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Date: 50:3 (15 years after the Battle of Yavin)

Miles awoke in a drenching sweat. Rolling over to the side of his bed, he palmed the light tab. He squinted at the glare and quickly slapped it off, then sat up and threw a switch on his bedside comm-panel.

Waiting for an answer, Miles' thoughts started to go back over the past days since the return from the ice-planet.

As Miles had been 'decanted' from the bacta tank in Farpoint's medbay, he awoke to the sounds of a heated conversation between Colonel Vrecken and Captain Pierce.

"I said I think we should've gone ahead and put him in a sarcophagus before you brought him out from under the anesthesia," Corry ground out angrily.

"Colonel, even if I did agree with your sentiments, I couldn't do that," Hawkeye shot back.

"Why not?" Corry asked. "I'm the regimental technical officer and your superior. I could order it on my own authority."

"I think you might have to deal with even higher authority Colonel," Hawkeye said, with just a bit of puff. "The Admiral has banned their use. I convinced him—and it didn't take too much convincing—that your experience made them just too dangerous to use."

"You're just trying to justify your own techniques!" Corry spat back as she flung her hands in the air and began to walk off. "I'd like to see him whole again, instead of slowly turning into a machine. I'll take it up with Fel myself!"

"Well, good luck Colonel," Hawkeye said bitterly, ending the conversation.

The memory was interrupted as the comm call was finally connected.

"Pierce here," Hawkeye answered, popping Miles back to the present.

"Sorry to wake you, but I'm still having trouble sleeping."

"Why did I know it was you, Miles? Nightmares again, or is it a headache this time?" Hawkeye asked, audibly yawning.

"Both," Miles answered.

"Do you need me to come up? Or…"

"Naw, Doc. I was just wondering if I… well…"

"Well, what?" Hawkeye asked, a bit impatiently.

"Well, is okay for me to take a drink or two now? It's been two days since I've been out of the bacta and… you know."

"Yeah, go ahead, but just a snort or two. And I want to see you first thing in the morning. We probably need to tweak some of the sensory inputs. Now, goodnight!" Hawkeye said as he cut the connection.

"Snort or two the man says!" Miles said as he pulled open a drawer, pulled out a bottle, ripped the off the cap and upended it to his mouth. Letting out a contented "Pahh!" expelling the breath he held as he let the amber fluid gurgle down his throat, he resealed the bottle and returned it, now nearly half empty, to the nightstand.

"Eighteen year old Glen Morangie. At least I can still get you through the gate," he said to the bottle as he slid back under the bedcovers and drifted off.

The liquor didn't really help though. Miles went to sleep swiftly enough, but that sleep was as troubled as before, only this time the alcohol kept him from waking up when the nightmare ended. A nightmare made even worse because it was reality.

* * * * *

Miles was opening his eyes after being washed clean of the bacta fluid. Looking around, he noticed a dizzying speed and knife sharp crispness to his vision. It actually made him begin to feel like he had motion sickness. Groaning slightly as he tried to raise himself up, a voice—the same mechanical 2-1B droid voice he remembered from the medbay on Kinesis —broke in. "Please, sir. Please hold still. The Doctor will be along shortly."

Miles lay back on the table keeping his eyes closed to relieve his nausea. In a few seconds a familiar voice caused him to blink his eyes open.

"Sorry to have taken so long Miles," Hawkeye said. "You're not the only one who got their piece of the action, and we uncorked several today."

"Well, at least my eyes are working now Doc... sort of. I didn't have a way to tell you but I couldn't see, couldn't feel, couldn't even move after I got hit. Bad this time, I guess," Miles said as a question.

"Pretty bad," Hawkeye answered.

"Okay," Miles said as he slowly lifted his head and pulled himself up onto bended arms to look down his body.

He nearly collapsed back as more waves of nausea returned. He asked, "I don't see any new arms, legs or bacta healed lacerations. Where'd I get it?"

"That's what we need to talk about. You got hit directly on your helmet. As good as our newer armor is, you know it won't completely stop a blast. You had direct laser damage to your skull and pieces of it and your helmet tore into your brain."

"So why am I not dead?" Miles quietly asked.

"You were lucky, a couple of inches lower and it would've blown your head clean off, solving all our problems right then and there. There was enough of you left that I could rebuild your nervous system and bone with biotech systems and Mister Bacta here did the rest," Hawkeye answered as he patted a tank.

Hawkeye's words finally worked their way into Miles' thinking, causing him to interrupt.

"You said biotech systems?

"Yeah," Hawk answered. "I had to replace a lot of what's in your noggin' with something that's got a name a mile long. In any case it's easier to say you've got a lot of computer doing your thinking now."

"And anything else?"

"One last thing," Hawkeye said as he and the 2-1B droid helped Miles to lift himself to a sitting position. Hawkeye told Miles to keep his eyes closed until his equilibrium steadied down and, as he waited, Miles could hear what sounded like a curtain being drawn aside.

"Alright," Hawkeye continued a few seconds later. "I've got a mirror at the foot of the table and the lights been dimmed. I want you to slowly open your eyes. I think it'll be easier to see for yourself than for me to explain it."

Miles opened his eyes, let them clear a bit and then looked at the mirror. Miles saw his reflection. A reflection his new vision saw so crisp and clear. His vision blurred and he felt sick to death. As he began to pass out he heard Hawkeye telling him that everything would look better in a few weeks time, after the synthskin and hair implants had time to grow and his nervous system adjusted.

Fine! I'll need lots of hair to cover that monstrosity, Miles thought. Most of my skull a chrome dome melded into flesh and my eyes! I swear I can see a little cybernetic gleam in back of them looking at me like there was somebody else in there.

Then blackness closed in and the nightmare ended.

* * * * *

That next morning's appointment helped as Hawkeye reset some of the sensory data inputs and the 'edge', as Miles called it, to his sight had diminished to a tolerable level.

Several more days passed and Pierce had been correct. Miles' vertigo had eased and he could walk around unaided. During rest periods, Miles read-up on his "Augmented Cybernetic Neural Replacement Modules".

Miles had said the words several times, then proceeded to wash his mouth out, with whisky replacing the soap that he felt should be used for uttering indecent words.

BioTech had been upgrading their technology to salvage combat troops, a valuable commodity always in short supply. Kits had been developed and issued by the Medical Corps in limited quantities. They were only to be used when the choice was life as a permanent invalid, or worse. What Pierce had done when Miles had been carried in wounded was install the part for treating head injuries. The installation program determined what areas were damaged and the cybernetic nerve and brain cell replacements literally hooked themselves up. All the surgeon had to do was fit the skull plate and the system automatically did everything else.

Miles' sight and hearing were under computer control and were constantly readjusted and corrected to human 'perfect'. He would no longer have to worry about needing optical viewers or nerve deafness as time passed.

The replaced parts of his brain that dealt with cognitive functions had a computer's basic filing system, so although he couldn't actually think any faster than before, what he thought or experienced was filed perfectly away awaiting retrieval on demand. Even the power cell problem had been solved. His body's nervous system supplied all the energy the device needed.

This 'upgrade' had an unfortunate side effect. Miles' continuing nightmare was replayed in utterly exquisite exact detail, perfect in everyway. All efforts of Farpoint's medical personnel had no effect. Miles eventually lied, told them he was doing just fine, thank you and kept up his own brand of medication—Corporal Felsper increasing the quantity and variety of liquors surreptitiously imported from around the galaxy.

* * * * *

In the meantime, unknown to Miles and to the rest of the Squadron, Hawkeye had his own problems on the subject to deal with.

"Sir," Hawkeye said as he stood at attention in front of Admiral Fel. "I want to thank you for taking time to hear me out."

"Go ahead, Doc. And stand easy. Sit down why don't you?" Nick answered, motioning to a padded chair. "What can I do for you?"

"Sir, it's about Major Fortis and his return to duty status," Hawkeye said

"Is there a problem?"

"Sir, I don't feel right about marking his records 'For Duty' and letting it go at that. I don't feel he's up to it....yet."

"You have some medical reason to delay this?" Nick asked as he punched up a file code on a datapad. "Everything here from his regiment says he's fit for duty."

"I know, sir," Hawkeye answered, hesitating again. "It's just a feeling I have. His recovery followed medical norms, however he had quite a number of problems adjusting to his injury treatment. But it... it's like he's concealing something. I can't pin it down though."

"Captain, if you medically certify that Major Fortis is physically or psychologically unfit, I'll back you up fully. Colonel Braman be damned," Nick said as he picked up the datapad, wiggled it, then dropped it back down to his desktop. "But I can't go on 'feelings', and neither can you. An investigation into that kind of complaint could ruin your career. Give me something hard. If not... we need commanders," Nick said with a shrug.

* * * * *

Captain Pierce was right in one thing though, synthskin, regrown hair and a bit of styling worked wonders. One can hardly tell that durasteel plating replaced most of Miles' skull. Even his eyes appeared normal, although if he stared at you that little glow in the back gave most people the willies.

Miles' nightmares continued, but he dealt with them as best he could. The needs of a line battalion don't give time to feel sorry for oneself.