From the post:
Deep in the caverns of the old mine working, safe and secure form the world beyond, the rebel army gathered in strength and determination. Over smoking camp fires, Ghar talked freely of the rebel Commander Fartok. They told and re-told the stories they had heard, embellishing their yarns each time with ever greater feats and ever more wondrous deeds. Whether these stories were true or not no-one could say. But it did not matter. They were good stories.
None were as good or as stirring or as eagerly heard as the tales told by Nurk 27. Nurk wove stories so wild with possibility that his listeners were held spellbound by his words. The others crowded round to hear him, their round eyes wide with wonder, their drooling jaws slack with awe. Such words he span as no Ghar had ever heard before. Words with vivid colour and unimaginable texture. Words such as freedom and honour. Words like pride and self. And the strangest word of all: family. Nurk chanted his tales by the firelight, his voice rising and falling as if possessed.
He told stories of faraway places, of deep mines and cold asteroids, of work and honour, and brothers and sisters, of comrades and workmates. For Nurk was insane. That was hardly surprising. Nurk’s head bore the crude scar of the Boromite brain graft. His bulging skull was encrusted with the keratinous scaly growth of that dour space-borne race. Nurk was the sole survivor of the Outcasts that Karg had brain-grafted with the Boromite refugees. Nurk was a window into a world beyond imagining.