A Long, Long Sleep

by Anna Sheehan

  A flash of dreadful anger clouded Ron’s face. His eyes burned as he stared at me. “You what?”

  I cowered. “I don’t know,” I said. “ I — I guess I don’t have any proof. . . .”

  He stared at me for another moment. Then he spoke, so quietly I barely heard him. “I’ll kill him,” he said with a terrifying, grim smile. He turned back to Bren. “Tell me everything.”

  Bren shook his head. “I can’t. She hasn’t told me anything, yet. Just that he was being his usual drunken sped self.”

  Ron turned his scowl back to me. “What makes you think Reggie’s behind this thing?”

  I couldn’t speak. Something about his glare was making me feel ill, and all I could do was stare at him. Ron seemed to realize this and turned away from me. He pulled off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Bren, you ask her,” he said, then put his glasses back on again.

  Bren sat down beside me on the sofa. “It’s okay, really. Just tell him everything. What’s the first thing that made you think it was him?”

  “When the Plastine came in, he didn’t cell security or anything. But then, he knocked me down, so I couldn’t run away. And he seemed to know just when the Plastine was going to come.”

  “He did?”

  “Yeah. He said I was cute and that it was shame what had to happen to me.”

  Ron cursed under his breath. “All right.” He turned to his screen. “I’ll start a search program right now to see if he’s been siphoning funds.” His fingers tapped deftly over his pad, and his brow furrowed. “There.” He turned back to me. “That’ll take a while; there’s a lot of files to cover. In the meantime, tell me everything you know. Is there anything else that makes you think he may have done this?”

  I wanted to cry, remembering the words he’d been spilling at me. The conversation had been so appalling that the assassin had almost been a relief !

  “He was so awful,” I whispered. “He was talking about Otto and how he thought they should just give up on him. He was kind of . . . hitting on me. And he was so callous. He was saying that the Dark Times were the best thing that had ever happened for everyone.”

  Bren’s brow furrowed. “Are you sure?”

  “I’m not making it up.”

  “I didn’t think you were, but did you hear him correctly? I mean, Reggie’s an ass, but I didn’t think even he’d stoop to that kind of statement. It’s like saying that holocausts are a pretty neat idea.”

  “Well,” I amended, “he didn’t say the Dark Times specifically. He said that the best day for everyone was the day my parents . . . died.” It was very hard for me to get that last word out. “And that’s . . . well, the only reason I was left so long.

  If they hadn’t died —”

  Ron cut me off with a groan. “Ahh.” He sat back in his chair, which quietly leaned a bit backward to accommodate his more casual posture.

  Bren frowned. “But the Fitzroys died —”

  “Bren,” his grandfather warned. There was a long silence as Ron seemed to regard his hands. He tapped his thumb pensively against his wrist. “I don’t suppose it would have occurred to Reggie to tell you. His thinking tends to be self- centered. And it isn’t really the role of the police.” He sighed. “Leaves me,” he said, almost under his breath. He turned back to me. “How much do you remember of your life, young lady?”

  “All of it,” I said, surprised. “What has that got to do with this?”

  “Just listen to me. Bren has admitted a secret to me, that you told him you and your parents would frequently use stasis as a . . . coping mechanism?”

  I wasn’t sure if I should feel afraid or indifferent. Before Bren had told me about the “maladjusted” label I’d be saddled with, it wouldn’t have bothered me in the least. The one thing I didn’t feel was shame. I shot a questioning look at Bren.

  “Granddad wouldn’t tell anyone,” Bren said. “I just . . . I couldn’t understand it.”

  My questioning gaze turned exasperated. I suppose the peaceful, calming fearlessness of stass would be hard to explain to anyone who never used it regularly. I turned back to Ron. “Yes,” I said. “Bren told you the truth.”

  Ron nodded. “Has Bren also informed you that such treatment, particularly of a minor, has been constituted a felony?”

  “Yes,” I said, “but I don’t get it. It’s not an assault. And if stass is illegal, why have stass chambers at the hospital? I saw them there.”

  “Hospitals have special dispensation. Victims of certain diseases or those in need of transplants who can’t afford to wait can be scheduled stass time. Stass is still used for interplanetary travel, rotating the passengers who are awake with those who remain in stass, but that is only because of the many years it takes to travel to the outer colonies. Interplanetary travel would be impossible if we had to keep all the passengers awake. We couldn’t build vessels with enough space for living quarters, supplies, or even oxygen and still afford to send them across the solar system. But despite being safe and effective, all stass is strictly regulated and even prohibited in many cases.”

  I really didn’t understand. Why couldn’t someone just take a break from the world? “Why?” I asked.

  “It’s a little hard to explain,” Ron said. “Particularly given your background.

  When I was young, there were no laws regarding stasis. I remember various cases that made the instigation of those laws an imperative.”

  I rolled my eyes. The legalese was driving me a little nuts. “Such as?” I asked.

  “Let me put it this way,” Ron said, putting his two fore- fingers together to form a steeple. “Imagine you had an illness, appendicitis, something easily cured with surgery. Now imagine that your doctor hasn’t had lunch yet. Rather than perform the surgery, he puts you into stass until after lunch.” He shrugged.

  “Doesn’t seem so bad.

  “Now imagine that your doctor, instead of missing lunch, has a date with his wife that evening and doesn’t want to be tired. So instead of performing your surgery, he keeps you in stass until the next day. That’s twenty- four hours.

  Probably there would be no noticeable difference in your perception.

  “But now imagine that the doctor has scheduled a vacation, so he arranges for you to be kept in stass for the next two, three weeks, while he heads off to Acapulco with his family. It is considerably more convenient for him to stass his patient than to perform the surgery. So, basically, for his own convenience, this doctor has stolen three weeks of your life, when all you really needed was an hour of his time. He could have delayed his vacation, he could have referred your case to another physician, but because he wanted to be the one to do the surgery — just not right then —he has assaulted you. He has taken from you something very precious and irretrievable. He stole your time.”

  I felt ill. I didn’t like how he’d phrased that. “I . . . never thought about it that way before.”

  Ron smiled rather ruefully. “I know,” he said, and it sounded much more sympathetic than I would have expected. “For a parent to place a minor in stasis today, there has to be an application to the government, an assured affidavit from a physician explaining why the stass is absolutely necessary, and oftentimes a filing fee, just to keep parents from doing such things lightly.

  Children with debilitating chronic illnesses have sometimes been stassed in the hopes of keeping them alive till a cure can be found. Only for those cases, and for children who are transplant patients, has earthbound stasis ever been permitted for a minor.”

  Something had begun to flutter within my chest, a frightened sparrow. My hands were shaking. “I still don’t understand,” I said.

  The voice of Bren’s grandfather continued, unyielding. “Imagine,” he said, “that a parent feels overworked. The baby has been crying all day. All they want is a half- hour nap. Every parent has felt this way. They put the child into stasis until they feel more able to handle the si
tuation. They do this instead of getting a babysitter, instead of organizing their schedule, instead of admitting they need help. For their own convenience. Once may seem better than abuse, I grant you. It just doesn’t seem so bad.

  “But imagine now that the child is two, three. The parents want to host a holiday party, but the child would be a hassle if she were underfoot. Put the child into stasis until after the party. Won’t take too long. For their own convenience.

  “Now they want to go on vacation.”

  I wanted to leap up and stop him, but I was afraid my legs wouldn’t hold me.

  “A romantic second honeymoon,” Ron said. “Can’t have a five- year- old along to spoil to mood. Back into stass. The child is thirteen. She wants to go on a week- long field trip, and she fights with her mother about it. Can’t have that.

  Stass her until the trip is over. Problem solved.”

  He laid his hands carefully on his desk and leaned forward, just a little. I couldn’t meet his eyes, but his voice would not stop. “Stass her when you’re tired. Stass her when you’re busy. Stass her when she’s fretful. Stass her when you’re bored. Stass her when she isn’t doing exactly what you want her to do.

  Before you know it, the parents have aged ten, twelve, twenty years . . . and the child is still a child.”

  I couldn’t look at him. He was telling me my life. I wanted to hit him. I wanted him to hurt. I wanted this feeling inside me to go away. I couldn’t breathe. I felt as if I were standing on the edge of a high cliff, and I couldn’t stop shaking.

  “Rosalinda.” Ron’s soft, dark voice wavered with age, but it sounded very kind.

  “The helicopter crash that killed Mark and Jacqueline Fitzroy took place thirty-two years ago, more than nine years after the Dark Times officially ended.” I looked up at him then, unable to understand what he was saying. “It wasn’t to save your life. They never came to get you,” he said, his voice barely a whisper.

  “They never let you go. They never let you grow up.”

  There was a moment of stillness, of darkness, and in that moment I could have sworn I had died.

  “No, no, no!” someone shouted in my ear. “No one knew I was there! Everyone died!” I wished she would shut up; I was trying to understand where I had gone in the darkness. I opened my eyes, and I saw a strange- looking young woman below me, standing on the parquet floor, her fist raised in defiance. The old man sat at his desk, his eyes serious, watching her intently, and Bren stood backed up against the wall, almost in fear, his face so pale his mahogany skin looked like milky coffee. Only then did I realize the voice was mine. “They loved me!” the girl shouted. “They wanted to protect me! I don’t believe you!”

  Bren’s grandfather stood up and marched out of the room. Hovering near the ceiling, I watched him go with detached interest. Did the girl frighten him as much as she frightened me? That little girl down there looked like a phantom

  — much more like a walking corpse than the Plastine. There were bright- red spots high on each cheek, and her ears were red as strawberries. She was so thin I could see each individual muscle as it clenched in fury, as she waved her fist impotently at the empty desk. Her brown eyes were empty, dead holes.

  Gaps. What was it Otto had said? This unfathomable abyss inside your soul. It frightened him.

  It frightened me, too.

  There was more to it than that, though I thought I was the only one who could see it. I could see the girl burning with a bright, ghostly fire of rage, fierce enough to engulf the whole room. More than fierce enough to burn her to a cinder. I hovered near the ceiling, but I wondered if I was only part of that fire

  — a burning spirit of rage and disbelief.

  Something about that thought brought me back to myself, and I couldn’t see the fire anymore, or myself, just my clenched fist before my face, and Bren against the wall. He looked positively stricken. “I don’t believe it,” I whispered to him.

  Bren opened his mouth, but then closed it again, as if he were afraid to say anything.

  And his grandfather walked back into the room and held a framed photograph out for me to see. I took it with the hand that wasn’t still clenched.

  He must have taken the picture from Guillory’s of fice. I recognized the room before I recognized the people —the ballroom on the ground floor of the Uni Building. The photo showed wealthy people in expensive clothes mingling. I recognized a shadowy figure in the back corner that might have been Bren’s grandfather, closer to his prime. This must have been taken at the yearly company party. The traditional unicorn ice sculpture was melting in the background. Mom and Daddy were older, much older, but I recognized them.

  Mom still had her beautiful blond mane of hair. She must have dyed it, because Daddy’s hair had gone completely white. Mom looked younger than she should have, and different, and I recognized the effects of plastic surgery.

  I’d seen enough of it in friends of the family. Daddy was still well dressed, and his eyes were still distracted. His smile was still brusque and insincere, and he seemed to be focusing on something other than where he was. They were old —

  it had clearly been decades since I’d been put into stass. But the most damning thing was the figure standing between them, holding a champagne glass and grinning from ear to ear. A young man, midtwenties, clearly fresh out of business school, looking just a little in awe of the two figures who were posing with him. Reggie Guillory.

  Reggie Guillory, who wasn’t even born when I was put into stass. No wonder Guillory had spoken as if he’d known my parents. In this picture he wasn’t much more than twenty- five, his hair still a natural gold, his expensive tan somewhat darker, looking even more like a golden statue, as he had that unnatural perfection that sculptors always strive to achieve.

  It was proof in my very hands, and I still didn’t want to believe it. I lifted the photograph and threw it with tremendous force against the far wall. The glass splintered, and the frame split in two.

  It wasn’t enough to destroy the proof. I needed to wreck everything. If my stass tube were there, I’d have taken my fury out on it, but it wasn’t. Instead I ripped down one of the landscapes that graced the wall and flung it like a Frisbee across the room. Bren ducked. I threw knickknacks. I hurled heavy paperweights, which left gratifying dents in the walls. My hands closed on glasses from the bar, and I hurled them against the windows, where they smashed satisfyingly, leaving delightful- looking broken shards.

  I realized after a little while that no one was trying to stop me. In fact, Bren’s grandfather had somehow sidled up beside me and was patiently handing me objects to throw. Bren stood in the doorway, out of the way of any shrapnel, with a look on his face that I can only describe as a serious smile.

  I dropped the last item —a metal tumbler from the bar. It landed with a clatter on the floor, and I followed it. I felt better.

  A gentle hand caressed my hair. “I’m so sorry, Rose,” said Ron. Then he stood up, and I saw him go and touch Bren’s shoulder.

  Whatever he said to him, Bren came up and rubbed my back. “You’re okay now,” he said, more to reassure himself, I think. “No one’ll let anything like that happen again. We won’t let it happen. Me and Mom and Granddad, we’ll make sure of it.”

  I looked up at him. I felt hollow. “I’m tired,” I whispered.

  Bren smirked a little and helped me sit up. “I’m not surprised. I should take you to play tennis — you’ve got a great arm.” He helped me to my feet and let me rest my weight on his shoulder while he led me to the couch. “Here,” he said.

  I curled up on the sofa and took a deep breath. Ron disappeared again and then reappeared with an afghan. He tucked it gently around me. “Nothing will hurt you here. I promise,” he whispered. “You rest now.” He had the most relaxing voice.

  I think I might have smiled a little, but I was asleep so quickly it was almost like stasis. Just as sweet, too. My fear had left me. I’d alrea
dy lost everything.

  What else was there to fear?

  – chapter 21—

  I couldn’t have been asleep long, no more than an hour or so. When I woke, it was still dark, and Bren was clearing some of the debris from my tantrum, throwing it into a big garbage can. I took a deep breath and stretched. I felt good, almost satisfied, as if I were settled into a hot tub after a long day. The afghan over me was warm and smelled of cologne, probably Ron’s.

  Bren and I were alone in the room. “Where’s your granddad?”

  “Still examining Guillory’s accounts,” Bren said. “He didn’t want to wake you, so he left to make some calls. Even if Guillory didn’t sic this Plastine on you, Granddad’s gathering some pretty shady stuff. He says he hasn’t been paying enough attention the last few months. He’s getting angrier and angrier as he sorts through it all.”

  “I’m surprised he isn’t angry at me,” I said. I threw the blanket off and knelt next to Bren to help him pick up the detritus. “Look what I did to his of fice.”

  Bren grinned. “He helped you do it! I kept trying not to laugh.”

  “I can’t remember the last time I got angry like that. If I ever have.”

  “You probably haven’t,” Bren said.

  I considered this. He was right. I didn’t get angry. I didn’t complain. I didn’t even draw attention to myself. Because if I had . . .

  I tried to put the thought away. Oddly, I had the feeling I’d been doing that for years.

  “I know I’ve never totally trashed a room,” Bren continued.

  I carefully picked up another shard of glass. “They prob-ably have janitors for this kind of thing.”

  “I don’t want to leave Granddad’s of fice like this,” Bren said. “He’s usually pretty fastidious.”

  “But they probably have brooms,” I pointed out. “This is broken glass.”

  Bren frowned, then shrugged and kept picking up shards. “I’ll be careful.”

  We cleaned in silence for a while.