Damocle's Sword

Betrayed. That's how I felt. Betrayed by my own brain, who had started to eat itself. And the doctor's tranquil grin made it no easier to shake the feeling.

-Hedion University is at the head of research into Kasioper's Syndrome right now thanks to the sponsorship of some very wealthy pod pilots that are affected by it. But you have to understand, it's a very rare disease, and thus investigation is progressing slowly.-

Yes, I understood that, even before speaking to him. We all know what Kasioper is: the boogeyman, the monster under the bed, the end of all hope. Every person that became a pod pilot after age 30 had a small percentage of possibilities to be affected by it. Maybe one in a thousand, maybe less. And I had been the one to draw the long straw.

So, my brain wasn't flexible enough to withstand the changes that the pod pilot interface implied. I was compatible with the pod, and yet, each day a little bit less, as the brain started to reject the implants and brain connections that made possible the direct link to the ship. It had decided it didn't want to speak to the massive metal monsters. And the degenerative disease will only spread, like a cancer wanting to steal everything away.

And who was I to complain? What did my hopes, plans and dreams matter? Nothing! Hell be raised, it all meant nothing now that the brain had headed into lockdown. And if I forced it beyond the point of no return, the wet grave would be my reward.

I looked down at my hands, trembling slightly. No, Kasioper's Syndrome has no physical effects, this was pure rage and impotence racing through my veins, impossible to withhold. There was so much to do! So many things to take care of, people to see, battles to fight! This was the end of everything! The fucking, damned end. Period. 

-The Syndrome isn't quick- the doctor was saying, noticing my tension-. It could take a month, or a year, or maybe a dozen years or more for it to be definitive. In the meantime, we go on researching, investigating, advancing on our knowledge of it. We might find a cure before it is too late! And there are already some experimental neurological surgeries with nanites that reactivate the connections between neurons and strengthen the link with the pod again. Their effects fade away with time, but meanwhile you will be perfectly functional.-

He said it with a positive tone, trying to cheer me up and give me strength, but all I could think of was that it was ended. I would be flying on borrowed time now, with the reaper's scymtar above my head in case I pushed my luck beyond the point of no return. Damocle's Sword was swinging, waiting, like a cat playing with a mouse that knows can't escape his paws. And I was the fucking mouse, I that was a titan among the stars!

The wet grave. Its image burst into my mind, the voice of all horrors and terrors all pod pilots must face. The final test to endure before becoming one with a ship. I couldn't help but remember Adriniel Varshov, another student when I was in training, who had fell into the definitive comma that failing the test implied. And I... I was heading there now, slowly, one step each day, one breath at a time... closer and closer to my end. 

I got up with a strong move and headed towards the door. I could hear the doctor calling out my name behind me, but I didn't care. If I was living on borrowed time, if my end was fated and the timer was running, I'd better use my time to the fullest. There were battles to fight, people to see, things to take care of. There was a brief life to live before it was too late.

I could feel the fear calling out my name from the back of my skull, asking me to stop in freezed panic. But I wouldn't listen. I had gone into battle before being a pod pilot, knowing it could have been my last, and hadn't panicked then. I would certainly not do it now! I might have been betrayed by my mind, but as long as my timer allows me, I'll be atoning for my mistakes and fulfilling my duty. 

There is no other possible path for me.