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CHAPTER 4:
Ohm Wasn’t Built in a Day



Mars Exploration Consortium @TheRealMarsX

MarsX is pleased to announce that Doctor Yvette Barbier has joined the third Mars expedition as Chief Medical Officer.

George J @spacefan

@TheRealMarsX, so, what happened to the previous doc?

ChirpChat, March 2040


The first month of rehabilitation involved working up to the ability to put full weight on his new limbs and relied heavily on the exo-bed that Glenn seemed determined to turn into his personal racing vehicle. Marty threatened to take it away the day he came onto the floor to find Glenn zipping down the hallway beating one of the other patients to the nursing station—wheelchair versus exoskeleton.

“Hey, Marty! Jakob here wants me to join the wheelchair basketball league. I bet him that I had the better lay-up and he said I needed to prove it.”

“No, no, no. You are not going to ruin everything I went through putting you back together just to put a ball through a hoop. Not to mention what DARPA is going to say about you using their multi-million-dollar exoskeleton to play Horse.”

Marty’s reference to the one-on-one basketball challenge made Glenn chuckle. Finding humor had been getting easier as he healed. Visits, especially by Hoop, helped; his uncle had a dry wit, combined with a love of wordplay, that had shaped his own sense of humor.

“No, wait, didn’t you say this was a Navy project? They had that Academy grad . . . whatshisname . . .” Glenn paused a moment, and unconsciously raised his left hand to rub the close-cropped hair on his scalp. He then pulled his hand back and raised his forefinger. “Oh yeah! Robinson. Later played pro-ball here in San Antonio, but before that he played basketball at the Olympics while still a serving officer. Just tell them we’re upholding a grand tradition.”

Marty just shook his head. “No. trust me. You do not want them sending you the bill.”

“Hey, guys, get moving, I’m about to lap you!” Another patient in a wheelchair had just rounded the corner behind Glenn and Jakob and was heading their way. The newcomer had dark brown skin, extremely short black hair, and his features showed ancestry from the Indian subcontinent. He also had very broad shoulders and well-developed arm muscles.

“Um, Nik . . .” Glenn began as the man skidded to a halt next to him.

Marty looked on in shock. “Doctor Pillarisetty, what the hell are you doing?

The psychiatrist’s face was the perfect picture of innocence. “Just some morale building!”

“Is this what you consider professional bedside manner?”

“Well, actually, I consider it chair-side manner, but . . . yes.” The look on Nik’s face discouraged any further argument from the surgeon.

“Yeah, you should have seen him last week,” Jakob added. “He was wearing a Batman cape and mask. While visiting the pediatric orthopedics floor.”

“It really is good for morale, Marty. When Batman comes into the physical-therapy gym using crutches—and it’s obvious that he actually needs those crutches, the kids tend to stop complaining and work hard on their therapy.” Glenn could see the anger drain from Marty’s face and posture. After all, he’d been responsible for hiring the psychiatrist. The decision had been heavily influenced by his ability to relate to his patients.

“Okay, but you’re still not playing basketball in the exoframe. You can use a chair like everyone else.”


The second phase of rehab was spent getting Glenn used to the weight and sensation of his new limbs. The bionic interface had been set as close as possible to normal human levels of force and feedback. He could feel with his fingers and feet. He was still learning to translate the position sensation into balance, which was made more difficult by the fact that the new limbs were not an exact size and weight match to the flesh and blood he’d lost.

Technology had advanced considerably from levers and springs for leg prosthetics and hooks and clamps for his arm. Instead, his new limbs worked much more like bone and muscle, except that the bone was made of ultralight alloys and the muscles of electrically reactive polymers. Those materials would still have been considerably heavier than human limbs if not for the latest process used to make the “skin” of the Ares Percheron, the ship that would be taking Glenn and his fellow explorers to Mars in a few more months.

Materials scientists had long touted the benefits of nanocomposites, in which sub-micron sized particles of silicon carbide ceramic were suspended in alloys of lightweight metals such as magnesium, aluminum or beryllium, but those materials did not always hold up to conditions inside the human body. This was in addition to the disadvantages conferred by other base metal properties such electrical and thermal properties, including flammability. By comparison, titanium, the metal of choice for artificial joints and implants—or worse yet, surgical stainless steel—seemed leaden and cumbersome, ill-suited to creating artificial limbs. In order for a limb to pass as human, it needed to be lightweight, have a full-range of motion, and still be strong enough to withstand the forces necessary to mimic human muscles. To overcome these limitations, Glenn’s new magnesium nanocomposite bones were wrapped with graphene—single layer sheets of carbon molecules that were incredibly strong, light, and nonreactive with the body. His joints were formed of carbon-fiber and more graphene, and the small “bones” in the hands and feet were simply tubes of graphene filled with a ceramic “foam.”

The structural elements of his limbs mimicked the biological arrangements of bones and cartilage as closely as possible, given that the purpose was to provide the same flexibility and dexterity as flesh-and-blood. Likewise, the bionic “muscles” needed to mimic the function and attachment of biological muscles. Sheets of electrostatic polymer membranes—EPMs—were wrapped, folded, rolled, and bundled into cords and fibers that contracted and flexed when the correct voltage and amperage were applied. When Glenn learned how his bionic muscle operated, he made the expected joke about how “resistance was futile.” Marty just ignored him, but Dr. Nik responded by attempting a yoga pose and simply intoned, “ohm.”

His new limbs were light, flexible, and had few moving parts. In fact, the only physically rotating or sliding joints were the magnetic bearings at the elbow and knees, and magnetic couplings at wrist and ankles. There were no wires, no blood, and very little fluid for lubrication. All communication between brain and “muscles” used short range wireless communication. It was meant to facilitate maintenance, repair, and even upgrades, by making components detachable and replaceable.

There was only one problem.

Glenn loved practical jokes.


Once Glenn could walk with support, he graduated to a new physical therapy class with other patients at the hospital. It was affiliated with the San Antonio Military Medical Center, but the advanced rehabilitation facility was at a different location within the city. This facility was also on a military base, with many soldiers present learning to use their new prosthetics—although none as advanced or extensive as Glenn’s.

As with soldiers the world over, their humor was often crude, and their language salty. Occasionally a therapist from “outside the culture” would complain, prompting the hospital to require mandatory “sensitivity training.” The course was designed primarily for the hospital workers, but the Physical Therapy unit insisted that everyone—patients, therapists, and doctors—attend the video lecture.

“Health care providers have an obligation to provide a welcoming environment to our patients . . .” The speaker’s voice might have been tolerable if it had been softer, smoother, or less nasal. Instead, her voice seemed strained and pinched. It was no wonder, though, since her face looked strained and pinched as well—at least until she turned to glare through the video link at the people in the classroom.

There were twenty-two people in a conference room designed for twenty. However, twelve patients in wheelchairs took up most of the space, and the eight therapists, plus Nik and Marty, had to stand next to the walls in order to see the screen. The speaker controlled a camera that could focus on anyone with a question, and one corner of the screen echoed her view of the classroom. Currently it was focused on Jakob, who had made a rude comment earlier and earned a glare from the speaker.

“When a doctor or nurse looks at a patient and feels disgust, it shows on their face. No patient wants to experience a healthcare provider who doesn’t want to see the patient . . .” As she droned on, Glenn realized that neither her pinched voice nor her pinched expression was the most annoying thing about her. No, the most annoying thing was that she “clicked.” It had to be some movement of the soft palate against the back of her throat, or perhaps the tongue against the roof of the mouth. Either way, she couldn’t talk without clicking. “Providers <click> need to train themselves <click> to <click> look neutrally at patients even though <click> they feel disgust.”

Oh, dear God make it stop, he thought. It wasn’t bad enough that she was a horrible speaker, but the fact that, in theoretically training employees to avoid prejudice, she was showing that very prejudice in herself.

That led to a new thought. A delicious thought. A very . . . evil . . . thought.

After yesterday’s PT session, his bionic hand had refused to flex one of the fingers. Marty was not amused when Glenn demonstrated that all of the digits could flex and curl except for the middle one. He’d called in one of the engineers, who’d needed to physically detach the hand to inspect it. The technician worked for twenty minutes at a small bedside table on his detached hand. He poked and prodded . . . 

. . . and instructed Glenn to move it . . . 

. . . on the table . . . 

. . . completely disconnected.

So, Glenn tuned out the speaker and engaged his plan. There was a pressure point on the wrist which released the magnetic bearing. The main power supply was further up the limb, but capacitors in the hand would suffice for now. He disconnected his hand and laid it palm down on the table in front of him.

He then commanded the fingers to press down, curl, and retract. Sure enough, the hand moved about half an inch. He repeated the command and caused the hand to gradually work its way across the table in front of eleven soldiers whose rough sense of humor was the only thing getting them through rehabilitation.

The first snort came from one of the physical therapists. Then a lieutenant clenched his artificial hands and was practically vibrating with suppressed laughter. A grizzled sergeant major let out a guffaw, then the whole room broke up into laughter.

Glenn snuck a glance to the side to see Marty, eyes wide, a look of shock on his face. Nik, resting on his crutches, had one hand over his mouth and tears streaming from his eyes.

WHOSE HAND IS THAT?” Miz Click shouted from the screen. The remote-controlled camera panned the room. Glenn held up his left arm, minus the hand. “MISTER SHEPARD, <click> THAT IS NOT FUNNY!

“I thought it was, and so did everyone else,” Glenn replied softly, but with a hint of defiance.

“Stop that <click> this instant!”

Glenn pictured pushing up with the thumb and forefinger, and curling the other fingers. The disembodied hand flipped over, and he relaxed the fingers so that it laid there . . . limp . . . palm up.

For a moment.

Then the fingers began to fold down toward the palm, except for the middle finger, which remained pointing straight out.

Miz Click turned red, blustered briefly, and then cut the video connection.

The whole room burst into laughter and applause. Several of the other patients wheeled over to slap him on the back. Marty just came and stood over him and glared.

“Um, Marty, I think we still have that flex problem in joint two of digit three,” Glenn said, innocently.

“We’re going to have a problem with her.”

“Not really—did you notice her look of disgust when she saw us? The way her lip curled when she was describing prejudice against the amputees?” Nik said. His comments elicited nods from several of the therapists. “This was her punishment from HR. Human Resources knows she’s the worst offender regarding prejudice against the disabled. They made her teach this, and their purpose was to teach us something—just not what she was presenting. It was meant to teach us what real prejudice looks like. Besides, if she complains, send her to me.” Nik leaned back on his crutches, linked his hands, turned them palm out and cracked his knuckles.

“If you say so.” Marty turned back to Glenn. “And since you’re such a wise-ass, Shep, I’m turning you up to one hundred percent tomorrow. Full strength, and full sensation.” He managed an evil grin and rubbed his hands together. “This should be fun.”


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