NBRUs
Human bodies are fragile things. I
should know; I’ve been shot. Given that fragility, the dearth of human doctors
in deep space has precipitated rapid advances in medical technology. We’ve
developed ways for regular folks to treat all but the most grievous of
injuries. In my med kit, I’ve got a little handheld unit for skin patches and
grafts on superficial wounds. Those won’t be a damn bit of help for the 5-inch
gash in my bicep. It requires internal muscle and blood vessel repair. For such
invasive tasks the best minds in medicine have provided NBRUs (Nanomite
Biological Repair Units for the blissfully unaware).
However useful these little wonders of
modern tech are, their use isn’t something to contemplate lightly. The nanomites were developed using Kigvan
technology, and Kigvans, our alien allies, have no concept of pain. They find
human pain responses to be endlessly fascinating but ultimately inconsequential
to treatment. To break open a kit of NBRUs takes a dire need or a dangerous
level of masochism. I’ve often been accused of the latter, but a 15-centimeter
wide, titanium, bolt putting a hole where I didn’t need one definitely
qualifies as “dire need”.
First step when using NBRUs is setting
my bio-med chip to monitor blood pressure and cardiac rhythms. I also find it
necessary to use the crew member alert function. It’s generally a good idea for the crew to
know when their captain passes out on the floor. Despite the fact there’s a
pool of blood forming at my feet, I can’t pull any crew members off their
tasks. The engine has to be fixed or we
all die a cold and lonely death. Honestly, if my Kigvan first officer, Karzak,
was here he’d spend half the time reminding me how he recommended against using
the engine repair robot that shot this bolt at me.
There are now several different pain
sensations occurring simultaneously within my body. Severed nerves around the
tear cause a dull ache. The deeper tissue wound feels like I’ve poured bourbon
into it. Then there’s the roiling nausea of anticipation of how much more this
will hurt once I actually start fixing it. Admittedly, some of the nausea might
be due to blood loss.
I have to attach the migratory collar
above the wound. NBRUs travel through the human body quicker than a heartbeat.
Unfortunately for the human whose body is being repaired, the little devils
don’t always stay where the wound is. They like to travel and “fix” other areas
of the body. As I don’t really have time for a frontal lobotomy today, I’ll use
the collar. It closes around my arm with a metallic snick and adjusts until
it’s tight. I should point out that the collar prevents the NBRUs from
traveling by zapping them with a targeted bolt of electricity. Basically, it’s shocking me every half
second. Now I’m twitching and flicking blood in an interesting arc across the
floor.
The NBRU kit includes several metal
cylinders the length of my index finger, a spray canister, and several syringes
of fluid. There’s also an instructional hologram that auto-plays upon opening,
but I close that immediately. The overly cheerful med-tech’s instructions would
induce more rage than is healthy for my current cardiac state. I grab a vial
marked Hemo-bot, twist off the cap
with my good hand, and pour the contents into my wound. The NBRUs are too
miniscule to see, of course, but they are transported into my body via a saline
solution.
A bit of the solution splashes up near
the collar. That produces a more powerful shock and elicits several choice
words about the parentage of medical device manufacturers. Blood vessel repairs
take a few minutes, so I flop into a chair to wait it out. My bio-chip chirps
as my blood pressure improves. I try not to think about the microscopic little
robots swirling through my bloodstream. They’re designed to travel through
veins, arteries and capillaries, repairing tears and cleaning out foreign
particles. Unfortunately, they won’t break down for natural reabsorption. I have to extract the bots to avoid causing a
deadly clot.
When my blood pressure readout and a
quick pass of a scanner over my wound indicates that the bleeding has stopped,
I grab a syringe from the kit. It’s labeled Hemo-bot
Removal. Right above it is nestled a small metal disk. I fumble that twice--my hands are slippery
from the saline solution and my own blood--before slapping it against the back
of my hand. I’ve been told many times, with lots of condescension, that the removal
system is not a magnet. I’m sure the instructional video tells me how the
little disk works to draw all the hemo-bots to one section of my arm so that I
can extract them, but “it’s a special kind of magnet” works for me. Gritting my
teeth, I wait for a lump to form under the metal disk. Once all of the bots are
clumped up in one area, I jab the syringe in and pull them out.
I’m no longer in danger of bleeding out
all over my stateroom, but the pain continues to intensify and I can still see
torn bits of muscle and flesh inside the open wound. Oh, and the damn collar is
still shocking the crap out of my arm at regular intervals. That’s actually
serving a dual purpose now, as the constant low-level electrocution keeps me
from passing out. I have to stay awake just a few more minutes.
Step two of open wound treatment involves
another vial of NBRUs. This container is marked Tissue Repair. Apparently “Flesh Bots” had improper connotations. The
conveying solution for these bots is gelatinous. It oozes out of the vial and seeps into the
jagged edges of my wound. The appearance of the gel is the least disturbing
aspect of these bots. All of the accompanying information repeatedly assures
users of NBRUs that they are too miniscule to feel as they crawl through the
body. That’s utter bullshit.
Previously dulled nerves reignite in
searing waves of agony the length of my arm. Bile rises far enough in my throat
to make me gag. A trillion microscopic fire ants have just taken up residence in
my body, and they are making a new home out of my tattered muscle fiber. I bite
down so hard on my lip that blood seeps across my teeth and tongue. The small
monitoring chip in my wrist chimes a warning about my heart rate. I can’t focus
the energy to turn it off.
As distracting as the waves of pain are,
I am not immune to the disquieting sight of my wound stitching itself back
together. After just a minute, I can no longer see into the gash. At the two
minute and thirty second mark, there is only an angry red zigzag where the open
wound once was. These NBRUs, their job completed, will degrade into simple
salts and water over the next twenty-four hours.
Wrung out, shaking, and nauseated, I
weakly push the red button on the metal device still encircling my arm. One final shriek inducing shock travels down
my arm. I can only hope that all the bots are disabled, because there’s no way
in hell I’m repeating that step. The collar detaches with a soft click and
clatters onto the floor. Before I join the discarded devices, vials, and gauze
down there on the floor, I inject antibiotics and painkillers into my uninjured
arm. The wound still needs a skin graft ointment, but I just don’t have the
willpower.
I actually manage to stumble to my bunk.
Right before my tunneling vision blacks out entirely, I spare a final curse for
robots of all sizes. Human beings might
be fragile things, but we’re resilient too. That’s a fact I intend to
demonstrate to a certain engine repair bot, just as soon as I’m conscious
again.
