Cold and Alive?

By Gabriella Cerra

Brennan and I shall revel in our discovery. This fossil’s archaeological impact will far exceed what we imagined when embarking on this expedition. This hominid bears a remarkable resemblance to Homo Erectus, just with differences in characteristics perfectly congruent to the patterns of selection already reflected through known evolutionary ancestry. The volume of the brain cavity, pronouncement of the brow ridge, robustness, and height of 1.5 meters all indicate this is an even earlier hominid, a species not previously discovered. 

For years, she and I have conducted all sorts of meaningless lab work, as we watched the opportunities to examine significant paleontological discoveries go to our counterparts. Years of missed chances, downtrodden spirits, meaningless busy work, tiresome harassment, and extinguished hopes proved inferior to the hard work and determination Brennan and I put forth in the face of our adversity. Our exclusion finally proved advantageous, and more so than conceivable, when we were asked to excavate eastern parts of Turkana rather than Ethiopia and discovered this new hominid, our hominid. 

Today will prove to be a day notable in paleontological history, but more so, the greatest day in either of our lives, and this is cause to celebrate together. A toast is due, so I rise from my position lying in my tent, unable to sleep upon the excitement of today’s events, and venture out to find Brennan. At least, I try. As I push forward my unzipped tent door and set one foot forth, rising, everything goes dark.

I shoot up, panting and feeling the failure of the air to reach my lungs. I gasp but only get hollow breaths as I feel icy sensations lighting up my body from what feels like every nerve ending. I feel as if my blood is mobilizing for the first time in centuries, and ice is coursing through my veins. So many feelings and various stimuli are entering my senses at once. Everything is violently bright and blurred as I try to make sense of my surroundings and struggle to feel the motions my brain is requesting of my limbs. I am trying to smell, but I feel as if I am not even in a space with air, as I fail to absorb that, let alone any detectable scent. 

Taste evades me, but I try to draw it in, feeling like I am grasping at non-existent straws. A faint smell of metallic crisp coolness and also a metallic taste meet my senses as my surroundings start to fall into focus. I am in a bed, a hospital bed, and my knees are being drawn to my chest as I realize I am upright, and my hands are bracing my neck and sternum. 

There is an end table next to me, on both sides of me actually. I am confused, alarmed, and going into shock. 5… things I can see: white sheets, oak end table to my right, one to my left, a too bright window, and an IV; 4… things I can touch: my hands–I can feel my skin–, this scratchy pillow, the hand rails to this bed and this gown; 3…things I can hear: a distant ringing, static noise, and the whirring of what must be a far-off vent; 2…things I can smell: sterilization chemicals and I do not know; 1…thing I can taste: nothing. I taste nothing. The metal I swear was gracing my taste buds is now a ghost, but my sight, smell, touch, and hearing are coming back, refocusing. I can breathe. I feel the air in my lungs, and I am able to focus now on synchronizing my heart’s beating and my breathing. I am okay. I am okay, but where? 

It is all coming back to me; I was going to see Brennan, and I felt the force of a blunt object smashing my skull. Then, everything went dark, and now I wake up here. I am in a hospital. A branch must have fallen on me. I have been treated for my injuries, but why am I so cold? Where is Brennan? Where is this hospital? Where is my doctor? I am safe; I am okay. I am okay. I can see. There must be something somewhere, a pager enabling me to call upon my doctor. 

I go to stand, but my legs feel foreign. More tingling sensations spark from my toes up to my waist. As I approach the standard wooden door and reach for the brass passage knob, it flies towards me, eliciting my sharp gasp. I see a human, a man of large stature, dark skin, and no hair, with a lab coat and a clipboard, presumably my chart, which I have not seen anywhere else in this room. 

At first, I struggle to create sound as I try to speak, as if I have not done so before, but eventually, I am able to say, “Sir, where am I? Wha-“ 

However, I am cut off by his, “Ms., you are at Chris Hani Baragwanath Hospital. You were in an accident.” 

To which I implore, “What happened? What kind of accident?” 

With a dismissive raise of his hand, to which I am far too accustomed, he simply states, “You fell onto a rock at your campsite. I am your primary physician, and we concluded that it aligns with the trauma your skull experienced. Remain your composure.” 

To his dismay, I indignantly refute this, “No, sir, you are mistaken. I did not fall, but more importantly, Brennan–was she the one who brought me here? Where is she now? How long have I been here? What is your name?” 

Once again, he curtly responds, “Ms., I will not ask you again; remain calm. I am Dr. Wachiti. Brennan brought you here less than a day ago. She left to report your findings to Vratislav Mazák. Remain here and calm. I will go page for her now.” 

None of this seems right. Brennan and I do not report to Mazák. Dr. Groves is our reporting supervisor. Brennan would not report to Mazák. As I stressfully finger my hair, I feel something very wrong. My hair is fully grown, where yesterday it was not. Two days ago, I got my hair caught between rocks, and a chunk of it was torn out in my hasty, panicked escape. In the same spot on the underside of my skull, where it was torn, it is entirely regenerated, not even sensitive to my touch or scabbed anymore. In fact, all of the bruises I have developed from the past two weeks of exploring have disappeared. That is not right. Mitosis would not have occurred nearly this fast, to heal all of my wounds and grow my hair overnight. No steroid or medication could have that effect. I have not been here for less than a day. Brennan is not reporting to Mazák. This is entirely wrong. I have to escape. I do not know how. What do I do? Where can I go?

Amidst my hysteria, I pull at the passage knob and thrash at the unbearably bright window until my body aches and the door knob is torn off, though the door remains shut. Neither will open or even budge in either direction. The nightstands receive my utmost destructive capacity and are obliterated. I cannot breathe. Nobody is coming back. I do not know where I am. 

My actions are to no avail until, while I am tearing at the wallpaper, I come across a cold, metallic surface, a panel coating. This looks like an electricity box. I claw at the surface of it, cracking all my fingernails and slightly denting the metal. I decide to pound my fists, hoping to put dents in the sides, enough to contract the metal along where the panel connects to the box. I meet success upon what feels like the hundredth strike. The metal is torn enough that I am able to insert my fingers between the panel and the box. The pressure of the confined space makes my fingers throb as I rip the panel from the box. 

With an explosion, I am launched backwards, onto the wall. My head collides with a thud, and a severe ache and shrill noise erupt. My skull feels heavy, and as I try to get up, I am dizzy. I refuse to let the darkness pull me under and take my consciousness, though. Everything in my surroundings ignites, shining brightly, light enough to intensify my ache to an unbearable degree. I rest my head back to the ground, buried in my arms, eyes tightly shut. I am in that same position for what feels like hours. Eventually, the light diminishes, and I observe that the environment has dissipated around me. 

I am entirely unaware of what has happened or where I am, but I do not think I am in Africa anymore. I do not even think I am in 1971 anymore. I call out, “Where am I…When am I?” 

My suspicions are confirmed when a very deep, scratchy voice calls out to me, “You are correct in your doubts. The year is 2284, and you are in a cryogenic regeneration facility in the United European Nations, actually now the first facility to successfully regenerate all the brain tissue of fully skeletal homo sapien remains. Congratulations, Ms. you have made history.” 

While I know the dread seeping into my bones should be from the words ’2284’, ‘skeletal remains’, or ‘cryogenic regeneration’, that is not what scares me, and what I must ask is, “Have I not made history before? My discovery in Kenya. Ms. Nial and I–we discovered a slightly earlier hominid from before Homo Erectus.” 

The dull chuckle I receive chills me. “Oh, that was you? I only ever learned Homo Ergaster was discovered by Groves and Mazák in 1971, published in 1975. The things you learn in this business…” 

A light shines in front of me, and I know what I see is what I pulled from East Turkana incarnate. I feel it in my bones, apparently, all that is naturally left from my life. All air leaves me. “I guess I should thank you. Cryogenology used to establish a fully regenerated living form from only skeletal remains began with my kind. Now, it has gone on to yours. Welcome to the future.” The discovery that I built to, for all my life and was never credited with, the one that ended my life 300 years ago, walks away from me, whilst I reel in everything.