Mortal Coil Part I

[Tachyon 0]

Mortal Coil, Part I

Contretemps and a Fallen Angel

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Ah, Earth. Although technically it is just an average Minshara-class blue-green planet, orbiting an average G-type yellow star, to Grey it was more than that, it was one of his homes. Over the past six months, Grey had come to think of Challenger as home too, but Earth was still his birthplace, and it was good to visit once and a while.

 

His parents had a nice seaside cottage off the coast of Vancouver Island, but it was the middle of winter . . . and they were living in Vancouver itself, near the marine biology lab where his mother worked. Grey enthusiastically sounded the metallic door chime. The door opened smoothly, and his mother appeared in the doorway.

 

“Dave,” she said her voice a strange mix of surprise with a hint of apprehension. “Welcome home, son.” She moved aside to allow him entry. The science officer set his bags down near the entrance and warmly embraced Irene.

 

“It’s good to be home,” Grey replied, and saw his kid brother Nicholas come out of the kitchen. “Nick!” he called out.

 

Nick’s brown eyes sparkled for a moment, but there was a deeper sadness to them. “Hi . . .” he mumbled with uncharacteristic monotony. Indeed, Grey noticed that the entire house seemed somewhat more sombre than usual. The lights seemed more dim and sterile, and the typical effusive air had grown stale.

 

Grey’s smile slowly decayed into an expression of bewilderment. “What’s going on? Where’s dad? Is Harriet here, or is she still on Mars?” At the mention of Harriet, tears ran down Irene’s cheek, and shook her head slightly. Grey furrowed his brow. “Mom, what’s wrong?”

 

Biting on her lower lip, Irene said slowly through her short sobs, “There was . . . an accident, Dave.”

 

*****

 

Ah, the brain. Although it can be trivially stated as a lump of grey matter responsible for coordinating a body, it is much more than that. As elusive as it is fascinating, neurologists continue to pursue the secrets of this organ. It is responsible for our mental wellbeing, our emotions, and our memories . . . and oh how fragile it can be.

 

The hospital was of the type specifically designed for neuro-trauma and research in neurology. It consisted of three care wings, and a research lab. The walls had seen all matter of brain injuries, from those that created raving lunatics to those that made someone whole.

 

Harriet Grey was patient 0097-XL-8233-GH, and was assigned room 42 in the Long-Term Care facility. Her diagnosis: tovanengitis. Her prognosis: debilitative and terminal. The most experienced doctors in the hospital set her life expectancy as somewhere around one to five more years. There was no known cure.

 

“Tovanengitis?” Grey asked, distraught. They had arrived at the hospital a half hour ago, his father already there in room 42. The doctors were currently explaining to Grey the symptoms associated with the disease.

 

Dr. Tratos looked somewhat atypical for a doctor, but his credentials were apparently very high. He grinned a small, regretful grin, and nodded his head coldly. “Indeed. It is a synaptic dysfunction caused by damage to the cerebellum, or in some cases, the hippocampus.” He threw in a few other sentences that escalated the amount of medical jargon, ultimately confusing Grey even more.

 

His mother, through more sobs on the ride over, had explained the story, and Mark Grey explained it more clearly when Dave arrived at the hospital. Once more on a geological expedition on Mars, Harriet had been partially lowered down the side of a cliff in order to obtain precious geological samples. The tether line connecting her environmental suit to the anchor above was defective, however, and snapped at a particularly weak point. Harriet had plummeted nearly a hundred metres to the floor of the dried channel.

 

Tratos categorized her as ‘fortunate’. The fall should have killed her, or at least exposed her body to the dangerous Martian atmosphere. As it was, the landing broke her legs and worse, fractured her skull. “It could have been much more severe,” he said. “We’re talking catatonic vegetable here. But right now, she can talk . . . somewhat.”

 

Grey soon found out what Tratos meant by ‘somewhat,’ when he went to see his sister. Reclining in the bed, several medical devices attached to her body, Harriet’s haggard face betrayed her pain. Her voice was thin and raspy as she spoke. “Dave . . .” she said weakly.

 

“Hi, sis.” That didn’t sum it quite up, though. Unparalleled amounts of emotion were flowing through Grey, as they were through his sister. It has often been said that twins share a bond with each other, some sort of paranormal link. Although this may be partially true—Grey had always been sensitive to Harriet’s feelings, and vice versa—nothing spectacular had come of this, until now. It was particularly heart wrenching to see his sister in this position of despair.

 

“The doctors . . . say I’ve got brain damage. I’ll live . . . for now. It’s good to see . . . you again.” Harriet smiled, but it was forced.

 

As she spoke, all Grey could think about was Tratos’ explanation of the disease. “It causes extensive damage to the synapses in the motor area of the cerebrum, and overall affects the nervous system as well. She will gradually lose control of her motor skills and nervous system, and eventually lapse into a coma.”

 

To Dave, this was a blow of awesome dimensions. He realized that here was something he could not defeat, not directly . . . he had been gone. Although the rational part of his scientific mind assured him that there was nothing he could have done, it was an accident, this was not comforting to Grey, it was not enough.

 

Why?