Remember to insert disclaimer here! Something about Paramount owning Star Trek, Decker creating Star Traks, and myself writing BorgSpace. Be sure to make it neato-rific, and, if possible, relate to the story. Don't forget!
Joe Doe
Beep. Beep. Beep. Steady beeps in heartbeat cadence comprised the universe. The tempo sped slightly; the universe expanded.
"Doctor, the patient is waking."
"Understood. Just a second."
And expanded.
Antiseptic odors assaulted his nose, almost, but not quite, covering the smells of sweat, blood, and fear. Worry. Confidence. Acrid acid of old vomit. Plastic and cotton blended into bandages.
Heartbeat monitor fades as other sounds come into focus. A cough. A groan. A sigh. Medical jargon mixed with orders into a background white noise murmur. Fabric against fabric, plastic against plastic, shuffling feet. The sudden whine of a drill or saw, abruptly muted.
"The patient is definitely wakeful, Doctor."
"Watch the monitors. When the brainwaves show he'll comprehend what I tell him, shout."
And expanded again.
He opened his eyes. No, he opened one eye, the other remaining unresponsive, dark. Bright lights caused him to blink rapidly, a tear welling. The world blurred, then stabilized into the scene of a room with walls half institutional green, half cream. Machines blinked and beeped, perplexing displays revealing the innermost secrets of a body. His body.
"Synaptic awareness, Doctor."
The baritone voice sounded from his blind side, and he automatically tried to turn his head to face that direction, to no avail. Ears twitched instead. His head, his body was restrained, holding him to the bed. Panic arose, translated into struggle against his bonds. This wasn't right! He knew this wasn't right! Something was wrong, so very, very wrong.
"Nurse! A general sedative! Be careful as his physiology and drug resistance are unknown. We don't want to send him back into a coma."
The authoritative alto voice had a feminine quality. It originated somewhere at knee level, owner out of peripheral vision. The 'we' was confronting in an odd way. It, and the chemical which rushed into his bloodstream, calmed him. Panic receded.
"The readouts show he might be a little high, Doctor, but he isn't trying to get up and walk now."
"I can see that. He'll still understand me, though. Son, fellow, focus on me. There are some important things you need to know."
He sucked in his breath as the doctor stepped into view. Eye darting rapidly from limb to limb, he counted ten appendages converging at the central globular body. Four of the limbs served as legs, while the other six were tipped by six-fingered hands, all gloved in latex. The body was draped in a loose tabard, not out of modesty, but for need of a garment with pockets to hold tools. Head attached to the body by a thick neck. Facial features were a standard bilateral arrangement of eyes, nose, mouth, but included a set of ridiculously large ears. Taking into account the short black fur which covered visible skin surfaces, the physician looked like a Dumbo-earred spider with a set too many limbs.
"I am Doctor Geeli," said the ur-spider, peering down with great concern in her eyes. One hand held a large PADD object; and another a stylus. "There was an accident, son. We are not quite sure of the details, but this hospital ship chanced upon you in a heavily damaged craft. We think it belonged to General Ta'loc, but I won't burden you with details right now. The important item is that we found the ship with you inside, within a compartment which was slowly losing air and cooling to lethal temperatures. The destruction looked to be at least five days old."
General Ta'loc? The name sounded achingly familiar, a concept just on the edge of comprehension. Unfortunately, it remained out of reach, taunting. He longed to shout, to jump to his feet and shake the doctor - "Explain!" Wish could not be translated to action, however, the drug in his blood a more effective restraint than the physical bonds tying him to the table.
Geeli continued, "We plucked you out of the wreckage. No other bodies, or parts of bodies. You were a mess, son, but your condition brought forth the most stupendous show of surgical prowess I have ever witnessed. You survived over thirty-six hours under anesthesia as the best in this hospital, including myself, worked. You have spent another week in a coma, recuperating. We are not quite sure what you are, son, but we knew we had to keep you alive.
"I really hope you weren't too attached to all that hardware you were wearing, son, because we had to remove much of it. You received mass transfusions of artificial blood. You had brain surgery. Things we did not understand were happening to your body, on top of the physical traumas likely acquired when the ship you were on was reduced to scrap. You have been very, very sick.
"Do you understand? Blink twice if you understand. Do not try to speak."
The explanation felt...distant, as if the person under discussion was not himself, but rather someone else. The doctor was only summarizing recent events, not divulging details, yet the description should have been enough to turn anyone's stomach. Perhaps it was the drugs, perhaps it was lingering effects of head trauma, perhaps it was muzziness caused by coma, whatever the reason, no emotions impinged upon his consciousness.
He also felt empty, as if he were lacking something. He could not remember! It was as if he had been born fully grown in the alleged hospital ship. No memories except fleeting snatches of chaos linked him to a past life beyond bed, room, and waking moment. He could not even recall his name. However, he still retained the impression something vital was missing, something which had defined his life, something which /was/ his life. The beeping heart monitor grabbed his attention; and he stared at it, fascinated, as if it could whisper to him all the memories which were no more. An odd feeling, a certain solidarity, made him find the monitor, all the equipment surrounding his bed, somehow familiar.
"He's high. I think the dose was too much. I'll note delayed reaction to the tranquilizer," said the unseen owner of the baritone voice.
The spider doctor inclined her body in what may have been a species-specific gesture of affirmation. Her attention, however, never wavered from the bed. "Again, do you understand? Blink twice if you understand."
Blink? He mulled the word. Blink.
"Please, son, give us a sign. Blink twice. Try to comply with us. We only want to help."
Comply! A familiar word, although he would not be able to explain how, even if he could speak. It was a strong word, one which demanded response. A vague pressure deep in his skull was a wordless link to his forgotten past, an almost pain, an almost headache, which pounded a visceral promise of what would happen if he resisted. Resistance was futile.
He blinked his eye. Twice.
Doctor Geeli's mouth widened into a grin, displaying the tips of needle-sharp teeth. "Good job, son. The nurse will be giving you a little more of the sedative now. Don't fight it. We'll speak again once your body had healed a bit more."
A brief hiss sounded from his blind side, followed by a fresh inrush of chemicals. Automatically, he tried to turn inward to sample the tranquilizer, to determine its composition. It seemed he should be able to do that. The drug acted too quickly.
He slept.
He woke.
The first thing he noticed was his freedom. His head was able to move back and forth, and he could raise his arms. No restraints. Several minutes of exploring his new found independence, unfortunately, left him tired. A voice, a half-memory deep in his mind told him his weakness was impossible, that muscle fatigue was irrelevant. The voice was ignored in the face of reality.
He rested for several minutes, then inclined his head slightly, attempting to catalogue the extent of his injuries. A light sheet covered his lower body and legs, but did not prevent him from feeling the bandages which wrapped him. His arms were attired with layers of carefully applied gauze, obstructing direct view of wounds; and IV and monitoring lines emerged from under the bandages of both limbs, connecting him to the array of equipment which flanked his bed. His hands remained unbound, showing long digits of an odd gray-pink color, as if skin were caught in the middle of transformation between death and life. Questing fingers touched the bandaged side of his head. He wondered what he looked like. He wondered what his name was.
A door opened, bringing with it the sounds of hospital routine. He cocked his head, self exploration forgotten as he tried to bring his good eye to bear. It was the doctor, or at least he presumed it was. A being of the same species, two-thirds the size of the former, trailed behind. The nurse? The door was closed, muffling the outside once more.
"The monitor says you are awake," said the first ur-spider, voice confirming it was the doctor. "Perhaps you will be a little more calm today. Go ahead and try to talk. You babbled enough before your surgeries and while you were in a coma for the universal translators to do their job."
The smaller ur-spider had disappeared onto his blind side. He wanted to turn and watch what it did, but the doctor's concern was too compelling to resist. "How," he croaked, unused throat and vocal cords struggling to transform thought into sound. "How long?" How long have I been asleep? How long since the accident? How long have I been unable to remember who I was? He could not ask everything; he could not even begin to ask everything. Even in his mentally fuzzy state he knew he needed more data!
Doctor Geeli chose to interpret the question as 'How long have I been asleep?' "You were sedated about 21 hours ago. A remarkable recovery. I did not expect you to wake again for at least two more days. Perhaps it is a trait of your species to recuperate quickly. I do not know. We'll take you out for some tests in a couple of hours, once the machines are free for our use. Many of my colleagues are very interested in you, as well as wanting to inspect their handiwork."
"Who...who am...are..." He tried to complete the sentence, but was unable. Who am I? Who are we? The two question, similar, but divergent, warred for preeminence. I. We. I. We.
"Who are you?" asked the doctor.
He blinked twice, adding a rusty "Yes."
The doctor deeply sighed, an event which required the slumping of a highly complex shoulder girdle. "We were hoping you might be able to shed a little light on the subject. Unfortunately, General Ta'loc's people have been less than forthright in even admitting the wreck you were pulled from is theirs, much less say what they were doing in the sector and with whom they were fighting. Small skirmishes, major wars, violence breaks out all the time in AD systems, both between avowed enemies and supposed allies. And the spatial grid in which you were found is nothing special, and so not observed by even the most paranoid political entity. Arrival-Departure is small compared to the greater galaxy, but /is/ still a considerable volume.
"So, the short answer, we don't know who you are, nor even your species. We don't know where you came from."
He closed his functioning eye and rolled his head in the pillow.
Doctor Geeli correctly interpreted the sign as one of disappointment, frustration. "Don't worry, son, we'll figure it out. Memory loss following the type of trauma you've been through is common. There are likely both physiological and psychological causes for it. In both cases, as you heal, your memory should come back."
He silently considered his options. "Name?" he asked desperately. Without a name, he was nothing, less than nothing. Without a name, he had no purpose, did not exist. After a moment, he added, "Designation?"
The doctor frowned. "The translator must not be tuned properly. I think you asked for a name?"
"Name," he agreed, he pleaded. "Must have designation. Provide designation."
"Well," said Doctor Geeli, "right now you are on hospital charts as 'Joe Doe,' but only as a place-name until you can furnish us with a real one."
"Joe Doe?" he asked, the temporary label voiced. It seemed he had had many names during his existence, and would likely have many more. Any name, any designation, however, grounded him, made him real. "Joe Doe," he repeated firmly. He became Joe Doe.
Asked Doctor Geeli, "Any more questions?"
"What...what does Joe look like?" Joe shied from the first person, although he didn't know why. It seemed important somehow.
The doctor frowned as she heard the question's phrasing, but the expression was of confusion, not anger. Swiftly the emotion was dismissed, worry dismissed as a symptom of the patient's trauma. "Nurse, a mirror, please?"
"Yes, 'm," answered the pleasant baritone.
Joe shifted his head slightly, watching as the nurse spider appeared in his field of vision, only to disappear once more through the room's door. Several minutes later, time passed in silence as the doctor examined machines and Joe stared at the ceiling with mind comfortably empty of thoughts, the ur-spider returned, bearing a hand glass. The mirror was given to the doctor.
"I'll hold it. You look, son. Not much to see yet with all the bandages, but hopefully that will change soon."
Joe looked.
The face which looked back was, as warned, heavily swathed in gauze. However, the profile was unmistakably rodentlike. Joe experimentally clicked his incisors together, then wiggled his nose. The reflection mirrored the movements perfectly, confirming the image was his own. Bandages covered most of his face, especially thick over his left eye. The only exception were a pair of small ears which twitched as he directed his attention to them. Exposed skin, what little there was, was the same color as his hands - leprous pink-gray. Or gray-pink.
"Enough," declared Doctor Geeli, lying the mirror aside on top of a piece of equipment with many steady amber lights, "I don't want you to become overtired. Rest up. Nurse Brach and I will be back when the tests are ready to be performed. Why don't you try to sleep a bit before then?" The question was not request, but rather order.
Joe complied. He closed his eye, turning inward to chase after fleeting memories which remained just beyond reach.
"Well," asked Joe as Doctor Geeli appeared on his sighted side, "are we...I...us alive?" He continued to be troubled with his pluralities, although his speech in general was improving the more he spoke. The doctor seemed to have dismissed the impediment as a transitory affliction, one which would disappear eventually.
Doctor Geeli looked down at her patient, trussed to the wheeled bed in order to facilitate tests which required a minimum of extraneous muscle movement. Unlike his awakening from coma, Joe was perfectly willing to lie restrained for hours, no fidgeting. "To tell the truth, son, you shouldn't be. Yet you are. Are you sure you can't enlighten myself or my colleagues as to the nature of your species, and more importantly, the hardware which we could not remove?"
Joe had been subjected to a long parade of doctors and specialists, each asking unanswerable questions, each poking and prodding and calling for a new test. Neurological specialists, cardiovascular surgeons, dietitians, glandular subspecialists, the list was endless. Equally endless was the range of machines Joe found himself scanned by - enzyme and protein analyzers, quantum resonance imagers, x-ray and sonic digitizers, and so on. Needles had drawn fluids and probed for biopsy material; samples were taken for genetic rendering. Joe found the process neither degrading nor embarrassing, but rather comforting and familiar, as if invasive procedures had been a fundamental part of the everyday world he had forgotten.
"No," he answered the doctor, who had earlier explained she was assigned to be his primary liaison, a position of great honor and one which would further her career. "Bonds?" he added a moment later, flexing his right arm against restraints for emphasis.
Doctor Geeli waved one hand, "They will be removed when you are returned to your room. As far as your results, to be frank, all original indications projected you to die on the operating table, else never wake afterward. Of course, you could not be told our reservations when you awoke, as that could have jeopardized your recovery. Staff psychologists say you are strong enough to be told now. The tests show an amazing recovery, although everyone is at a loss to explain how.
"Unfortunately, we may have to perform additional surgery in the near future, which is why I was asking if you remembered anything about that hardware of yours. There are indications small bits in your body cavity and cranium may have /regrown/, which is impossible. The diagnostic machines will be recalibrated and data reexamined. Your blood and fluid compositions, on the other hand, do not show the extreme metabolic stress seen when you were rescued. Your organic brain structures appear normal, although without another of your species for comparison, the neurologists must extrapolate and plain guess."
"What now?" asked Joe.
The ur-spider shrugged all six of her arms. "We wait. Typical. You are not critically impaired; and compared to your status a relatively short time ago, you are a miracle. Everybody will mull the results for the next several days while debates rage as to how to proceed. Egos will be stepped upon, and careers will stake advancement on you. There will likely be calls for additional tests. Other people will continue to try to determine where you came from, probing General Ta'loc's underlings for weaknesses with bribes.
"For the immediate now, you are finished with tests. Back to your room you go. Nurse?"
Joe gazed at the passing ceiling tiles and strip lights as he was wheeled away.
Joe stared at his arm, fascinated. Nurse Brach had removed the bandages several hours earlier, as well reconfigured the lines linking him to monitors. His sole tether was to a drip IV, cordless devices the size of quarters affixed at temple, juncture of skull and spine, upper arms, and center of chest replacing all other umbilicals. He was now able to sit up in his bed, even walk around the room, although hospital hallways were still forbidden territory.
Carefully Joe made another long incision along his arm with the laser scalpel he had found on a table in his room. Almost instinctively he had known the instrument's function when he had spotted it, and with the same non-thinking knowledge he now carved through his own flesh, avoiding nerves and important vessels with millimeter accuracy. Minute quantities of blood welled up in the scalpel's passage; there was no pain. That same blood swiftly dried, under which, when brushed away, one could watch the cut heal. The process was like a video set to fast forward, yet Joe felt the self-inflicted injuries should be healing faster than their already superpreternatural swiftness.
The door opened. Nurse Brach entered, one hand holding a PADD. He paused, sucking in a breath of dismayed surprise as he saw Joe's self-destructive activities. The nurse cautiously pressed forward, his voice calm, soothing, "What are you doing, Joe?"
"Experimenting," answered Joe. He held up arm and scalpel in display. "Watch?"
"Maybe later. Why don't I hold that scalpel for you? I have the information and entertainment you requested." He waved the PADD invitingly, a second hand reaching forward in friendly imploration. "Shall we trade?"
Joe contemplated. He could always find another scalpel. "Acceptable." The exchange was made.
Smiling weakly, the nurse said, "The dietitian will be by in a little bit. I will be right back, after I talk to Doctor Geeli."
Joe was mildly curious about the nurse's actions: it seemed his scalpel slicing was not viewed as standard patient behavior. The concerns were dismissed as irrelevant. The PADD was much more important.
He had found himself to be increasingly bored, left alone for hours at a time with nothing for company except machines. The quiet hours had made him frustrated with his inability to recall meaningful details of pre-accident existence, the small snatches which were accessible disjointed, unable to be placed in a larger linear sequence. Desire for data, any data, had prompted him to ask the doctor for information concerning the hospital ship, as well as anything else of interest.
Before fulfilling Joe's request, Doctor Geeli had tested his comprehension of written material, as illiteracy would defeat anything more detailed than pictures and schematics. When provided a sample of the AD trade language, an ancient written language which was used for contractual purposes and cross-cultural publications, Doctor Geeli had been moderately surprised to find Joe could easily decipher it. On his side, Joe had been surprised as well, especially when a number - 137 - had whispered forth from his closed mental depths; he had not divulged the presence of the almost-voice to hovering medical personnel.
Scanning the index, Joe was pleased to note information concerning the spiders - Gretchians, they called themselves - had been included along with data on the hospital ship. Several additional titles of an entertainment nature caught his eye, specifically one labeled "Jumba the Wise Lizard and the Case of the Leering Lava Lamp." For unknown reasons, the name Jumba was familiar in an abstract sense, although, as usual, he was unable to draw forth relevant memories.
He had begun reading of the hospital ship, just passed name (Mercy) and introductory description, when the door opened again. As he was sitting on the edge of the bed, sighted side towards the entrance, he only had to slightly shift his eye to recenter his attention. Simultaneously, he passed PADD from right hand to left, then set it down on the mattress beside his leg. He paused, statue still, as he felt the back of his left hand itch, followed by a massive influx of data. His eye widened; his ears raised to a point of extreme alertness. Suddenly he /knew/ what was stored on the PADD, all of it, without the act of reading.
It was a heady feeling.
"Joe? Joe? Snap out of it. Joe?" A pair of fingers snapped in front of his nose.
Joe blinked. How did Doctor Geeli, Nurse Brach, and a third ur-spider, a female, suddenly appear in front of him? Self-consciously, he crossed his arms in front of himself, making sure his left hand was tucked into his armpit, hidden. None of the three seemed to have noticed his transgression.
"Joe?" asked Doctor Geeli again.
"Joe is okay. Fine. Functional," replied Joe as he found his voice.
"Are you sure? Nurse, what do the monitors show?"
Nurse Brach had disappeared out of Joe's field of vision. "No significant changes. Blood protein and sugars spiked for a moment, and breathing rate was depressed. Paradoxically, heart rate sped a tiny bit. Overall, however, no problems. No signs of stroke or other pathological conditions."
Doctor Geeli forced a pleasant expression. Pointedly ignoring the scalpel incident which had prompted Nurse Brach's original hasty retreat, she said, "Joe. Son. Dietitian Mlick believes she has concocted something suitable for your healing physiology. It will be much easier for you if we can wean you off the IV, not to mention better for your body if it can begin digesting nutrients again." The doctor motioned for her colleague to take over, then retreated with the nurse to quietly discuss something out of Joe's range of hearing.
Dietitian Mlick was slightly taller than Doctor Geeli. She (Joe now understood, via the data influx, Gretchian females were the larger of the two sexes and tended to hold the positions of authority, although males had made many strides towards gender equality, at least prior to the hospital ship's arrival to the AD systems. He had to make a conscious effort to block further information, which threatened to drown him.) wore a smock with a different arrangement of pockets than either doctor or nurse. Several of the pouches were full. In other respects, however, she was still a large spider with a pair too many legs.
"Gleetings, Joe. As I'm sule you have been told, youl digestive system is shut down. This is a common leaction of olganisms which undelgo fasting. Unconscious on a dying ship, and latel in a healing coma, it is safe to say you have been fol many, many days without solid nutlients. The IV keeps youl body fed, but is very unsatisfying. Since we don't want to shock youl system, we must stalt with a liquid diet. Aftel studying youl monitel data and blood wolk, my team and I have mixed what should be an acceptable dlink." The dietitian was exceedingly long-winded, and had a slight lisp which altered r's into l's.
Mlick reached into smock pockets, producing a clear plastic glass and a thermos bottle. After unscrewing the lid to the thermos, she poured a milkshake-like substance into the glass, filling it partway. The thick liquid was white in color, with a faint pink tinge. Joe eyed it nervously; he could smell sugars, as well as other, less definable odors. While the IV was certainly a cumbersome method of feeding, not to mention annoying because he was tethered to the drip bag, he felt the glass Dietitian Mlick was offering to be a Bad Idea. The particulars, unfortunately, were not forthcoming.
Unlimbering his right hand, he tentatively reached for the glass. A trapped air bubble rose to the surface with a wet "gloop." The dietitian beamed encouragement, her mouth lifting into a needle-tooth smile.
"That's light. Take a sip or two and let it settle. Then anothel sip. Befole you know it, it will be all gone. I bet we'll have you eating gelatin in less than a week."
Joe peered at the glass with his one eye, then, holding his breath, tentatively swallowed a mouthful. The overly sweet substance rolled across his palette, almost causing him to gag. Under the powerful sugars were more subtle tastes, some with a metallic twang, likely related to the complex nature of the mixed liquid. Obedient to the dietitian's demand-request, he took a second sip, then waited.
Joe sat quietly for several minutes, feeling the liquid squat like a lead weight in his mid-section. This was not right. Abruptly he began to experience a series of dry heaves, cumulating in the egestion of the ingested milkshake into a bedpan hastily positioned by the dietitian. Joe blinked, relieved to have the thick liquid out of his system - the IV was much better, definitely less messy.
"No more," he said, holding the glass for Mlick to take.
The dietitian responded, "Tly again, Joe. Don't be discoulaged."
"No."
"Yes. It isn't a leflection of failule. You just have to kick-stalt youl digestive tlact."
"No." Joe emphatically urged Mlick to retrieve her sickly sweet liquid.
"Yes," she said firmly. "Dlink."
Joe winced at the command tone. His ears laid flat against his bandaged skull. He could not explain that throwing up would be his response to any food he swallowed, could not explain to himself how he knew much less to the dietitian and other hospital doctors. Sighing, he sipped as little liquid as possible. The glare from Mlick, however, nonverbally said the attempt was not sufficient. Joe took a larger gulp.
And deposited it in the pan moments later.
"No more?" tried Joe again.
The dietitian took the glass, staring at the contents with puzzlement. "Mm. I don't undelstand. It is basically the same composition as the IV fluid, if a bit less concentlated. Maybe the thickening agent is causing undue stomach lining inflimating. The tissue samples did not indicate any potential leaction." She picked up the bedpan. "I'll have my team analyze this stuff to see if any conclusions can be detailed from it. Pelhaps youl stomach is just leally stlessed flom no food. I'll be back latel with some sugal watel or electlolyte solution fol you to tly."
Joe shrunk in upon himself, eye cast down to stare at the floor. Electrolytes and sugar water would have the same effect as the milkshake concoction, he knew it.
Misinterpreting slumped shoulders and general posture of dejection, Dietitian Mlick put reassurance in her voice. "It is /not/ youl fault. Buck up, Joe. You'll be eating plime molpol steaks before too long." She nodded firmly, then sailed out of the room.
Doctor Geeli and Nurse Brach returned. "Why don't you rest for a bit, son. Read the information Nurse Brach brought for you," cheerfully said the doctor. While obviously concerned about the scalpel episode, she seemed determined to make no allusion to it. Likely the unheard conversation which had taken place as Dietitian Mlick forced Joe to drink the liquid had formulated an action plan. "You have some more tests in a couple of hours, and I'd like to see if we can all walk there, instead of using the bed. Won't that be a treat, son? Good exercise, and I believe you are ready for it."
Joe responded, "Yes," because it was expected, not because he felt the need to agree with the doctor's announcement. The two did not leave the room until they saw him sitting up in his bed, concentrating on the PADD.
Joe's eyes were closed, feigning sleep, although he was not tired. He had discovered he could fool the monitors, trick them to report a status different from reality. The problem was to remember to return the feeds to matching his physical condition when he was personally observed. Right now, as far as the machines were concerned, he was lightly napping. In actuality, he was reviewing the data he had absorbed from the PADD.
The hospital ship he was on, Mercy, was one of three vessels originally dispatched by a consortium of powerful Gretchian benefactors to impartially minister to the civilian casualties of two neighboring species at war with each other. Refugees, non-combatant shields, scorched earth policy, the war was a horrific affair with original reasons, original blame, long submerged by vicious propaganda. In reality, there was no "good and just" versus "bad and evil," but rather two shades of gray diametrically opposed in their personal insanities. Atrocities were commonplace, both deliberate and accidental. As usual, it was the civilians, not the soldiers, who bore the brunt of casualties, mortal and otherwise; and, as usual, while the military could take care of its own, said civilians were left to weep over needlessly lost lives, destroyed homes, and shattered livelihoods.
As an avowed neutral third party, the Gretchians had watched from afar, doing little directly other than make sure the two contenders did not seek to advance into ur-spider territory. Oh, there were those opportunistic parasites which fed on the misery of both sides by selling weapons and medicines alike at exuberant prices, but neither combatant was shown favoritism. After all, there weren't Gretchians, they weren't self.
The Mercy and her two sisters, Hospice and Heart, had originated as a salve to those Gretchian guilty consciousness' who felt something should be done, but were unwilling to open borders to an influx of aliens, to an influx of the instability plaguing the two sides. Therefore, the logical answer was to send the hospital to the crippled, the poor, the homeless, both species alike, neither given privilege above the other. That had been ten years and one artificial spatial anomaly ago.
The fruit of war had produced a weapon able to rip space and time. Which side had test-fired the weapon upon the friendly hospital ships as they entered the warzone was not important, nor that in doing so the machine had sentenced itself and three star systems to oblivion. The outcome had abandoned Gretchian doctors, crew, and support personnel in the AD systems, huge hospital ships a quarter the volume of an Exploratory-class cube (Joe was unsure where the comparison originated, nor what it stood for) stranded. Alone.
A different location, a new mission. After discovering escape from AD was impossible, the Gretchians had proceeded to carve a niche for themselves. A home port was established at rented facilities, a place for those so inclined to settle down, mingle with local aliens, and raise families. The ships, in the meanwhile, puttered around AD systems, offering medical services at moderate cost, and in turn paying the back rent and acquiring credit for vessel upkeep. The occasional charity case such as Joe served to inject excitement into a life of routine. After ten years, the Gretchians counted among their assets their small settlement and two ships, Heart sold in the lean years a long time ago to secure lease deposit.
The door opened. Joe manipulated the monitors to show him waking, although he had never been asleep to begin with. Heartbeat tempo increased. He opened his eye.
Doctor Geeli clucked, "You awake, son? Good. Let's see if we can get you to stand. If tests are positive, the remaining bandages will be removed later."
Joe allowed himself to be helped to a sitting position on the edge of his bed, then standing on the warm floor. Nurse Brach hovered just beyond the doorway in the hall, ready to lend her many arms, if the situation warranted. Joe wondered if the opportunity to acquire another scalpel would present itself.
"Hold on to your IV tree," prompted the doctor. Joe placed one hand on the wheeled contraption to which his IV hung. "Good. Let us go for a walk. The destination is not far. Are you doing okay? If this is too hard, the nurse will fetch a chair for you, or we can use the bed."
"Joe is functional," distractedly answered Joe. He missed the look of concern from Nurse Brach over the now codified use of the third person in conversations relating to self, as well as the mouthed reply of 'Brain damage?' from the doctor. Joe was too busy placing one foot in front of the other, focusing on the feeling that his legs were weaker than they should be, his balance less acute. He felt/heard something 'pop' in his inner ear; balance steadied.
Joe knew from the PADD that the section of the hospital ship where he was located was designated for critical care patients expected to recover eventually. Those with terminal illnesses or injuries were segregated elsewhere. Antiseptic odors permeated the air, unable to hide the sour smell of sickness emanated from half a dozen different species currently under observation. Overworked air filters could not fully scrub the atmosphere.
Joe shuffled slowly down the corridor, flanked by nurse and doctor. He grasped the IV tree firmly, relying upon it as a balance guide. The green and cream motif of his private room was repeated in the hallways, an added border strip of clashing goldenrod separating the two colors, attesting to an unknowable Gretchian aesthetic sense.
At one of the numerous intersecting corridors, Doctor Geeli veered right, leading Joe to a moderate size room perhaps ten times the floor area of his hospital quarters. One wall was dominated by a massive screen displaying the restful scene of a calm seascape under glittering, icy stars. Comfy chairs and private monitors were spread in a not-quiet-random manner, all currently devoid of occupants. The room's sole patient, recognizable as such due to heavy bandages and doctor-nurse ur-spider escort, was engaged in a different pursuit than watching pretty scenery or reading a novel.
The humanoid ('Hunan, base form,' whispered one of the many voices which were becoming increasingly insistent) sat on the ground, cross-legged. Bandages with a slightly greasy appearance wrapped those areas of exposed skin not hidden by a pale blue hospital gown; the head was free of gauze, but the skull showed the blond peachfuzz of hair vigorously regrowing after a recent shave. The patient's face was twisted into a grin of pure pleasure, quiet murmurs directed at the small canine which allowed itself to be caressed.
"I thought you might like to see one of the rec wards," said Doctor Geeli, "as it is on our way to the testing rooms. If everything shows improvement, son, the nurse will allow supervised expeditions to here. You'll be able to get out of your room, even visit some of the other local patients. Josh, here, was a victim of a plasma explosion on a merchant ship. He had to undergo special dermal regeneration procedures, but the skin under those bandages is regrowing nicely, I am told."
Joe ignored the doctor, perhaps noting in the far reaches of his mind that patient confidentiality seemed not to be a priority among the Gretchian staff. Instead, his eye riveted upon the animal displaying an expression of doggy tolerance on its furry face. Excitedly, he turned to Doctor Geeli, raising his hand to point, "Shosho! Alpha variation! Cute!!"
Doctor Geeli was visibly startled by Joe's exclamation. Joe himself wasn't quite sure why he was suddenly so happy, but he was. The object of his adoration glanced over. Tail contentedly thumped.
"That's right, son. It is a shosho, one of several which live on board. Pet therapy can often advance psychological healing when a deadend has otherwise been reached. That fella over there with Josh is named Makoi."
Makoi blinked as his name was uttered, ears perking. He stood up and ambled towards Doctor Geeli, Nurse Brach, and Joe, purring. As the shosho walked, Joe noticed a slight limp originating with the left rear leg. He frowned, carefully kneeling, hand outstretched for questing nose to sniff.
"Come along, Josh. You do not want to overexert yourself; and it is time for your bandage change and dermal regeneration session," quietly murmured the burn patient's attendant doctor.
"I would rather stay in the rec ward with Makoi," sullenly replied the Hunam.
The doctor was persistent, "Later, Josh." The nurse took a firm grasp of elbow with two of his hands, guiding Josh out of the room's far entrance.
"Poor puppy," whispered Joe. Makoi whined, more in response to tone than any residual pain. Joe focused his good eye on Doctor Geeli. "Why lame?"
Doctor Geeli gave a shrug of her uppermost set of arms. "An accident several weeks ago. A patient who was holding him seized. The shosho was dropped and furniture tipped onto him. X-rays showed cracked ankle bones, and tissue scanner indicated badly strained ligaments. The damage has healed as well as it will. Makoi will limp the rest of his life, but it isn't bad."
"Poor puppy," reiterated Joe. He began to carefully feel the structures underlying the injured limb, other hand petting Makoi's head while he whispered nonsense words to keep the animal calm. After whining confusion, the shosho licked Joe's hand, submitting to the examination.
Joe stood. "Poor puppy. Unhappy Makoi. The tendon is slightly dislocated. This Joe has replaced it. If you rub a light warming ligament oil on the afflicted area every four hours for the next three days, limping will be reduced to insignificance." Makoi cocked his head as he looked up at Joe. Tail thumped against the floor.
Certain doors swung open in Joe's mind. The diagnosis felt right. Very right. Yet, something remained missing.
Nurse Brach took a small object from her smock. After murmuring into the pen-sized instrument, she moved back to the door the three had entered. Another male Gretchian arrived. A short whispered conversation, and the new male hurried into the rec ward, snapped a leash to Makoi's collar, and led the shosho away.
Meanwhile, Joe was attempting to explain his actions to Doctor Geeli.
"How did you do that? Do you remember something?"
Joe cocked his head, contemplating his answer. He could almost hear someone talking to him, someone inside, /someones/ inside. But not quite. "Veterinarian. I was a veterinarian. Joe is not a veterinarian anymore, but I was once," he said slowly, picking his words with care.
Doctor Geeli was visibly startled by the use of the singular, then doubly confused as first and third were mixed in the same sentence. "A vet, son? Good. It is all coming back, then. Do you remember the ship where you were found?"
Joe looked blankly at the doctor, repeating, "I was a veterinarian. Joe is not a veterinarian anymore, but I was once." The meaning was perfectly obvious, to Joe, and he was unsure why Doctor Geeli did not grasp the crux of what he was saying. She was intelligent, and with her species' observed natural dexterity, she would make an excellent.... Joe paused his train of thought. What would she make? The sentence ending would not consolidate.
Doctor Geeli stretched her face into a controlled, pleasant smile. "I think I'll look into having you talk to Psychiatrist Bol, son. You are physically healed enough; and she would love to poke your mind a bit. Let's go on to the testing facilities."
"Joe see Makoi shosho again?"
"We'll try. I can't make any promises, but the chances are very good."
"Joe was Doctor," said Joe absently as he examined his face in the mirror. Most of the bandages were removed, except for a patch over his left eye. According to Doctor Geeli, the socket had been filled with miniature imaging equipment, devices which had to be removed during surgery. A Gretchian optologist wanted to test the optic nerve to determine if it was sufficiently undamaged to accept a new prosthetic, but such work would have to wait until next week. At the moment, Joe was blind in his left eye, the bandage remaining more for cosmetic purposes than to prevent infection. He touched a metal rosette high on his skull at the base of an ear, angling the mirror for a better view.
Doctor Geeli paused writing observations into her PADD. "You were a doctor? An animal doctor?" she prompted.
"Yes. Veterinarian. Joe was also Doctor." Joe had a stolen scalpel secreted under a swath of bandages which still wrapped his upper thighs. Unfortunately, he had not been afforded the chance to remove it from its temporary hiding spot and place somewhere inconspicuous in the room. He set down the mirror, vaguely dissatisfied. He felt he was only a part of the Joe he should be; and the bandage removal only emphasized the fact the face which looked back at him should have an entirely different appearance.
"At the moment, son, you are just Joe," the doctor replied.
Joe contemplated Doctor Geeli's words. "Yes. And Joe is also Doctor." He paused. "Where are the...the...the, um, things," Joe hunted unsuccessfully for the appropriate word, "which were taken from me? Joe would like to see them."
Doctor Geeli hummed concern, "I don't know if that would be a good idea, Joe. You are looking a little gray to me, more so than your usual complexion. We don't wish a relapse."
"My...things," urged Joe, the edge of a pleading whine in his voice. "Belong...to me. Joe will see them. Now." He altered his tone to one of uncompromising demand.
The doctor frowned, an expression mirrored by the nurse on Joe's blind side. Slowly her face changed to one of calculation. One could almost see gears turning in the ur-spider's mind. "Calm down. I'll see what I can do, but there are no promises. Relax, read your PADD. Nurse Brach and I will be back in a couple of minutes."
Joe's eye tracked the pair as they exited his room.
A 'couple of minutes' stretched in half an hour, and then an hour. An imaginative patient might accurately predict the administrative flurry the request had spawned, resulting in emergency dialogue between bureaucracy levels and among specialists, primarily psychologists and other mental health professions. Joe did not have much imagination, and instead occupied himself with trying to find a suitable hiding spot to cache his stolen scalpel. Failing to find a satisfactory place, he resecured it to his leg.
Following the realization his care team would not be returning immediately despite words otherwise, Joe picked a place on the wall and stared at it. Positioning himself next to his IV tree, he focused inward, digging, rooting, trying to make sense of himself. "Joe" no longer felt to be a correct designation, but he was at a loss as to what replacement name to use.
"Joe, wake up," ordered Doctor Geeli's voice. Fingers snapped next to his ears, a stereo effect.
Commented Nurse Brach's baritone, "I have never seen anyone sleep standing upright, nor with eyes open. However, he brainwave monitor is definitely displaying sleep rhythms."
"Wake up, Joe," said the doctor again.
Joe blinked his eye, focusing on Doctor Geeli's face. It had been fifty-seven minutes and thirty-six seconds since he had restraped the scalpel to his thigh. He accepted the precise chronology without surprise, for several items had become clear to him in the last hour, although not all. Key pieces were still missing. He /required/ to see those bits which had been surgically removed.
"We have permission?" he asked. A negative decision would not be a deterrence. If he concentrated hard enough, he thought he could feel the direction leading towards the absent bits of himself, minute resonance patterns producing a tingle deep in his brain. Comparing the prickle with ship schematics narrowed the search area.
Doctor Geeli nodded, "Yes we do. First, what were you doing?"
Joe absently scratched a non-itch on his jaw as he thought. "Re-gen-er-ating? No, cannot regen-er-ate. Must survive with IV. Thinking. Napping? Waiting."
"Does your kind usually 'nap' standing? Your physiology doesn't display the traditional indicators of a species who rests upright."
"Yes." Joe was sure of the answer. Under his scratching finger, something warm and metallic blossomed, accompanied by a thin trickle of wet blood. It did not hurt; doctor and nurse did not notice. Joe removed his hand, lest unwanted attention be directed at his face. He wanted a mirror. "We go."
Nurse Brach gestured for Joe to take hold of his IV tree, then positioned herself to follow. Doctor Geeli gently placed a steadying hand or two on Joe's free elbow, adroitly steering him through corridors laced with hospital staff, equipment, and the occasional patient also out on an approved jaunt. Here and there a shosho or other small and furry AD system household pet was observed, and Joe ached to stop the procession to pat each animal's head, to tell it how good and nice and cuddly and cute it was. Each pet required a major effort of will to resist, to focus on the goal.
The middle border wall stripe turned from goldenrod to bright red to ochre, reflecting the wards transversed. Finally it changed to a bright sea green amazingly complimentary to both ubiquitous paints of cream and institutional green. The new color designated engineering, maintenance, and ship storage, areas out-of-bounds for patients. It was from here the ship was run; and it was here that facilities existed to examine hardware with the same precision hospital devices peered into the inner workings of the biological organism.
As the services area was entered, Joe's group grew by one when they were joined by a female Gretchian. She was obviously expected by nurse and doctor. Introducing herself as Chief Technician Aque, she wore a complex double bandoleer with a variety of attached compartments and tools, instead of a pocketed smock or tabbard. The amount of bare fur left uncovered confirmed the lack of a species nudity taboo, although any outward differences between the sexes other than body size was not immediately apparent to the casual onlooker, and likely only noticeable by the opposite Gretchian gender. In addition to the tools which marked Aque as an engineer, she wore a belt in the hollow between her hips, a belt which sported a pair of serviceable phasers and a jagged knife, the first weapons Joe had seen openly displayed.
"Come," said Aque, light alto voice deeply underscored by gruff tone and sharp mannerisms, "I will lead you to the primary materials laboratory."
Joe automatically pictured ship schematics in his mind, pinpointing the mentioned room, then plotting several paths to reach it. While his internal anticipation level rose, outside he remained appropriately calm.
"Patients should not be in the working ship sections," remarked Aque to the two Gretchians, pointedly ignoring Joe as if he were not there.
Doctor Geeli rose to the verbal challenge, waving one hand to dismiss the implied insult, "Chief Psychologist Frey cleared this trip herself, and she /is/ the hospital superior. We, all of us, not just the hospital, need to know more about the patient and his background. I've been hearing some interesting rumors about the technologies the ship labs are extracting."
"/Psychologist/ Frey is only nominally equal in status to our captain, and not at all in cases of potential degradation of ship integrity. Need I remind you that Mercy and Hospice are not only the homes for 85% of our species in this bedamned devil system, but our livelihood as well? I do not agree with the Chief Psychologist's pronouncement, which is why /I'm/ here myself to act as tour guide, instead of performing important tasks. And as far as the supposedly exciting technologies, the implications, frankly, give me the shivers, make my hair stand on end."
In the midst of the civil argument, Nurse Brach quietly whispered to Joe, "There are differences of opinion between ship-bond crew and hospital personnel. The crew is bound to the ship, and unless extraordinary circumstances force action to the contrary, will live and work on the same vessel for their entire lives, only leaving to give birth and foster the resulting child, or due to advanced age which forces retirement. They have a big stake in Mercy's well-being. The hospital staff, on the other hand, are duty-bound, not place-bound, and so are much less attached to their place of residence. It is an old friction, place-bound versus duty-bound, dating back to well before we left our homeworld, and not caused because of your presence. You just afford a convenient focus."
Joe was uninterested in racial socio-history: he desired to reach the materials laboratory. Unfortunately, he was the one slowing the group, speed limited by his careful shuffle and clumsy IV tree. The delay allowed plenty of time for Doctor and Chief Technician to toss thinly disguised barbs at each other.
"And what is with the weapons?" asked Doctor Geeli as she gestured at Aque's belt. "Do you think the patient will suddenly attack you? Perhaps damage Mercy by pouring IV fluids over a console?"
Growled Aque, "Precautionary measure. There are speculations about your patient's origins, ones which hospital staff refuse to hear. Hells, as far as I know, you are aware of the rumors, but choose to ignore the potential danger because you think to rehabilitate the patient."
"Watch your innuendous accusations, Chief Technician, else the Chief Psychologist may recommend to the captain that your obvious paranoid tendencies are a threat to crew, hospital personnel, patients, and ship. No conclusions have been made as to the status of the patient, which is the whole point of this trek."
Aque paused, lowermost pair of hands inching towards phasers, middle set balling into fists. With a deep breath, she forced herself to relax. Eyes narrowed. "I will ignore that threat, Doctor. I will also keep my eyes on your patient. I suggest you do likewise."
The remainder of the walk to the materials laboratory passed in stony silence. The Gretchians which populated the sea-green striped hallways - no other species were in evidence - studiously ignored Joe and his medical entourage, although Chief Technician Aque was given quiet greetings and nods of respect. Most of the crew members were dressed alike to Aque with double bandoleer, but no weapons were worn. Joe noticed several exceptions loitering here and there, or unobtrusively following, all sporting weapons considerably more deadly than the few encircling Aque's waist. Doctor and nurse made no comment, either ignoring the covert presence or not seeing it; either way, it was not important, and Joe did not call attention to the guards.
The materials laboratory, when it was reached, proved to be a large room with open volume inclusive two decks. The high ceiling was not only necessary to combat the claustrophobia which would be incurred if the space of only one deck was used, but to house large diagnostic machines and fusion kilns. Bench tables ran against all walls, serving to partition the floor into distinct areas. Monitors and PADDs were everywhere, each showing a different display or the output from a current test. Robots, little more than floating platforms with three pairs of articulated limbs, waited patiently to transport materials under investigation from one isolation box to another.
One bench-delineated section was completely surrounded by forcefields. The faintly humming barriers were tinged light blue to warn people from accidental contact. Despite the few Gretchian technicians whom were present in the lab, none were within the warded area. Instead, all physical work was being conducted by a pair of six-armed robots, data remotely viewed at other workstations.
Aque waved two of her right arms towards the secured area. "There are the /things/ you doctors so blithely sent to crew for analysis. After several near accidents, we erected level 1 precautions."
Joe's attention was riveted upon the scattered bits of armor; oddly shaped devices, many no larger than a thumb and most quite a bit smaller; and other miniature machines known, yet unknown. Innocuous lights blinked here and there. One particular piece of hardware, somewhat shaped like an anemic walnut with four pairs of twiggy legs, especially captured his fascination. He shuffled towards the forcefield, wheeling his IV tree, ignoring the rising argument behind him. Nurse Brach had joined his support to Doctor Geeli; and the laboratory technicians approached to uphold Aque. The makings of a brawl were in the air.
Doctor Geeli snorted, "Level 1? Extreme biohazard? I was among those who first removed the objects, by hand, mind you. Was I affected? No. You act as if the things will leap up and bite you."
"Have you high and mighty doctors even read any of the technical reports?"
"I could ask if you ship-centered, place-bound idiots have read any of the medical correspondence! As you can see, Joe is not a threat to anyone, much less the ship. He can't even go anywhere without his IV tree! Joe? Joe?" Doctor Geeli's angry tone turned to puzzlement as she found herself gesturing at nothing.
Joe stood close enough to the forcefield to feel static prickles dancing on his skin, hear crackles pop in his ears. He turned his head sideways to better focus his sighted side on the ward, narrowing his eye. If he concentrated, he could see/hear/feel the frequency modulations of the forcefield. He laid back his ears as he heard his adopted designation uttered by Doctor Geeli.
"We are no longer Joe," he announced, plucking the IV out of his arm and stepping into the forcefield.
Through the forcefield.
"We are...Doctor? Yes, Doctor," he said.
Technician Aque gave an expansive wave of one arm. "See? I told you so," she said darkly. Dismissing the outraged expression on the face of Doctor Geeli, the ur-spider smoothly took control of the situation, barking, "Someone! Get those bedamned robots in there doing something more constructive than material analyses! The alien only has two arms; the robots have twelve between the pair of them. Secure him!" Lesser technicians present scrambled to obey. "And initiate a security alert!"
An alarm klaxon began to solemnly pulse danger. A bodiless voice, computer-generated Gretchian female, announced, "Warning! Security report to primary materials laboratories! Intruder!"
Doctor ignored the commotion, ignored the scrambling activities akin to a disrupted anthill.
Scalpel was plucked from thigh. Doctor stared at it, bemused, for what seemed hours, but in reality was mere milliseconds. Wordless suggestions, orders, commands tumbled through his mind, none of which lent to verbal expression. The only solution was to /do/. Without further hesitation, he reached for the leggy walnut, the object of his fascination.
And came up short as six metal limbs locked around his body, pinning his arms to his side. He struggled, shoulders rocking, to no avail. A wordless squall of frustration - he was so close! - rose in his throat; it was stifled, the voices, the feelings, informing him that cries were inappropriate, improper.
The robot swiveled, facing Doctor towards the Gretchian mob. The forcefield, still active, lent a blue aura to all the ur-spider forms beyond the barrier. In addition to Doctor Geeli, Nurse Brach, Technician Aque, and others who had been working in the laboratory, several other females were present, all sporting a pair of VBPRs - Very Big Phaser Rifles. A single VBPR alone would have been suitable for a safari hunting carnivores of the variety to reduce a targ to the comparative status of a newborn pup. The armament arrayed was sufficient to begin and end a minor war.
"Joe," implored Doctor Geeli, before Technician Aque could speak, "what are you doing? Son, once you explain how your actions are a gross misunderstanding, we can return to your room. I bet we can even temporarily assign a shosho to you as a personal pet companion."
A shosho! In response, Doctor's face tried to spread into a happy grin as he attempted utter words of justification, but something cracked through his skull like a metaphysical slap. His ears wilted with the punishing not-pain, his eye closed, his breath stilled. Carefully he resumed respiration and opened his eye. "We...we are not Joe. We are Doctor," he responded. "We must return. Shosho are ir-ir-irrelevant." The final sentence was choked, forced.
"Return where?" asked Doctor Geeli, attempting to keep the conversation rolling.
Doctor was not listening. He required the walnut, the "neural transceiver" as the inner voice insistantly labeled the device. The robot, however, was an obstacle, one which needed to be removed. Although one whisper insisted his specialty, his baliwick, did not include complex, autonomous machines, another voice murmured he had no choice. He twisted his left hand, the one not holding scalpel, slightly, aligning it with the robot's trunk, then concentrated.
As with the PADD, an influx of data rolled into Doctor's mind, but unlike the previous time, the tempest was controlled. Recent data gathered, emergency protocols, independent actions, he swiftly sorted the streams, finally finding those instructions which controlled the robot. With a vicious twist of his mind, he shorted the remote transceiver, isolating the machine from the main computer and its Gretchian owners, then implanted new instructions. The robot's arms abruptly released Doctor, who in turn pulled away, severing his link to it. The machine swiveled, turning to attack its twin, limbs outstretched to grapple.
The two combatants clashed into what swiftly became a one-sided battle. The defending robot did not retain programmed responses to counter the impossible situation of a brother machine's insanity, and so could respond only by retreat. Retreat, however, was limited given the relatively small area partitioned by the forcefield, and into this forcefield the defender careened, amid excited Gretchian shouts. A storm of multicolored sparks bloomed as electrical charge coursed through the defender's metal body. Finally the defeated robot fell to the floor, anti-gravity field disrupted. The winner adopted a menacing protective stance, inanimate threat daring the forcefield to be dropped, daring the ur-spiders to intrude upon its territory.
The challenge was accepted.
Doctor had dismissed the robotic battle as irrelevant, two six-armed titans locked into a struggle predestined to end in deactivation for the loser. Instead he palmed the neural transceiver, closing his hand around the walnut-sized object. He held it in front of his eye, examining it minutely. He wasn't sure what he was looking for, but was confident if an abnormality existed, he would see it. He was disrupted in his scrutiny only by the bright splash of sparks as defender died. Satisfied the transceiver appeared outwardly functional, Doctor thumbed the laser scalpel on, then placed it against the right side of his head and began to confidently slice. The tool hummed loudly.
He abruptly stopped as a phaser salvo sizzled past his ears. He had been lost so deep in concentration, he had neglected to notice the disengagement of the forcefield, the scream of stressed metal as phasers impacted his robot's hide. Doctor spun, bringing his good eye to bear, examining the possibilities which included his own death. This interruption was not convenient! He ignored the thin trickle of blood running along his chin, ignored the red drops which spotted the ground at his feet. The gash did not heal, at least not immediately, instructions to the contrary inhibiting what otherwise might be irritating, a surgical incision repairing itself as soon as made.
"Stop! Let us be! We are busy!" declared Doctor. "We must return! You are being baaaaaaaad bugs!" His words were disregarded, another near-miss his answer. Distracted Gretchians were engrossed in the attempt to stop the robotic juggernought which refused to die, sparing him only perhipherial attention.
Doctor cocked his head, ears flat to his skull, as he mentally examined ship schematics. There. A refuge. A bank of escape pods. An idea consolidated to alter Mercy's computer, to blind it to the presence of a fleeing pod. What it could not see, did not acknowledge, could not be targeted by either the meteor-sweep weapons or the tractors. Doctor grimiced in consternation, feeling as if there should be more input to his hasty plan, as if one mind alone was not enough. Dismissing his worries, he first had to leave the laboratory, preferably in one functional piece. The only feasible exit was through the subcorridors, the Gretchian equivalent of Jeffries tubes, a hatch to which was on the far side of the room.
Doctor glanced longingly at all his detached parts scattered on work benches or swept to the floor. Instinctively he knew everything was useless if unattached, not that any of the pieces were of an obviously offensive caliber. Weapons were lacking among those components associated with his specialty, whatever that specialty was. Practical knowledge was quickly returning, but many gaps in his memory remained.
With the robot teetering on the edge of functionality, yet still formidable, Doctor Geeli and her ever-present shadow Nurse Brach had skirted the skirmish, approaching Doctor's position. Doctor noticed the movement, turning to face it. He clutched the scalpel with overt threat: he would not be denied his chance to return to wherever he had to return to.
"Put the scalpel down," soothed Doctor Geeli as she approached. Nurse Brach was separated from the doctor by several steps, arms held wide in a wrestler's grapple. "We can help you. Where do you want to go?"
"I must return to us. This...drone...this drone must return!" Doctor tried to keep both Gretchians in his field of vision, but failed, a single eye insufficient. "Don't approach us!"
He was bowled over as Nurse Brach attacked. While the male was only slightly shorter than Doctor himself, he had many more arms. The contest should have gone to the Gretchian. Unthinking, however, Doctor dropped the scalpel, slamming his now free hand into the ur-spider's neck. Seconds later, Nurse Brach stiffened, falling off Doctor, who quickly regained his feet and retrieved the medical tool.
"Leave us alone!" warned Doctor.
Doctor Geeli's eyes were wide, "What did you do? What are you?" Nurse Brach curled on the floor, still very much alive, but eyes glazed as mind was stilled, resistance pacified, by influx of microscopic marauders.
Answered Doctor, "We are designated Doctor. We are Borg? Yes, we are Borg. We like very cute, cute pets. You are not cute. Leave us alone."
Doctor Geeli stared, stunned, as Doctor brazingly marched towards the subcorridor hatch. The Gretchian doctor's mind was whirling with the implications of "Borg," a name occasionally bandied in the conference rooms during discussion of Joe's status. However, the Gretchians as a race had never encountered Borg, had never heard of Borg until the large cube had been captured by the Arrival-Departure system; and even then had dismissed gathered information as exaggeration and outright impossibility. Creatures described as cybernetic organisms linked in a collective mind bent on assimilating all sentients, technology, cultures into a state of perfection was inconceivable. The data were obvious scare tactics from the usual paranoid sources; and Joe subsequently explained as a poor soul from a culture with extreme dependence upon machines, a technological road taken to expand the usefulness of crewmen grievously damaged in encounters with the likes of General Ta'loc and other unsavory entities.
Doctor achieved his goal as his robot fell, victim of several too many phaser scores. It crashed to the deck, acrid smoke coloring the air with a thick haze; the local air filtration system roared into overtime. Doctor closed the opening behind himself just in time, fierce force of phasers melting the hatch into an inoperable mess. No Gretchian would be pursuing immediately from that direction.
Doctor stood, peering blindly around. It was dark, very dark, but there was plenty of room, assuming he did not wish to turn around. Progression was limited to sideways scuttling, like a crab. Obviously the large female Gretchians were not the primary service technicians of the interhull corridors. Unfortunately, Doctor could not see, that portion of himself which would have made vision without ambient light possible sitting on a laboratory workbench, partially disassembled; and even if it had been in hand, whole, it would have been useless unattached to eye socket. He momentarily considered resuming the operation begun in the lab, but dismissed the notion as a commotion began somewhere to his left.
Flashlights, located down the corridor and beyond at least one bend, lent a distant glow, allowing Doctor to at least see the outline of a hand placed in front of his nose. The lights were accompanied by echoing shouts of "Shall I let loose the vent cleaners?", a prospect which did not sound like a Good Thing. Simultaneously, the metal at his back began to heat as plasma welders attacked the slagged hatch. Making a rapid decision, Doctor mapped a route to the nearest escape pod and began to crab in that direction.
Pursuit was a chaotic game of cat and mouse, Doctor continually mapping and remapping his options as the situation changed. The vent cleaners were small robots, again six-armed, which rapidly zipped through the corridors, navigating with sound and radar, not light; and they were utterly silent. Often Doctor did not realize one was present until he accidentally bumped it or one grappled a leg. Although in and of itself a vent cleaner was harmless, its most offensive tools a vacuum and a small laser, they were operated as bloodhounds, sent to find him. One good smack was sufficient to disrupt anti-gravity units, sending the machine to the floor, but another was always somewhere, lurking, stalking.
Doctor finally exited the vents and entered an exterior hallway just under the hull. A battery of escape pods waited. He glanced over his shoulder as a pair of ur-spiders slid around the corner, both hulking females raising their portable phaser cannons in preparation to fire. Without hesitation, he slapped an amber plate marked "Emergency Use Only," climbing into the breach as it irised open. Ears twitched from the static caused by the near passage of lethal energies. He managed to close and lock the hatch before the Gretchian squad could fire again.
Pausing to catch his breath, he took stock of his situation. Not Very Good was the verdict. He had to leave, and he had to leave now without being either tractored or blown up. He sheathed his scalpel into a thigh as he looked around, finally pressing his free hand against the pod's abbreviated console. With fascination he watched the tubules emerge from the back of his hand, the first time he had actively observed the action, yet at the same time utterly familiar.
The sensation was quickly overwhelmed by the river of data which smashed into him like an undammed river. With increasing confidence, he deftly isolated the sensor stream, selectively blinding Mercy to the pod, then convincing the ship that the bay was full, even as the Gretchian crew would undoubtedly scream otherwise. Nothing, of course, was a perfect given, especially on such short notice, but hopefully the only way the ur-spiders would be able to aim weapons or tractors would be by physically looking out a window; and a lone pod against the starry background would be impossible to discern without technological assistance.
He disengaged himself from the computer with a final instruction to the pod to activate. Immense thrust, not fully compensated by the small craft's inertial dampers, pushed Doctor to the rear bulkhead, pinning him. He endured without complaint, waiting for a final moment of fiery immolation to end his existence, or the tug of a tractor retrieving the prize. Neither outcome occurred. Engines cut.
Doctor plucked scalpel from his thigh, maneuvering the tool to position it once more against the side of his head. In the bowels of Mercy, the wound had healed, but flesh once more gave way to self-inflicted laser wounds. Skin, bone, graymatter parted under his blind surgery, the slit growing increasingly deep as a particular area of the brain was excavated. With a sense of increasing urgency, he stopped, then proceeded to slide the neural transceiver into the hole, tamping it with scalpel handle. Finally it was in position. Doctor waited.
The wait was not long.
Click. Clack. Fizzzzzzzz. Static. Click. Click.
{Testing. Testing. Testing.}
And his universe expanded to near infinite dimensions.
{What the hell took you so long? And if you picked up any pets, even a pet rock, you'll be left to rot wherever you are currently located,} spoke Captain's voice.
{To the right, right, right, catkins. That's good. Up. Right. A squish and a whisker dorsal.} Pause. {No, no, no, no, no. Too much! Visual input is rolling. The nerve is not quite aligned with the implant interface, puppy-girl.} Pause. {Much, much better, Boo-Boo.}
113 of 152 glared at her hierarchy head. Calling someone "Boo-Boo," not to mention "catkins" and "puppy-girl," when said Boo-Boo could irreversibly scramble brains with an 'innocent' slip of the wrist was not prudent. She successfully suppressed the urge.
Doctor waited until the probe was withdrawn and skull segment reattached before he neutralized his self-induced paralysis. Sitting up, he instructed 113 of 152 to look at him, then shunted her optical stream to himself, studying the results. The implant was a different model than his old one, abandoned on Mercy, and so lent a different profile to his countenance, but the advanced features such as split-screen simulated tri-V, picture-in-picture, and Ultra Zoom (tm) more than made up for any cosmetic differences. The fit was acceptable.
He continued to scrutinize himself, noting the many tasks yet to accomplish. His cranial armoring had not been replaced, leaving his head naked; and similarly, his upper torso was bare, displaying a less-than-impressive chest. Even before assimilation he had not been considered a prime specimen of Seffite masculinity, and Borgification had not enhanced his figure. Conversely, a majority of medical implants and prosthetics removed by Gretchian doctors were reinstalled; and with the return of full vision, he could competently perform surgical operations once more.
Doctor dismissed 113 of 152 to her next duty. He had to return to his alcove, both to regenerate and to continue healing from his ordeal on Mercy.
Cube #347 had run afoul of an ambush by General Ta'loc, but unlike a previous encounter with the vindictive Lupil leader's forces, the cube had responded with a strong offensive, and won. At least the first round, that was. Although the Lupil crew had beamed to a comrade vessel before their ship was captured, the Borg did not waste an opportunity to study their opponents. A multi-hierarchial team, including Doctor, transported to the ship to retrieve as much data as possible. During the assignment, the presumably defeated attackers had returned, with reinforcements from members of the stablized MAAC coalition. The original retreat had been a feint. In the resulting skirmish, Cube #347 was forced to withdraw without regaining all drones. The captured ship, or rather debris of the captured ship, had been left behind, accidentally demolished due to overexuberance by Weapons.
Harried and coldly calculating Doctor as too high risk to retrieve, Cube #347 sought cover, eventually fending off the MAAC forces. It was in the wreck of the ship Doctor was found by Mercy, collateral damage and lack of regeneration reducing him to a Borg invalid on the cusp of termination.
Paradoxically, it was the flushing with artificial blood which had saved Doctor. Vast quantities of nanites had been removed from his system. While the action directly contributed to the subsequent implant rejection which had required long hours of surgical intervention, all metabolic poisons were also eliminated. The IV mixture, specially concocted for Doctor by Gretchian medical staff, had been sufficient for nanites sequestered in tissue to slowly begin to build more of themselves. However, as the number of active nanomachines had been extremely low, recovery from organic damage, a programmed priority, was very slow, even as it was swifter than most natural processes. Doctor had been forced to rely upon himself, at least until Borg instincts slowly returned piecemeal. It was only when he had crudely installed his neural transceiver, allowing Cube #347's vinculum to re-establish a link, had he fully rediscovered himself.
Cube #347, keeping a low profile elsewhere after MAAC coalition members turned to bickering among themselves due to a relatively minor racial slur, had swept in; snatched the pod with Doctor inside; considered destroying the still near Mercy; and dismissed the notion as the hospital vessel, warp capable, fired up disused engines to flee towards its home port, well within MAAC sphere of influence. Finally, it was decided to be satisfied with Doctor's retrieval - as satisfied as any sub-collective could be with the recovery of a Borg cog - and return to skulking around the edges of the wormhole systems.
Doctor materialized next to his alcove. Without hesitation he stepped up and back, feeling clamps steady his body, locking him in. Home was the nigh inaudible hum of systems thrumming cube health, underlying the steady, echoing pace of a distant drone walking along a catwalk, or the distant whine of saw cutting into metal. Home was a wet, organic-oil smell, the odor of several thousand species blended into a familiar scent; and mixed with the sharp tang of plasma, hot ceramics, and other aromas only found on a working Borg vessel. He closed his eyes...
...and let the universe expand.
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