If I ever get to experience eternity, I'll recognise it immediately.
Three weeks.
Twenty-one days; five hundred and four hours; thirty thousand, two hundred and forty minutes; one million, eight hundred and fourteen thousand, four hundred seconds. Every one of which I swear I've counted off, lying immobile on this bed while around me people came and went, servicing the needs of a body which continued to function.
After the first two weeks they began to reduce the pain meds. Feeling returned gradually below my waistline. Enough to reassure me that I still had two legs, and that I hadn't been wasting the hours I'd spent daily flexing and releasing the muscles to keep them in some kind of condition. I couldn't feel them, but I had to believe they were there and that I was achieving something. After all, I had to have a roughly serviceable pair of legs to stand on when I lunged for a weapon.
Legs, yes. Present and correct. I took what comfort I could from that. More comforting still was the sensation that presently came slightly further up. Much as Phlox would undoubtedly have enjoyed removing my kidneys for examination, if my continued existence was a requirement he'd probably have left them in place. Equipment further down the system was lower down the list of survival necessities, and it was an indescribable relief when I was able to determine that although a catheter was fitted, I seemed to have been left with the full set. It came as somewhat of a surprise one afternoon part way through the third week when a nurse set about testing 'functionality' among the daily processes. At first I thought Fuck you, and then baser ideas took over. I'm not sure that what followed was exactly what Phlox had intended (though there again, he might well have been watching via the cc feed), but we definitely found out that I still functioned. Naturally she didn't make the mistake of loosing any of the restraints, but that didn't provide any serious bar to our enjoyment, on that or any of the other subsequent nocturnal visits. There was one unfortunate occasion when an unexpected visit from a lab technician obliged her to make a hasty exit, leaving me to the torments of the damned, but apart from that we had a rather agreeable interlude. I may even let her live when I get out of here, which is more than I will any of the rest of them, though our places in restraints will be exchanged and her consent will not be relevant.
I'm still no wiser as to what the surgery consisted of. Obviously it took place low on my belly, because the flesh there is tender and my angel of mercy had to take care how she arranged herself while we were testing my functionality. Naturally this required the removal of my catheter for the duration (an unusual item of foreplay it has to be said), but the minor discomfort was worth it. Now and again when her own functionality cut in she got a bit carried away, but although there were a few aches and pains afterwards no serious harm was done.
Twenty-one days. Twenty-one days of utter and excruciating boredom, waiting for the axe to fall. I'm not sure I've ever seen a day dawn with a greater sense of thankfulness. I may not see another, but at least there'll be an end of this long-drawn-out agony of waiting.
"And how is the patient today, hmm?" Enter Phlox, cheerful enough to give you toothache. Not that he's talking to me – he wouldn't waste the oxygen. Presumably it's standard bedside protocol as laid down in Doctoring For Dummies, or whatever cursed manual he picked his medicinal know-how out of. He wisely orders one of his lackeys to double-check the restraints before he approaches the bed; unfortunately for me, those who've dealt with me over the past twenty-one days (I think that figure will haunt my nightmares for the rest of my life!) have been sedulously careful to unfasten them one at a time while I'm being tended, and to make sure the current one's fastened again before turning to the next.
He hums and grins and hums a bit more as he scrolls through the readouts and inspects the surgery site carefully. When he's finished he steps to the comm. panel. "Phlox to Commodore Tucker."
–Commodore?–
"Tucker here."
"Ah, Commodore, I'm pleased to report that the procedure on the prisoner appears to have been a complete success. You may wish to pass on the news that he's ready for use when required."
So far I've lain meekly on the bed, not even turning my gaze to look at him. But as the last six words sink in I can't prevent a single movement that makes the duranium fastenings of the restraints squeak ever so slightly.
"And conscious," adds Phlox, with relish.
"Wouldn't have wanted it any different," says Commodore Tucker. 'Commodore', my Aunt Fanny. I bite my lip to stop the words escaping; they'd achieve nothing except betraying how badly I want to laugh at his rise in the world, and at what a mockery a title can be. I've never denied that he's an extremely intelligent man and an exceptional engineer, and the way he's pulled this station together was a startling display of his powers of organisation and staff control, but Commodore! Spare me. And in a situation where I hold so very few cards, betraying my entirely legitimate amusement would not be a strong survival strategy.
"So are there any ... orders in place regarding his disposal?"
"Reckon they'll want him in their place. Nobody's told me any different, anyway. Get him down there and keep him secured. I don't want him able to move more'n an eyelash. You got that?"
"Loud and clear, Commodore, loud and clear. And I'll be waiting in Sickbay when I'm required. Phlox out."
From the corner of my eye I see the gurney being brought over. More restraints. It takes quite heroic self-control not to unleash a burst of vituperation, but I'm thoroughly tamed; I don't even tense as the first of the lackeys puts a hand to the shackle on my right wrist. They can't get me on to that gurney without unfastening all of the straps that hold me to this bed that's been my prison since I was brought in here...
"Ah, I believe your parole would not be acceptable, even were you minded to offer it." Phlox appears at my shoulder like a grinning Denobulan leprechaun, and before I can even flinch away the hypospray's at my neck. "And we won't be taking any unnecessary risks with anyone's safety on such a momentous occasion. I'm sure you'll understand."
I understand, all right. I understand that once again I'm conscious and inert, able to see and hear but neither speak nor act. I understand that all the restraints are flipped open and I'm utterly unable to move hand or foot, that I'm lifted like a landed salmon and transferred to the gurney. If anything were wanting to complete the effect of my being served up on a plate, it's that a soft white throw drapes the gurney like a tablecloth. I quite expect someone to lay a row of slices of lemon down my chest and stick a sprig of parsley in the end of my dick. Perhaps Chef Alice could supply a radish cut up to look like a waterlily or something, he's probably a deft chap at producing that sort of thing. It would just be the finishing touch seated artistically in my navel.
Even now, I suppose it's a compliment of sorts that the doctor's hell-brew isn't thought a sufficient guarantee of my harmlessness. My lower legs overhang the end of the gurney and are brought down to restraints waiting ready for my ankles. My wrists are secured at some part of the structure below my waist. At least they leave my head free, though as I can't move it anyway that's not much of a benefit.
Memory flashes across my brain: Harris, brought into Alpha's office similarly bound and helpless. I suppose this is what my deceased mate would have described as piquant. But at least we gave him the dignity of dying on his feet. I'm not pretending it was a nice death; after what he'd done to us, I wouldn't imagine he expected one. But if that particular fate's on the cards for me I can't imagine why it should have been necessary to perform surgery on me first.
Though to tell the truth, even if it is I'd prefer that to being condemned to live one more day on that bloody bio-bed. Some fates really are worse than death.
So. I'm finally 'ready for use', whatever that involves. Something extremely soft is draped over my lower parts, and I wish my lungs would oblige me with a hearty guffaw at the mental image of my modesty being preserved by a strategically positioned feather boa.
A couple of lackeys take up position to wheel me out of the room. "Goodbye for now!" calls Phlox chirpily, while his oversize Denobulan beam splits his ugly face like an overripe watermelon.
With care, you can break an individual finger bone in quite a few places. Over the past twenty-one days I've mentally designed machinery that will achieve the separation between fractures in microns. It's so ingenious I can't believe I hadn't thought of it before.
I'll leave it to you to guess who'll be the first test patient when I finally get it built.
They wheel me down the corridor and into a turbo-lift. By the most incredible coincidence, this is already occupied by 'Commodore' Tucker. Goodness me, how many people are smiling pleasantly at me this morning.
I must be in for a rare treat.