Chapter 18
At first there was only darkness.
His awareness ebbed and flowed, but there was no recognition of who or where he was—no memory of what had happened. He drifted comfortably, peacefully, as time passed around him. He may have stayed like that for minutes or for years, it was impossible to say. Each time that his awareness returned, however, it brought with it a little more cognizance, until at last he became aware of his surroundings.
The space he was in was dimensionless—perfectly dark and quiet, without any sense of 'up' or 'down'. He twisted, trying to gain his bearings, only to realize that the darkness was absolute. Terror surged through him, hot and sharp, and he struggled blindly. Immediately, he was embraced by a comforting weight—a presence—and his panic slowly calmed as he realized that he was not alone. He clung to the presence closely, his only foothold in the directionless void, until his consciousness faded away again.
When he regained awareness an interminable time later, the fear returned with it. Once again, he found himself pulled close to the presence, which wrapped around him reassuringly.
/Be calm, Sam. All is well./
The words were meaningless, but he understood the soothing pulse that accompanied them, and he relaxed as he drifted off again.
The next time he regained consciousness, he twisted expectantly, trying to find the now-familiar presence. To his consternation, he could feel it close by—just beyond his reach. Somehow, he knew that the presence was aware that he was awake, and he felt a flash of frustration. Why didn't it come to him?
/No, you must come to me./
He frowned, confused. How?
The presence glowed enticingly, and he struggled futility in the directionless space.
/Like so./ The presence murmured, and he felt something nudge him. He frowned again, trying to mimic the motion. After several unsuccessful attempts, he was able to reach the presence, which drew him close. The effort was exhausting.
/Well done, Sam./
As before, the words meant nothing to him, but he could feel the warm approval that accompanied them.
When he came back to awareness, the presence was further away, and he huffed in grumpy irritation. Once again, he knew that the presence was regarding him closely, patient and expectant. He considered the distance between them, before deciding that it was too far for him to cross.
/No, it's not. Come along, just as you did before./
He gathered himself with great effort and, in fits and starts, crossed the space between them. When the presence finally enveloped him, he felt weak from the effort he had expended. His consciousness faded rapidly, as the presence pulsed soothingly around him.
The next time he achieved lucidity, he twisted and located the familiar presence—further away still. Without hesitation, he crossed the space between them and pressed in close, sighing in relief as the feeling of nothingness faded away. Distantly, he realized that the effort had been substantially easier that time.
/It will continue to get easier with practice./ The voice assured him, and he realized suddenly that it was indeed a voice. If he concentrated, he could make sense of the words. There was a gentle thrum of surprise from the presence, followed by warm approval.
/Can you understand me, Sam?/
Yes, he could. Was that word important?
/Yes, Sam is your name./ The voice replied.
He focused on the words, trying to make sense of them, and then recognition dawned on him. Yes, of course. His name was Sam. He regarded the presence curiously.
/I'm Ratchet./
Ratchet. That word was familiar, and carried with it a strong association of safety and security. He felt a pulse of fond gratification from the presence, and he leaned close in response. He stayed like that for a long while, until his awareness faded away again.
The next time he regained consciousness, it was to the sound of voices.
/—progress than I anticipated./ The presence, Ratchet, was saying.
There was a rumbling noise of acknowledgement in reply.
/Thank Primus./
/His lucid periods are lasting progressively longer. It won't be long now./
/How is that possible? It takes vorns for newsparks to on-line./
/I cannot say, but—/ Ratchet paused, and amusement blossomed across the dimensionless space, /He's listening./
There was a rush of astonishment from the other presence.
/Through the bond? Did you not establish firewalls?/
There was a loud snort in response. /Of course I did./
He did not wait to hear the reply. Irritated by the intrusiveness of the voices, he moved away, sinking deeper into the darkness of the void. Ratchet let him go, his presence a gentle glow in the distance. He drifted there for a long time, half-aware and content, before he felt an insistent nudge.
/Sam, come back./
He twisted, trying to draw away from the presence and reclaim the state of comfortable relaxation in which he had been drifting. Ratchet followed him, and he felt another nudge, more insistent this time.
/Sam./
He stirred, frustrated. Why won't it leave him alone?
/Use your words./ Ratchet chided.
He frowned. I am using words.
/No, like this./ Ratchet explained. He felt the presence focus and push, and suddenly the knowledge was in his mind.
/ ? /
Ratchet's warm approval crossed between them, and he found himself enveloped by the other's presence. After a moment, Ratchet shifted and they moved through the directionless space until Sam found himself back where he had heard the voices. Sam realized now that the space was rather like an ocean—quiet and dark in the depths, but thrumming with sensation in the shallows. He had the distinct impression of light and sound and feeling, although the darkness of the space remained unchanged. He shifted, wishing to return to the comfortable calm from which he had been retrieved. Immediately, Ratchet's presence enveloped him, gentle but restraining.
/None of that, Sam. Stay here./
Why?
He felt an admonishing tap, and huffed in exasperation.
/Why?/
/Because I said so./
He frowned in annoyance, but he settled down. The strange present-but-not-present sensations crawled over him, distracting and bothersome.
What is this?
He felt Ratchet's disapproval, and he tried again.
/What is this?/
/This is stasis./ Ratchet replied, but the answer only confused him more.
/I don't understand./
/You don't need to understand. You're safe./
He drifted for a long while, fading in and out of consciousness. Ratchet was never far away when he surfaced, his presence solid and comforting. Slowly, he noticed a niggling noise at the edge of his awareness. He frowned, focusing his attention towards it, and the noise converged into comprehensible sounds.
"—surgery went well. No signs of infection, but he will require a great deal of physical therapy. When will you remove the plates?"
"It is difficult to say. The usual recommendation is six to eight weeks, but his accelerated healing makes it challenging to develop an accurate estimate."
He shifted uncertainly as anxiety twisted in his gut. He could understand the words, but they didn't make any sense—instinctively, however, he knew the voices were speaking about him. Behind him, he became aware of Ratchet's intense scrutiny.
There was a pause, and then a voice spoke insistently.
"Sam? Can you hear me?"
He jerked back in alarm, his anxiety morphing into panic in an instant. He withdrew as quickly as he knew how, but Ratchet's presence enveloped him immediately.
/Calm down, Sam./
For the first time, he resisted the presence that surrounded him, straining to slip away. Ratchet held him easily, his grasp gentle but unyielding. He pulled desperately, ignoring the soothing pulses that he felt around him, until his awareness faded away.
When he surfaced some time later, he found himself still surrounded by Ratchet's presence. He drifted for a long while, only semi-aware of his surroundings. He could feel the weight of Ratchet's regard, but the other did not bother him. Eventually, Sam was cognizant enough that he could make out the strange sensations in the distance, and he cringed away.
/There's nothing to be afraid of, Sam./
He shuddered, leaning into the comforting presence. He didn't understand what was happening, and he wished desperately to return to quiet darkness that had sheltered him before.
/I'm sorry, but you can't./
Ratchet herded him, slowly but inexorably, back towards the light and sound in the distance. He shifted uncertainly, but Ratchet did not impose upon him any further. He drifted there, at the edge of stasis, as flashes of voices and sensation washed over him at indiscriminate intervals. Try as he might to tune out the unwelcome feelings, they remained. Eventually, one feeling separated itself from the others—an irritating and insistent discomfort.
He was itchy.
He shifted, this way and that, trying to get away from the sensation, but to no avail. As time passed, his frustration mounted. No matter what he did, the feeling continued to niggle at him persistently—it was maddening. He was distantly aware that Ratchet was watching him closely, as though in anticipation.
Determined to end the vexing sensation, Sam gathered himself and surged forward with focused intent. The space around him twisted confusingly, and then abruptly fell away.
Sam opened his eyes slowly, blinking blearily at his surroundings. It took a long moment for the brightness of the room to fade into discernable shapes, but eventually he recognized Ratchet's medical bay. He raised a shaking hand, determined to scratch his face, when his fingers encountered the soft silicone of an oxygen mask. Sam pulled at it clumsily, weak and uncoordinated, when gentle hands intercepted him and pulled the mask away. He scrubbed his hand over his face, and then dropped his arm back down on the bed.
He couldn't concentrate well—his mind was sluggish and hazy—but Sam was aware of the burning pain in his chest. He looked down at himself and saw that he was lying on a hospital gurney with the blankets pulled halfway up his bare chest. The pain was emanating from his left shoulder, which was heavily bandaged. He made a soft noise of distress in the back of his throat, raising his hand to touch the white gauze as though to confirm its existence.
Sam felt a gentle pulse of reassurance, and turned his head to see Ratchet standing at his bedside. The medic was staring at him intently, patiently, as though he were letting Sam acclimatize to his surroundings. Sam squinted at him, confused and disoriented. It was as though he could see Ratchet twice—once with his eyes and once with his mind. His eyes saw Ratchet's bipedal mode, familiar and welcome, but his mind saw something else entirely. It saw Ratchet's presence, a soft undulating glow, which was impossibly ancient, and intelligent, and beautiful—
He felt Ratchet's touch in his mind, restraining and amused, and the disorienting sensation faded away. Sam looked at him desperately, too weak to voice the confusion that he felt.
"Rest, Sam. I will explain everything after you've slept."
He stared at the medic uncomprehendingly. Rest? He had just woken up.
"You haven't been asleep, you have been in stasis. It allows your neural network repair itself, but it does little for organic cognitive function."
Sam felt the proof of the medic's words in the heaviness of his body, the burning dryness of his eyes, but he knew that he couldn't rest. He hurt too much.
Ratchet frowned down at him, stepping forward.
"Are you in pain?"
Of course he was in pain—his shoulder burned, throbbing in time with his pulse.
Something softened in Ratchet's optics.
"My apologies, Sam. This is a learning experience for me as well."
A hypodermic needle folded out of one digit on Ratchet's servo, filling with an amber-colored liquid. The medic lifted Sam's right arm, and inserted the needle into the injection port on the IV taped to the back of Sam's hand. Sam breathed out a sigh of relief as he felt the medication working through his veins, leaving a pleasant numbness in its wake. Ratchet settled his arm across his chest, looking down at him with amusement.
"As promised, no carte blanche sedation. Just good old fashioned narcotics."
Sam sighed again, relaxing into the mattress as the burning pain in his shoulder ebbed away. Although he struggled to remain awake, his aching body had other ideas, and he nodded off within moments. He slept like a dead man, completely oblivious to the goings on around him. There were dreams—snatches of half-memories and strange imagery—but they were fleeting, and forgotten immediately.
He shifted against the mattress, surfacing slowly. His first cognizant thought was that he was warm and comfortable, relaxed in a full-bodied way that was indicative of painkillers. He sighed contentedly, and cracked open his eyes. The medical bay was much as he remembered it. He saw now that his hospital gurney was located on one of the berths along the wall, and surrounded by an array of medical equipment. When he turned his head to get a better look, he realized that the oxygen mask had been replaced while he slept. He reached up and pulled it off, dropping it onto the bed beside him.
"I put that on for a reason, you know." Ratchet's chiding voice came from behind him. Sam craned his head as the medic walked into his line of sight.
"Ratchet?" He rasped, and then winced. His mouth was bone dry.
Ratchet looked at him, his gaze clinical and assessing, "How do you feel?"
Sam considered the question seriously. He felt odd—his body was heavy and weak, and his mind was fuzzy from whatever Ratchet had given him, but he wasn't in pain.
"That's good." Ratchet said with a terse nod, "Other than your oxygen saturation, your vitals are stable."
Sam stiffened in alarm as Ratchet responded to his unspoken thoughts. He looked at the medic sharply, suddenly aware that he could feel him in an indefinable way. It was a familiar sensation, like a tangible weight in his mind. His eyes widened abruptly as the sensation brought with it his memories of stasis—and of Ripcord.
He jerked back as though he had been tasered, all of his confusion and fear coalescing in an instant.
"What the fuck, Ratchet?" He choked, struggling up on his elbows. Ratchet's holoform was there in an instant, firm hands pushing him back down onto the mattress.
"Calm down, I'll tell you whatever you want to know. The histrionics are unnecessary."
He shoved the holoform's hands off him, ignoring the disapproval that he could feel from the medic. Sam gestured between the two of them vaguely but insistently, "What the fuck is this?"
Ratchet in-vented slowly, "I know this is a shock, Sam. This is a Creator bond—what do you remember?"
"A Creator—" Sam started incredulously, and then he squeezed his eyes shut. When he felt reasonably calm, he tried again, "What do you mean, a Creator bond?"
"What do you remember?" Ratchet repeated, instead.
He frowned, casting his mind back. He remembered Ripcord all right, the bastard. He also remembered Ironhide and Sunstreaker arriving, and then Optimus, Ratchet, and Ultra Magnus. He thought he could remember Bumblebee, but the memory was hazy—that might have been a dream.
"Shortly after we arrived, you went into stage four hypovolemic shock and died. I brought you to the medical bay, and approximately nine minutes and twenty seconds after your heart stopped beating, you revived."
Sam stared at him in horrified disbelief, "He actually killed me?"
Something dangerous glinted in Ratchet's optics, but the expression was gone so quickly that Sam wondered whether he had imagined it.
"Yes, he did. Thankfully, the Allspark energy was able to resuscitate you, as it had in Egypt."
"And this?" He asked, gesturing again between them.
"When you revived, you on-lined."
"Not helpful, Ratchet." He snapped.
"I don't claim to understand how it happened, Sam. When the pulse of Allspark energy occurred, your spark signature appeared in the neural-network as clearly as my own."
"I don't have a spark!"
"No you do not, but you certainly have a spark signature. Your vitals were critical and I was worried that on-lining was going to kill you, so I established a Creator bond to force you into stasis. It was the only way to stabilize your spark signature, and therefore your vitals."
This is not happening to me, He thought despairingly.
"I assure you that it is."
Sam jerked back in surprise, and then narrowed his eyes at the medic, "Stop doing that!"
Ratchet tilted his helm at him, looking uncharacteristically solemn.
"I am sorry Sam, but I can't." He apologized sincerely, "Has Bumblebee ever told you about the bonds that form among our people?"
Sam didn't reply for a long moment, staring at the ceiling as he struggled to get himself under control. Eventually, he managed to say, "A little bit. I know about Creator bonds, and spark twins, and spark bonds."
Ratchet nodded encouragingly, "That's good, Sam. This—" The medic paused, and Sam felt a twinging in his mind, as though Ratchet had plucked a guitar string, "—is a Creator bond. It is formed between a Creator mech and a newspark in the early stages of the sparking process. It is used to help guide the development of a sparkling until their final programming has been established."
Sam squeezed his eyes shut.
"Ratchet, I'm a person. Not a newspark or a sparkling, and I don't have any programming. How is this possible?"
"I don't know, Sam." The medic admitted, "It's unfathomable."
Sam opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling without speaking. Ratchet stood at his side, patient and silent, and Sam knew that the medic was giving him time to process what he had learned.
"Bumblebee said that the Creator bond is permanent, and that it gives the Creator mech control over the sparkling." He turned his head to look at the medic, "Is that true?"
Ratchet hesitated before he replied, "The answers to your questions are complicated. Yes, the Creator bond is permanent, but it will only remain active until your spark signature fully stabilizes."
"How long does that take?"
"For mechanoids, it can take centuries." Ratchet admitted, "But you have already surpassed all of our expectations. The on-lining process for newsparks usually takes a vorn or two—that is, a hundred years or so—and you managed it in nineteen days."
Sam glanced at the medic. The knowledge that he had been unconsciousness, or in stasis, for so long would normally have floored him, but the news seemed paltry in comparison to what else he had learned.
"And the rest?" He prompted eventually.
"The Creator bond is… unbalanced. That is, the Creator mecha have complete control over what information is transferred over the bond."
"What can you do?" Sam asked bluntly, cutting to the quick of the matter. Ratchet hesitated again.
"I was able to put you into stasis mode and keep you in REM sleep. I do not believe I could control your physical actions, as the physiology of your brain is too different."
"You don't think so? Or you know so?"
"I do not know for certain, Sam. When you're fully recovered, the two of us will work to understand the nature and the extent of your spark signature, as well as the bond between us."
Sam felt the first stirrings of genuine fear spread across his chest. The presence in his mind shifted forward, almost hesitantly, and he felt a gentle touch of assurance.
"I know this is frightening Sam, but I have on-lined many mechanoids. I know what I am doing."
"Can't you just… deactivate it? Or block me out or something?" He asked, desperately.
Ratchet shuttered his optics slowly, "I could, but I won't."
Sam glared at him angrily, "What? Why not?"
"There is a reason why the on-lining process takes so long. Newsparks are delicate, and they require careful monitoring to ensure that they develop without issue. It would be ethically and professionally irresponsible to leave you unattended throughout this transition."
Sam would normally have argued back, but he could feel the quiet sincerity and conviction behind the medic's words. He glanced back at the ceiling again, thinking about what he had been told. Eventually, he sighed.
"What happened afterwards? With Ripcord?"
Ratchet's optics narrowed in tightly controlled anger, "The coward tried to off-line himself as soon as your heart stopped beating. Ironhide and Ultra Magnus subdued him until Kup could arrive with stasis cuffs. He got quite the surprise when the Allspark pulse happened and you on-lined."
"Where is he now?"
Again, he felt Ratchet's reassuring touch. "He is no longer a threat to you."
Instinctively, Sam nudged at the presence in his mind, "Care to elaborate?"
He felt a pulse of surprise across the bond, followed by a fleeting feeling of encouragement.
"He's being held in a containment cell aboard the Ark." Ratchet replied.
"What's Optimus going to do with him?"
"That's for Prime to decide, do not worry about it."
Sam huffed in response, but grudgingly put the thought of out his mind. He glanced down at himself deprecatingly.
"So I guess I'm going to be here for a while." He managed dryly. Ratchet snorted in response.
"A while longer, yes." He replied mildly, "How are you feeling?"
Sam shrugged, "Tired, I guess. Worn out. Can I have some water?"
Ratchet looked at him considerately, "A little, but be careful. You have a nasogastric tube in, and I don't want you to vomit."
Sam raised his hand to his face, surprised to find that there was indeed a thin tube coming out of his left nostril. The tube was taped to the side of his face, extending over his left ear behind him. How hadn't he noticed it before?
"You're heavily medicated." Ratchet assured him patiently.
The holoform poured him two fingers of water from the pitcher on the over-bed table, and then helped Sam into a sitting position. He accepted the cup gratefully, and took a small sip of water. Sam was immediately thankful for Ratchet's warning, because the feeling of the tube slithering along the back of his throat made him retch, hard. All at once, Sam was back in the factory pinned beneath Megatron, as Scalpel's drone slid up the back of his throat, choking him. Ratchet's presence was in his mind in an instant, pulling Sam out of the flashback and back to himself before he could panic. He blinked in disorientation at the abrupt transition, breathing heavily.
"Sorry, that caught me by surprise." He apologized roughly.
"You have nothing to apologize for, Sam." Ratchet replied with conviction. The medic's mental presence receded away from him, becoming strangely muted.
"Can you take this out?" Sam asked, motioning to the nasogastric tube, "Now, please?"
Ratchet nodded in assent, and his holoform started to peel the adhesive off Sam's face. Once the adhesive was free, he sent a pulse of warning across their bond, and then started to pull out the tubing. Sam felt it snake its way up his entire throat, and he grimaced hard at the unwelcome sensation.
"That was unpleasant." He said dryly, once the tube had been removed. He reached for the water again, gratified when he was able to drink without gagging. The water was room temperature, and it had the same slightly-metallic taste as the rest of the water on base, but in that moment it was the most satisfying thing that he'd ever had in his life.
Ratchet moved away to take care of the tubing, and Sam sat quietly as he nursed his water. His thoughts were introspective, and he poked at the bond experimentally, trying to get a sense for its dimensions. It was a curious thing—something that he could see and feel without the senses of sight or touch. As he felt his way along the bond, he became aware of Ratchet's scrutiny, and he glanced uncertainly at the medic.
"What?"
"Nothing at all. You are doing well."
Encouraged, Sam continued feeling along the bond until he bumped up against Ratchet's signature. He paused, taken aback once again by its splendor. He hesitated for only a moment before he reached for it. Ratchet was tolerant, letting him feel his way across the spark signature. It was a different feeling than their bond or Ratchet's metal presence—it thrummed with life and energy, beautiful and mesmerizing. Enraptured, Sam pushed forward and immediately found himself caught by the medic.
"No, Sam." He chastised.
Sam blinked at Ratchet as his bipedal mode crossed the room towards him.
"What?" He asked confusedly.
"What you just did is considered highly… rude amongst our people."
Sam felt a rush of embarrassment at the medic's words, although he had no idea what it was, exactly, that he did wrong. He murmured a soft apology and tried to pull away, but Ratchet's presence held him closely.
"Your apology is appreciated but unnecessary, Sam. You did not know any better." Ratchet's presence thrummed reassuringly, and then let him go, "A spark signature is deeply personal, and it is rude to press in as you did, without permission."
Sam was blushing now, although he could feel that the medic wasn't upset with him. Ratchet gave him a gentle push and Sam crossed back across their bond.
The medic regarded him thoughtfully.
"Are you hungry?"
Sam hesitated. He was exhausted and worn out, and he felt fuzzy from the pain medication, but he could eat. He lifted a shoulder in a shrug.
"That is not the enthusiastic agreement that I was hoping for." Ratchet replied dryly, "Lay back and rest. You may eat later, when you're hungry."
Sam sighed, pulling the blankets up to his chin as he tried to get comfortable. It was a difficult thing to do, with his shoulder and the IV and the coolness of the medical ward. He laid there for a long time, half-awake and drifting, when a thought brought him surging back to full awareness. He struggled up onto his elbows.
"Bumblebee, is he okay?"
Ratchet's bipedal form froze, and Sam could feel his tense wariness from across their bond.
"Bumblebee is fine. He was upset when you died, of course, but he calmed down after you on-lined."
Sam frowned at the medic, who was fiddling with some equipment on the other side of the room. He could feel the half-truth of the medic's words.
"What aren't you telling me, Ratchet?"
The medic turned to regard him with serious optics, "You are too weak to worry about Bumblebee right now. Do as I say, and get some rest."
Sam felt a flash of consternation at being so casually dismissed. He opened his mouth to argue when he felt an admonishing tap across their bond.
"Don't argue with me."
"Don't treat me like a child." He snapped back.
"I'll treat you like one if you continue to behave like one."
Sam felt righteous indignation flood through him in an instant. Behaving like a child? All things considered, he thought he was coping rather well, thank-you-very-much. Before Sam could say something really rude, he felt a pulse of consternation from the medic.
"Of course you're coping well. Please accept my apologies, Sam." Ratchet in-vented slowly, "It has been many millions of years since I shared a Creator bond with anyone, let alone a sentient adult. There will be an adjustment period, for both of us."
Sam stared at the medic in surprise, taken aback by the genuine contriteness in his demeanor—until now, he wasn't completely sure whether the crotchety old medic even knew how to feel remorseful. He felt a flare of irritation across their bond, and winced apologetically in response.
Ratchet ex-vented slowly, as though trying to salvage the last dregs of his patience, "I suppose I deserved that."
Sam was barely listening, their interaction raising another concern.
"I don't know how it works for you guys, but people think a lot of weird, random shit that they would never say out loud. If you're going to get huffy every time I think something unflattering, this is going to get really awkward, really fast."
Ratchet stared at him considerately, "I will do my best to give you your mental space, as it were, but that is not always possible. You are very… loud."
Sam frowned, taken aback, "Loud?"
Ratchet made a soft noise in acknowledgement.
"We can communicate across the neural network in several ways. The first is a ping, a direct communique from one mechanoid to another. These are private by default, but they can be encrypted to add additional security. The second is a message sent from one mechanoid to several others, such as our tacnet or the open communications channel. As with private messages, these vary in their level of encryption. The last is an unsecure, unencrypted message, which can be accessed by anyone within range."
Sam felt a sense of dread curl in his stomach, "What are you saying? Am I broadcasting everything I'm thinking?"
Ratchet hesitated, "Yes and no. As with any newspark, your internal communications have been sent over an unsecured and unencrypted channel, but I have been firewalling you from the moment you on-lined."
Sam tilted his head, frowning confusedly. "Firewalling?"
"Exactly as the word suggests. I have established a series of medical-grade blocks between you and the rest of the neural network. If these were not in place, your transmissions would be detectable by anyone within range."
"Wait, so all of this isn't limited to you and me? Will I eventually be able to communicate with others?"
Ratchet nodded, "In so far as I can tell."
Sam twisted to look up at the medic, but the motion caused pain to lance through his shoulder. He groaned low in his throat, raising a hand to press against the gauze. Ratchet was there in an instant, a hypodermic needle already extending from his servo. He took Sam's arm firmly, and injected the amber-colored fluid into the IV on the back of Sam's hand.
Sam sighed heavily as liquid bliss stole up his arm with every beat of his heart.
"Does that mean I can talk with Bee?" He asked sleepily. At Ratchet's affirmative nod, he asked, "What about the comm channel? And the tacnet? Will that work too?"
Ratchet huffed in exasperation, "Perhaps. As I said earlier, we will test the extent of your connection to the neural network after you have healed."
Sam felt the edges of his consciousness blurring away, and he struggled to stay awake.
"Yeah, but—"
"Oh for Primus' sake." Ratchet groused. Sam felt the medic's mental presence focus intently, then he felt an abrupt push, and the medical bay telescoped away as he fell into a deep sleep.