Editing Commissar Techpriestess love story (section)

=== Chapter 11 ===
Octavia’s fleshbrain giggled, lovebirds, she liked the sound of that. Her cognitor sighed, taking advantage of the fact it was dominant again, and continued its work on the noospheric topology she needed to create. Rogal stood, collecting both their trays,
“I’ll see you at lunch?” He asked, reaching down for his cap. His hand hit table and he looked down. Octavia’s mechadendrites were offering it to him from where she sat, smiling up at him,
“If it pleases the Commissar,” she said, “Will you meet me at the vehicle pit?”
Rogal nodded, taking his hat from her mechanical tendrils, “Sounds like a plan,”
Octavia’s mechadendrite traced down the Commissar’s hand, craving to be near him for just a little while longer. His gloved hand twisted, wrapping a mechadendrite around his finger, before gently pulling away. Octavia watched as he turned on his heel and strode away, the crowd in the mess parting to let him through. She sighed happily and took her recaf mug in both hands, taking a sip and collecting her thoughts.
“Well that was sweet,” Caelistis said, plonking herself down on the table beside her friend, a piece of toast clutched by a mechadendrite as she pulled her hair and cables up into a ponytail. Octavia blushed,
“So you were watching?”
“Me and everyone else in here,” The slender techpriestess said, before taking a bite from her toast, “You really are living a gelt romance, it’s sickening.”
Octavia hid her mouth behind her mug, taking a sip to cover her discomfort, “It’s not that bad, we just-“
“Just so happened to be performing some rather complicated and delicate calibrations on our table?” Caelistis said quietly, her grin wolfish. Octavia went a brighter red, her mechadendrites pulling her hood further forward. “You just happened to end up in his tent this morning?”

“That’s a misunderstanding, he had forgotten his gloves, I was merely returning them,” Octavia said plaintively, “I didn’t want him to get lashed, you know that he would have gotten ten lashes for that? Ten lashes!”
Caelistis grinned at the idea, a man that husky could take a lot of punishment. His commissarial training would make him hard to break, so feisty, so defiant. She giggled, “Yes, ten lashes, and he wouldn’t have blinked,”
A pair of mechadendrites folded themselves angrily as Octavia pouted, “No. Don’t you start with that. I know what you’re like. Don’t think I don’t remember what happened between you and Phanes,”
Caelistis put a hand to her mouth in mock horror, “Oh, that? He was fine, I replaced his mechadendrites and arm myself,” 
“His arm?” 
The taller techpriestess looked away, “Oh, right, you didn’t know about that bit. I, well, I may or may not have disassembled his arm a little.” She said sheepishly, “But that’s beside the point.”
Octavia looked puzzled, “There was a point to that?”
Caelistis shrugged, “Probably, you know I’m no good in the mornings. Anyway, I just dropped by to get some breakfast, tell you I won’t be around till late again tonight, and see how your night went,” Her grin turned wolfish again, “But if what I saw last night was anything to go by, you had a very, very good night,”
Octavia smiled, “You could say that,” She said quietly, her augmented eyes brightening. Caelistis’s eyes went wide, “You didn’t?”
Tilting her head, Octavia just looked at her friend, her small smile stilly playing on her lips. Caelistis reached out with a mechadendrite, planting it on her friend’s slim shoulders, “Did you?”
“Did I what?” Octavia’s fleshbrain entertained itself with the idea of what could have happened if she had.

“Did you and he…?” Caelistis mimed some rather suggestive actions with her hands and mechadendrites
“No, we did not. He was a perfect gentleman. He stayed for a while longer, we talked, and he left.” Her cognitor forbade her from letting any more details slip, citing that any number of ears could be listening. Her fleshbrain just noted that he could have been a perfect ruffian, and she wouldn’t have cared. “Speaking of last night,” Octavia continued, looking at her attractively disheveled friend, “Where were you?”
“Vehicle pits, Chimera maintenance.” Caelistis said, before taking another mouthful of toast. Octavia’s cognitor opened a new menornote, adding a few lines about chimera maintenance. Her fleshbrain wondered how she could get that same messily attractive look as Caelistis, running metaphorical hands through conceptual hair.
“Right, chimera maintenance. Same again tonight,”
“You know it,” Caelistis continued to look away, taking another bite of toast. Rising to her feet, Octavia excused herself, “I’ll see you in pits then, enjoy your breakfast.”
Pushing her chair in with a mechadendrite, the petite priestess made her way from the mess. Her cognitor buzzed, pulling up information on the chimera maintenance schedules, her friends working hours, and the strange anti bruise ointment smell that had been around her a couple of times that morning. First with Vox officer Tiberius, and now again from Caelistis, her cognitor found it most curious. She wandered, lost in her thoughts, her cognitor multi-tasking, allowing her to dodge and avoid the bustle of the base as she made her way to the vehicle pit, while still keeping focus on the quickly expanding web of intrigue that Caelistis had begun. She greeted her mechanics team, as she walked into the main workshop, a chorus of staticy binary based good mornings and hellos chattered back at her.

Logging into the workshop noosphere, files were quickly shared between Octavia and her team. Without a verbal word, the team merged their collective consciousness under Octavia’s command. Her fleshbrain sat quarantined, happily lounging on an imaginary couch, as her Cognitor orchestrated the collective consciousness of the mechanics team, each magos, artificer, and coder working together, fabricating and constructing the new noospheric server, as well as the broadcasting antennae and receivers for each hydra, and all the associated codes and programs. The morning quickly progressed, seconds blurring into hours.

Rogal tapped gently with his chisel, the small scrolls of wood falling around his boots as he worked. The sounds of construction filled his ears, as one of the men started singing, the hymnal of work carrying clear in the air. Soon, more voices took up the tune, before Rogal himself joined in, his powerful voice rumbling along with the bass line. The men worked, the sun shone, and Rogal felt like the Emprah himself was smiling down on them. The men worked hard, the new barracks frame coming together quickly, as teams moved in concert, hewing logs into planks, sawing those planks to size, the pneumatic whump of nailguns puncturing the crisp morning air. Rogal paused from his work, putting down his tools and taking up the drinks crate. Hoisting the box to his shoulder, he moved about the worksite, handing out drinks and compliments, and generally maintaining morale like a good commissar should. He walked up to a team of rookies, laughing and rough housing as young guardsmen did, offering drinks and other refreshments. The young men downed their tools eagerly, the one closest to Rogal dropping his nailgun a little too enthusiastically. The pneumatic tool bump fired, three whumps in quick succession, followed by a roar of pain. The crate tumbling from his shoulder, Rogal clutched at his arm, blood trailing from the nails that had speared through.

Bottles smashed as the crate hit the ground, soldiers racing over, the unfortunate rookie slammed to the ground roughly by his commanding officer. A medic shoved his way to the crowed over, shouting to be let through. The nails in his arm looking like silver icicles, bright red blood dripping down, seemed so foreign to the commissar’s eyes, as he studied them with detached fascination. He flexed his hand experimentally, and grunted with pain, white hot lances firing up his arm. The rookie soldier had been dragged to his feet once more, his face pale as he faced the consequences of his actions. Rogal’s breathing was laboured, as the sergeant spoke,
“What shall we do sir?”
Rogal roared in pain again, as the medic gingerly poked and prodded at his wounds, before Rogal shoo’d him away with his good hand, before he took a good hard look at his assailant.
“Gross negligence is heresy,” Rogal began, his voice strained, “how old are you, son?”
The guardsman whimpered, his sergeant delivering a swift punch to his ribs, “Nineteen, Sir,” He gasped out, coughing from the blow,
“Right, well, think yourself lucky. I’ve heard of men getting thirty lashes for things like this. You’re only getting ten. Sergeant, take care of the rest.”
The rookie was dragged away, his face pale, as his sergeant was heard to mutter, “You’re a damn lucky fool, the Commissar is a good man. You owe him.”
The Medic tutted impatiently, “Really sir, I need to have a look at that arm.”
Rogal sighed, offering the injured limb up for inspection. The nails had punched straight through the massive muscles of his fore and upper arms, and by the grace of the Emprah, not hit a single bone. The medic whistled, “Impressive, Commissar. Him on earth seems to have claimed you as his own.” Rogal just winced as skilled hands with nimble fingers pressed and prodded around the metal spikes.

The medic looked up at the Burly commissar, “Now, we can do this quick and simple here, or you can go to the infirmary.”
Rogal sighed, he hated the infirmary. Turning his head, he straightened his arm with a grunt. The Medic just sighed, “You’re a brave man sir,” Reaching into his medkit, he pulled out a rubber block, some vials, and a couple of bandages. Offering the block to the commissar, the medic said, “You might want to bite down on this. Things are going to hurt.”
Rogal nodded, as the men upturned the crate for him to sit on. He handed his hat to another guardsman as he took his seat, placing the rubber block in his mouth. Offering his arm to the medic, he looked away again.
“Ready sir?”
Rogal nodded, his reply muffled by his gag. The medic grabbed a pair of pliers from the workbench near by, and grabbed a hold of the first nail. Rogal’s roar was muffled by his gag, as his arm jerked, blood spraying as the medic tore the first nail out of his arm. His breath ragged as he panted, his jaw tensed against the rubber block, as the medic tipped the content of the first vial over the bright red wound. Rogal howled again, pain lancing up his arm, his vision going white at the edges. He spat the rubber gag away, sucking in huge lungfuls of air. He managed to grin at the medic,
“You were right, that does smart,”
The medic smiled, allowing himself some black humor to lighten the mood, “Could be worse sir, you could have wanted it chopped off,”
Rogal nodded, “Yeah, could be worse. Next one, please?”
The medic nodded, “Ready?”
Another grunt, another spurt of blood, and Rogal howled at the sky, before the medic grabbed his arm and dumped another vial worth of liquid on the second wound. The Commissars broad shoulders heaved as he gasped for air, grunting and growling at the pain.

Again, his breathing slowed, the white hot pain shooting up his arm fading to dull aching embers. The slightest movement hurt, the muscles protesting against the nerves, who were in turn hating anything they could. Taking a deep breath, Rogal nodded at the medic, “Last one,”
“Last one. Ready sir?”
Rogal nodded, a small part of him wondering if this had really been such a good idea. The medic grabbed his pliers once more, and pulled at the silvery rod buried in the meat of the commissar’s arm. With a bellow like a rampaging grox, Rogal tore his arm back, the nail ripping free, blood spraying across the ground. The medic threw his tool to the ground, grabbing the final vial and dumping the contents over the gash in Rogal’s arm. His free hand balled in a fist, Rogal lashed out at the workbench beside him, his powerful fist pounding into the side. The whole bench shook, as the hulking Commissar stomped his boots and hit the bench again. The Medic started binding his arm, the first white bandage covered in red by time he had finished wrapping. The second bandage stayed cleaner, as he fastened a sling around Rogal’s neck.
“You’re going to need to keep it elevated, sir. You can’t do much else today,”
Rogal looked down at his bandaged arm and sighed, gingerly trying to flex his fingers. He was rewarded with lances of pain. “How long till I can use it again?” 
The medic thought for a moment, as he packed up his kit, “A few days. That stuff I put on there will speed the healing, though you might want to see the doctor for some pain killers.”
Rogal sighed and nodded, “Understood,”
“Look on the bright side, at least it’s lunch time.”
The Commissar sighed, as he placed his hat on his head, “At least it’s lunch time.”