Pain in the ar...m

Posted on Fri Oct 23rd, 2015 @ 6:46am by Commander Bertrand Cuprum & Commander Cor Cordale

Mission: If I told you...
Location: Engineering

Bertrand sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He breathed deeply and slowly but it didn't help.

"Lights," he called, his voice scratchy and dry.

The computer raised the illumination in his room to one half as befits the night time rotation. He looked blearily at the full length mirror opposite him, and didn't like what he saw. His right arm sat like a dull, dark lump against his side. It was designed to mimic his natural skin colour, but that had been two decades ago and there was a clear division between real and artificial.

He tried to roll his shoulder but felt the grating and gritted his teeth. His imagination filled in the sensation of a million little drones trying to repair and contact damage he had just made. He tried to will him self not to think about it. Tried and failed. It made his skin crawl.

He grabbed his uniform up with his left hand from the back of the chair where he had dropped it the night before and climbed into it, using his right arm as little as possible. He pulled on his glove and looked at the result in the mirror. It hadn't improved much. Now days he always looked like he wasn't sleeping well. Probably a good reason for that.

He ran his fingers through his mop of hair as he headed out into the corridor and towards the lift. The corridor itself was straighter than most other ships and you could almost imagine you were on a starbase or planetary building, except for the low thrum of motion from the ever running engines. There was no crew about; he could sense the sleeping minds in the rooms around him, blissfully disconnected but still real, still there. Not like... not...

He strode of quickly, trying to move away from the memories that still hunted him during the dark times. He arrived at the nearest turbo lift and stepped inside. The lights in the lift were much brighter than the corridor, and Bertrand felt himself waking up.

"Engineering Maintenance," he said, his voice beginning to sound more like his own. There was only the slightest sensation of motion as the lift moved, just a calculated amount to let the passenger feel they were making progress. He still remembered when the Type 13 turbo lift had been released, with praise about how finely tuned the IDF were for each lift so that you would never even know you were moving. It turned out to be very unpopular. People liked to know when they were moving; one of the million of senses people don't even realize they have.

He stepped out of the lift and into the Workshop area that supported Engineering. He looked around for whoever was on duty at the moment.

"Shop?" he called.

The night shift was quiet, with less Engineers on duty than normal, though still enough for a duty rotation. Call it a skeleton crew, with less of a macabre meaning. In the workshop, there was a figure hunched over something on a desk. Was it a weapon? Was it a bomb?

No, it was a model of a tank. Earth model by sorts. Tread vehicle with a single large bore weapon on a turret. Land tank. The figure in question was the resident Thux, Cordale. "You've reached the shop." he said, his ears perking at the sound of the newcomer. "Mister Bertrand, what can the shop do for you?" he asked as he turned his full bodily attention towards the Lieutenant Commander.

Bertrand was surprised to find the big Weasel still at his work, but when he saw what he was doing, he realized it was his hobby he was pursuing.

"Evening, Lieutenant," Bertrand greeted him. "I'll admit, I didn't pick you for a Tactical engineer. I figured you would be more into Civil engines than obsolete war toys. No criticism intended."

"I'm... " Bertrand hesitated, not sure how to phrase his request, "I'm looking for a good mechanical lubricant. It needs to be extremely low viscosity. It's for... this."

He pulled of the glove on his right hand to show his bionic appendage. Unlike Cor, he was not proud of his and had kept it hidden from most of the crew.

Were it anyone else, whole and intact, there'd be gawking and questions. Instead, Cordale just motioned to a bench next to him. "There's one or two that I kinda swear by, but it's a matter of grade really. That... that looks pretty high end. Mine's about as old as some shuttlecraft designs." he chuckled as he brought his prosthetic limb to bear. "I can get you a few different grades, and you can give each of them a shot and see how well they work out for you."

"Are you feeling any grinding or any tension? Might need to run a low-grade ferrofluid through the works to pull out any dust and shred before you grease it." he suggested. "But I've got a few molymar lubricants that are a few shades above frictionless that, like I said, you can try out." he fumbled around with some of the drawers of what was obviously a toolkit for a model builder. Tiny knives, glue, spare parts... and a few small canisters with various numbers scrawled on them.

"Here we go, moly build seven, eight, and ten." he counted off as he handed each of the canisters to Bertrand. "I can get you the replicator matrix recipe for whichever one you think feels best. Just watch yourself, a little goes a long way." and then there was the pause as Cordale felt the weight of his own prosthetic. "It's a personal thing. That question that everyone asks you. So, I won't ask. Though, if you tell, I'll tell. We'll share stories."

Bertrand accepted the lubricant gratefully, "Thanks. It is grinding in the shoulder joint. I hunch my shoulders a lot and it puts the actuator out of sync."

Bertrand stood looking at the bottle for a while, not moving, but not answering either. When he did, the answer sounded like it came from a grate distance and at some cost.

"I lost it when I was a junior officer. Wolf 359. Only one ship in the entire Federation had encountered the Borg at that time. We didn't know what to expect. Up till then, ever enemy the Federation had faced had been at least an equal. The Romulans, the Klingons, powerful certainly but their weapons and equipment was similar to our own."

"The Borg... they just tore through us. I doubt the whole battle lasted a more than a few hours. Imagine it if you can. The whole of Starfleet destroyed in the time it might take you to have a big meal. And that is what we were to them; a meal to be consumed."

Bertrand sighed heavily and leaned heavily against a control panel, "I was a junior security officer, under a man so bound up with his precious regulations we used to joke he wouldn't wipe his arse without the correct requisition order. We encountered the Borg and used standard tried and true tactics. Of course nothing worked. It seems stupid now, but that is because we knew nothing then. They tore my team apart. Killed a couple, began to assimilate the rest. They took my arm and... a few other key parts."

"Then they all left. Anyone who had been replicated sufficiently went to. The rest of us, less than a dozen on the whole ship had to claw our way to escape pods. We floated in the debris field for days before civilian freighters were able to arrive and pick us up. It was a week before I got any real medical help and, of course, none of the doctors of the day had the faintest idea how to deal with someone who had been partially assimilated back then."

"So I got this. State of the art at the time. Been regularly upgraded. Starfleet feels it owes me that."

Bertrand lapsed into silence. There was so much of the story he hadn't told, that was obvious. What he had shared had dredged up more pain than he had been ready for.

Cordale listened intently, hanging on every pause. When Bertrand went silent, Cor took a breath. "Shit... " though, he had probably heard how 'sorry' everyone was a million times. Source knew Cor was sorry of hearing how sorry everyone was...

"Latinum mine, somewhere in the ass end of space. Nothing but Thux and Ferengi overseers. They'd work us to the bone, pay us shit, take most of it back. Rinse, lather, repeat. I had two brothers, well not brothers brothers but..." his living hand brushed over the forearm of his prosthetic, where two numbers in Ferengi hex-script were etched in. "Sil... and Cal..."

"We'd do everything together. Check for better sources, dig out tunnels, prop up supports, eat, drink, laugh, sleep. We were family." a pause. "We were scoping out an old tunnel, following a Latinum source when Sil calls out that the tunnel is coming down. He turns, Cal turns, I turn, and we all run like we're on fire. Sil makes it out, Cal makes it out, I ... I almost make it out." he paused, then took his uniform shirt off to show how extensive the damage was. The entirety of his left arm, plus most of his shoulder. Separating the living from the replacement was a vicious burn scar, that acted like a fence to keep the two halves of the Thux from mingling.

"Ferengi Overseers are on their way, and if I can't work then I'm no good to them. So Cal, always the goof ball, distracts me with this big bright patch of fur around his eye. Sil... he held the heat shovel over my shoulder, and when I was good and distracted he brought the heated element straight down and cut me loose."

"Woke up in the mine's infirmary, Source knows how many hours or so later. Felt something heavy on my shoulder." he gave his prosthetic a tap. "They... didn't make it out of the mines. They were chosen for 'promotion'... which meant they were taken off-site and..." Cor shook his head. His story ended here. "Anyway, it took a lot for you to share your story man. I appreciate it, and thank you for it."

Seems Cordale had seen a few therapists in his travels.

"I've been dodging upgrades left and right. Ever doctor and nurse from here to Earth comments on it. I tell them the same thing. No." a pause, "This, and memories, are all I have to remember them. Everytime I replicate the ole Archie here, I add their names to it. To remember." The Arctile Series Seven prosthetic industrial limb. According to legend, it's what elevated Paleolithic Man above their lesser advanced brethren.

"Though, it's damn useful sometimes. No touch receptors, no sensation... do you know how many things I've reached into that would have HURT normally?" he asked, now with a smirk. Trying to lighten the dower tone of the conversation.

Bertrand nodded, "Seems we go in different directions from tragedy and loss. I would love to forget it all, rub it all out. Got close to doing so more than once. Alcohol does the trick... for a bit."

He mentally shook himself and tried a wan smile, "I have full sensory function; a fully integrated biofeedback registered complimented by a T39 Bio sync processors. This is a truly beautiful work of art and engineering. I've seen it written up in various medical papers. Doctors keep telling me how lucky I am. Stupid Doctors."

"And it is part Borg," Bertrand's smile vanished. "You can never get rid of all those nanties. Each time the arm gets damaged or over used they start to replicate themselves to make maintenance and repairs. I have to get them cleaned out of my system every few months."

"I used to hate doctors. Now I just accept that they're a part of life." he said with a bit of a gruff. "And before you get too curious, I use biometric repeaters in the fingertips." Cordale admitted with a smirk. "No touch means no feedback. It's how I type with both hands."

The Thux demonstrated the range of motion with his ancient limb, "I've made a lot of after market upgrades to the internals. New processing boards, logic circuits, cable housing... but I can't bring myself to change the outside shell. I'd look ridiculous." then Cor cupped his chin in thought. "I know the boys in the skunk works have made tons of progress interfacing with Borg tech. The nanites carry out a function, but only when the integrity of the limb goes under a specified threshold. Long shot here, but a short range relay set to the carrier frequency that the nanites communicate on may actually let you talk to them. Now, not like how we're talking, mind you... but machine to machine. Maybe you could have that threshold adjusted?" he offered.

When Cor mentioned speaking to the Nanites he was hit by a wave of anger, disgust and fear so palpable that Cor was almost forced to take an involuntary step away from the Lt Commander.

"Yes," Bertrand finally managed after Cor had given him enough time to get control again, "I have met other Ex-Borg. One of my past counselors thought getting a support group together would be a positive thing. !4 people all standing around trying not to meet each others eyes, knowing that, but for chance, we might all have been forced to live in each others minds for the rest of our lives."

"Some fared better than others. Obviously the more recent the rescue the better their chances, and the earlier in the process the more complete the recovery. Truth be told there are two sort of escapees. There are those, like me, who despise the Borg and loath ever reminder of it. And there are others who went so far down the rabbit hole that they actually miss it. They pretend not to, but if you know what your looking for you can see it in them."

"Every one of us is broken in some way by it."

Bertrand watched Cor. For now, in this place, they were not Superior and Junior officer; they were colleagues who had survived the same war, waged on different fronts.

"I've been thinking of building a still in my quarters," Bertrand said, "but it didn't end well last time."

"I'm obligated to say that booze is only the answer if the question is 'Where did my whole night go?'." Cordale pointed out. "And, I can't sit here in good faith and tell you that I don't drink because that, sir, would be a lie. I do have a root beer still set up, but I don't brew booze on my boat. As for how to forget, how to move on.... shit, still figuring that out myself."

Bertrand nodded, "As CSO and 2XO, I also frown on stills. Can't see a good reason why you would need to manually make things given we have a replicator, unless it is something that would not normally be permitted through replication. And, truth be told, I don't have a GOOD reason..."

"Want a good reason? I know how the replicators work, and I like real coffee and enjoy relaxing with real root beer. Taste it one of these days, and if you can't tell the difference, I'll dismantle it right then and there. Thux honor." Cor smirked.

"The worst part... was listening... hearing their screams in my mind... winking out. They... they stopped being there but I could still hear... like and echo of them."

He sighed heavily, "It is hard to explain to non-telepaths."

"That's called remembering, and I assure you us non-telepaths do it all the time." Cordale said with a nod. "You had to hear their screams. I had to live every day with the last sound my brothers made being Sil and Cal telling me to take care of myself." a pause, "My therapist always tells me that how we cope is up to us, but we only struggle alone if we want to."

"Memory..." Bertrand mused. "Yes, that is a little what it was like for the Drones, I think. They remembered their emotions, but not strongly enough for it to impact them."

"If you need someone to bullshit with, hell you probably know my hours better than I do. I'm on the clock, on a cot, or here working on models. Helps the hand-eye coordination with prosthetic limbs without any feedback."

"Cot, yes," Said Bertrand suddenly much more tired. "I am due on duty again in three hours. Thanks for the oil. I... might look you up next time I have difficulty sleeping. It happens a lot."

"When I tell people my door's always open, that's not a speech." Cor reminded the Security officer. "Now, off to bed with you. Three hours of sleep is Engineering time, and you aren't on my payroll." a smirk. "We'll bullshit more later... and you're welcome."