whole time, coolly hooking up the fading teen to the IV. McCoy was about to protest—as hard as it was to admit it, as horrible as it was, the kid probably wasn't going to make it through this, and giving him blood that could go to someone that might actually survive. But he didn't. That stubborn bastard inside him, the true doctor, the savior, reared his head fully for the first time since he was torn out of the Matrix. No.

He wasn't going to give up; he wasn't going to give in. Death could fuck off. He was Doctor Leonard H. Motherfucking McCoy, goddamn it, and this boy was going to live to see his goddamn eighteenth birthday.

So he rolled up his sleeves, set his jaw, and got to work.

----

It was hard, of course. Nothing here was easy. They almost lost the kid a dozen times, but with McCoy's expertise, Chapel's cool head, and the advanced technology that McCoy was just starting to understand, they were able to pull him back from the brink.

McCoy heaved a sigh of relief when the last bandage was taped to the raw wound. Chapel had used some sort of cell regenerate device on Chekov after McCoy had finished putting the youth back together again. He would have to ask her about that later. Right now, he was just, not happy, but content, to yank off the latex-like gloves (who knew what they were really made of) and relax his shoulders. He hadn't done anything that intense since... since he woke up.

And that had been the problem. 'I need to feel needed,' he'd said, and it was true. He had to have something in his hands, something in his mind, to keep him occupied and helpful. If he didn't, he fell apart at the seams; he was pretty sure that that was why his marriage had collapsed. It had been so stupid to give into her demands that he switch from the Surgical Intensive Care Unit to a peaceful private practice.

Jim was waiting for him in the main sickbay area. “How is he?” the Captain asked.

McCoy twisted his lips into a parody of a smile. “He's gonna make it. He wouldn't have, had we been two seconds slower. I'm not a thoracic surgeon, but we were able to patch him up with the help of your crazy-ass tech shit.”

Jim grinned tiredly, his eye dead in his face. “You can thank Spock, Chekov, and Scotty for that. It took them almost a year to figure out how to turn Chapel's cell research into a miracle worker.” He sighed, the grin fading.

“How many casualties?” Chapel asked as she readied the kid to be switched to the main room. McCoy blinked, and his heart seized, wondering how many could have been killed. He scanned the room while Jim rubbed his hand across his forehead. There was a sheet-covered female body in the corner. He thought he saw a glimpse of light colored hair peaking from beneath the patched fabric. McCoy swallowed, wondering who it was.

He wasn't sure he wanted to know.

“Six,” Jim rasped, his hand falling from his brow to hang limply at his side. “Six fucking people. Becker, Karen, Tomlinson, DiFalco, Hyde, and Riley.” His voice cracked at the last name, and his hands curled into a fist. He took a deep breathe and shook his head sharply, pushing aside his obvious grief. McCoy stared at the faded piece of cloth in the corner. He now knew who it was.

Six. Six people out of a crew of thirty-six. That was fucking sixteen percent of the people aboard this ship, gone, just like that. Just like fucking that.

“Captain, your hurt,” Chapel said. She stepped forward, her hand outstretched towards him. McCoy followed her gaze to the Captain's upper left arm. The fabric of his shirt was ripped, and blood was soaking into the the weave.

Jim shook his head. “Chapel, you go see to Chekov. Sulu will be storming the place in a few minutes. Bones can see to me.” Chapel paused before nodding and returning to Chekov's side. McCoy watched Jim closely as he walked to one of the “biobeds” and hopped up. He swung his legs childishly and grinned weakly at Leonard.

“If I'm good, do I get a lollipop?”

The doctor snorted. “If you can find one on this heap.” He leaned in to examin the wound and cursed when the black shirt kept getting in the way. “This needs to come off.” He turned to find where Chapel had stashed the scissors. There was a rustle of cloth behind him. Shit. He swirled, furious that the goddamn idiot didn't think about the further damage he could do to his injury, but—

Fuck.

Jim was looking at him like nothing was wrong, but McCoy kept running his eyes over the man's bare arms and torso. He felt the blood drain from his face, and he fell backwards, collapsing neatly on one of the other biobeds. Scars. Jim had scars that matched McCoy's.

Jim had been born in the Matrix.

McCoy didn't know why that felt like such a shock; the only explanation he could come up with was that he had simply never thought about it. He had picked up hints about everyone else's past, but he had never thought about Jim outside of the ship. Outside of the here and now. And he was from inside the Matrix.

Jim frowned and looked like he was about to speak, but Sulu burst through the door, his eyes desperate. His gaze shot straight to Jim, pleading unspoken words for reassurance. Jim eased into a slight smile and jerked his chin towards the other room. Sulu saluted and headed straight to the door separating the main infirmary from the surgery room. He stopped to report that Scotty wanted to see Jim down in Engineering to deal with the remaining robot before he disappeared to see his... friend.

Jim stood immediately and marched right out of the infirmary. McCoy stared after him for a minute and then realized that the idiot had left without a shirt and still bleeding. The doctor swore and jumped from the biobed and towards the door. “Dammit, Jim, at least let me patch you up before you rush off, you stupid fool!"

He caught up to the Captain down in Engineering, standing in front of... a robot. The thing was tied up with heavy chains and wrapped securely in a wire-shot net. Jim leaned in close to it, peering curiously at its many arms. No one seemed to care that there was blood dripping down Jim's arm and unto the machine. Scotty was talking to the Captain, Gaila hovering near by at a computer console. The massive engines rose up in the center of the room, dwarfing everyone inside.

“...we disabled the vertebral nexus and rerouted the integral aegis system to the program you wrote.”

“What about the suicide routine? Have you—”

“Yep,” the engineer said cheerfully. “Got it all squared away, Captain. The Sentinel is aware but unable to access its external shell. It's completely helpless.”

“Good,” Jim said. His eyes never left the robot's exposed face plate. The thing's eye sensors glowed in the half light. The back of the machine's head was an open mess of wires and circuit boards. Jim reach forward and prodded the tangle, his fingers running over the interconnecting strands. “What about the—”

“All the couplings are secured and synced,” Gaila reported, her tone still bright, but professional. McCoy quickly checked her visually to see if she was injured; she didn't appear to be. Good. “We can run a sim now if you want.”

“Nah, let's leave the mindfuckery to the experts,” Jim smirked. McCoy frowned. What the hell were they talking about?

“What the hell are you talking about?” he asked.

“We're taking Mr. NX-457 here to the Cestus III outpost,” Jim answered, his eyes never leaving the robot. “This one's a Sentinel Class 7. I don't think they've had one before.”

McCoy thought about Jim's hard expression at the sight of his crew member being nearly killed in front of him and the way he had said that he would have killed McCoy had he turned into a “Smith”. “What are they going to do with...it?” That monster.

“Give it a taste of its own medicine,” Jim said absently. He leaned even closer to part of the machine's insides.

“Wait...” Something just wasn't making sense to McCoy. Something wasn't right. “I thought... I thought that you believed that these things had souls. Isn't that—Wouldn't that make torturing it... wrong?”

Jim turned to McCoy and straightened, his eyebrows raised. “Who said that we were going to torture it?”

“But....” McCoy struggled to find the right words to express his unease. “You said 'its own medicine'.”

Jim snorted and stepped away from the machine. He made a short, slashing gesture across his throat at Gaila. The lights in NX-457's visual sensors faded. He looked at McCoy. “I'm going to be honest with you, McCoy.” Leonard noted the name change; it made him uneasy. “We are loosing this war. Quickly. Within a generation or two, the only humans around will be under the influence of the Matrix. And whatever those idiots at Zion think, there is no way that we're going to win. None. That means that we have to find another way.”

“Another....” McCoy's mind rushed with ideas, wondering what crazy scheme Jim had come up with to solve the world's problems.

“We have to convince them to change sides. We're going to put them in our own Matrix.”

What? Convince the machines to change sides? With a Matrix? They were the one who—No, that wasn't right. He remembered Gaila's lesson in the computer sim, about how humans had started it. But the machines had taken things too far, they had—God, it's not like humans haven't done horrible things. War. Slaughter. Rape. Murder. But that was different, had to be different then this.... But if machines did have souls, or what might be considered a soul, than how did that make faking them out any better than the machines' Matrix?

His head hurt.

“But—if they have souls—if they aren't just—you said they mourn. Isn't there—” He cut himself off. He couldn't believe that he was defending a machine!

“You have to ask yourself the Machiavellian question,” Jim said, turning back to the captured machine. “Do the ends justify the means or the means justify the ends?”

McCoy swallowed, staring at Jim's scarred back.

-----

004 Peregrination

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