by Joe Vasicek
I love you, Sara, in death and in life.
James McCoy.
“That was simple enough,” he muttered to himself. He tore out the letter and went to slip it in his pocket, but realized there were no pockets in his gown. Instead, he held it in hand until the nurse took it and placed it in the compartment.
As he slipped out of his gown and climbed into the cryotank, thoughts of Sara filled his mind. He was still thinking about her as the sedative bath washed over him.
Part IV: The Legend
Chapter 20
Deirdre Johansen glanced up at the wall clock as she ran across the single women’s apartment level. It read: S1-0832 S2-1632 S3-0032. She was running late.
“Hey there, Deirdre,” her friend Kat called out to her as they passed in the hall.
“Sorry, can’t stop!” Deirdre called back. A few other girls from the third shift wandered out of the communal bathrooms in pajamas and bath towels, but fortunately no one got in her way.
She reached the central ladder chute and peered down to make sure it was clear—thankfully, it was. Without hesitating, she grabbed the outer edge of the ladder and slid down at breakneck speed.
“Coming do-o-own!” she yelled. A few disgruntled insomniacs shouted back at her, but she sped past them before they could get her into trouble.
Her hair whipped around her ears and eyes as she was caught up in the exhilarating sensation of falling. Of course, she had to be careful not to fall too fast, otherwise the safety nets would deploy and catch her. When she reached the base of the chute nine levels down, she jumped off and hit the floor running. The wall clocks read 0837 hours.
Unlike the single women’s level, this one was crowded. She navigated through it as quickly as she could manage, avoiding the temptation to elbow her way through. Thankfully, when she got to the ladder, she found it empty enough to slide down.
“Coming do-o-own!” she yelled again. The blue rungs marking the exit zone of each level flashed past her: LEVEL 56, LEVEL 55, LEVEL 54.
Once again, she jumped off at the base, landing hard. Her hands were burning this time. She lifted them to her face and blew on them as she ran to the next chute: 0842 hours.
“Ow!” she said, slamming into a man who stood in her way. The impact nearly knocked her over. She looked up in annoyance—
—and her eyes grew as wide as ventilation ducts.
“Captain Carlson!”
“Miss Johansen,” said the captain, giving her a curt nod.
“Sir, I—”
He silenced her with a sharp glance. “Running a little bit late for the cryothawing, are we?”
Deirdre frowned. This doesn’t make sense, she thought to herself. He’s supposed to be there, too.
“Yes,” she admitted, figuring it was the safest thing to say.
“And how many people have you murdered in your haste to get there?”
She blushed. “Sorry.”
“It’s not your lateness that concerns me, it’s your disregard for basic safety. Now, come on. Let’s get moving before we’re any later than we have to be.”
A smile spread across her face as she followed him down the next ladder. For one of the authorities, he wasn’t so bad. She remembered playing hide-and-seek with him across the ship when they were younger. He’d changed since then, but not by much.
He took the ladder two rungs at a time, his muscular arms and shoulders straining with the effort. Deirdre soon got left behind.
“Hey!” she scowled, knowing he was only doing it to make her look bad. “You want me to start sliding to catch up?”
“If you do, I have a special work assignment for you.”
“Starclouds!”
He chuckled as they raced each other down the ladder. By the time they reached the cryogenics chamber, the clock read S1-0855 S2-1655 S3-0055. If Carlson wasn’t running late himself, she would have never made it in time. As she slipped into the dressing room, she silently blessed the stars for the fortuitous way things had worked out.
Of course, the other attendants didn’t see it that way.
“What are you doing?” asked Maggie, the senior nurse on duty. She stood by the door, hands on her flabby hips with her nurse’s mask hanging loosely by her neck.
“Sorry I’m late,” said Deirdre as she dropped her skirt and pulled her shirt over her head. “I—”
“You shouldn’t be here. Cryothaw is a risky procedure, and letting you tag along only makes things harder.”
“Oh, don’t be so dense,” said Deirdre. She grabbed her scrubs and hastily put them on. “The process is almost completely automated, and besides, I’ve got my med certs.”
Maggie folded her arms and glared at her. “Basic certification only—no license.”
But this is Commander McCoy! Deirdre thought angrily, hastily tying back her hair. No way am I going to let you make me miss this.
“I’m authorized,” she said, swallowing her annoyance. “Captain’s orders. You don’t have the authority to override them.”
Maggie said nothing as she washed her hands. After counting to thirty, she rinsed the foamy soap suds off her arms, then drew her hands through the water reclaimer and wiped them off on her pants.
“Ahem.”
“What?”
“Aren’t you forgetting something?”
Maggie nodded at the floor, and Deirdre realized she’d left her clothes lying in the middle of the room. She rolled her eyes—why should it matter if she was going to change back fifteen minutes later? Still, it was better not to make a fuss about it. She reached down and hastily picked up the pile of clothes.
As she walked to the locker, a small black book fell out of her pocket, nearly making her drop everything.
“What’s that?” asked Maggie, striding over to pick it up. Deirdre dumped her clothes in the nearest locker and snatched it from the floor before the head nurse could touch it.
“It’s an old family diary,” said Deirdre, placing it carefully in the locker before pressing her thumb to the auto-lock and shutting the compartment.
“Handwritten or digitized?”
“Digitized.”
“It looks kind of old,” said Maggie. “Why don’t you ‘cycle it? The ship’s running low on synthpaper.”
Deirdre looked her in the eyes and scowled. “That copy was my great-grandmother’s and I’ve had it since I was five years old. No way in hell am I going to ‘cycle it.”
They glared at each other for a second, but this time, Maggie was the one to step down. “Great-grandmother, huh?” she said, shrugging nonchalantly. “Sounds boring.”
“Hardly. She was Speaker Stewart’s wife—the first Speaker Stewart.”
“Like I said, boring.”
Deirdre clenched her fists and glared at Maggie hard enough to murder her. Why couldn’t the other colonists open their eyes and see that there was more to the universe than the tiny little ship they lived on? That an entire generation from the most exciting period of their history was soon to be with them in the flesh?
The lights in the cryo chamber were dim and old, the air chilly and foreboding, but to Deirdre that hardly mattered. Her heart leaped in her chest as she watched the nurses and med techs attaching tubes and calibrating instruments. Shivers ran down her arms and back as she caught a glimpse of the man behind the glass: James McCoy, the legendary leader who had brought the colonists through their darkest hour and saved them all from certain destruction. Not only that, but if her great-grandmother’s journals were to be believed—
“Control is go,” came a voice through the loudspeakers. Deirdre glanced up at the inverted glass window overhead. Captain Carlson stood at parade rest in the control room, like a lieutenant awaiting the return of his commanding officer.
Or maybe that was just Deirdre’s imagination. Maybe she was just reading into things because Commander James McCoy was not twenty feet away from her. Her hands were trembling, she could barely contain herself. To be in the presence of such a
n important historical figure—even a cryogenically frozen one—it was enough to make her giddy.
“Floor is go,” said Maggie, slipping the mask over her mouth. “Commencing cryothaw in three, two, one…”
* * * * *
James felt as if he were frozen in a dream, swimming in a vast starless wasteland of nothingness. Darkness pierced the void—a cold darkness, but substantial nonetheless. It shifted, and he saw a group of people huddled below, dressed in scrubs, attending a machine of some sort. He vaguely recognized the cryo chamber, with the glass observation window and catacombed slots for the cryotanks all up and down the walls. Fascinating.
And then, something yanked him down, shattering the dreamscape. Consciousness dawned upon him, and every muscle in his body screamed. With great effort, he forced his eyes open. Green gas flooded the air around him, burning his lungs and making him cough. His stomach convulsed, the pain stabbing him like knives.
A sharp hiss sounded in his ear as the cryo tank cracked open, followed by voices. He moaned and clutched his stomach as he slid down to his ankles and fell over onto the floor. His knees and wrists throbbed at the impact, and he vomited explosively, dark black bile splattering over the floor and walls.
His arms gave way, but before he could collapse in his own vomit, hands pulled him back and helped him up. Someone wrapped a heated blanket over his shoulders, and the comforting warmth seeped into him like a soothing balm. Another person put a rubber nipple in his mouth, and warm, sweet liquid oozed across his tongue, dripping down his throat and into his empty, aching stomach.
After several minutes, he regained enough strength to glance up and look around. He recognized the dim catacombs of the cryo chamber, much the same as it had been when he’d gone under. Some of the details had changed, however: the main control panel had moved, and the observation window up top looked old and cloudy. The lights shone brighter, giving his skin a pale, morbid look. He shivered and pulled the blanket tight.
“How are we feeling?” came a woman’s voice above him. He looked up and saw a round, masked face peering down at him, hair tied back. Other faces joined hers, blurring as his vision slowly focused on them.
“Weak,” he said, closing his eyes. “But getting better.”
“That’s good. Your temperature is still uneven. Drink more fluid—the formula will give you strength.”
The woman had a distinctly foreign drawl. He tried for a few moments to place it, then realized it must have developed in the hundred-plus years he’d lain frozen. So much time had passed, even the language had changed.
An image came to his mind, that of Sara lying in the cryotank, hand pressed against the glass as she stared up at him with anxious eyes. The memory filled him with a yearning to see her again.
“Sara,” he said, struggling to his feet. “Where is she?”
“Calm, calm,” droned the woman, patting him on the chest to ease him back down. “Conserve your strength.”
Someone pushed the nipple into his mouth again, but he spat it out and leaned forward, pushing himself up off the floor. His head swooned with dizziness, but by sheer will he forced himself to stand.
“Sara,” he said again, leaning on the cryotank for support. “Where is she?”
Hands grasped him on all sides, holding him back. Before the techs and nurses crowded him completely out, however, he caught sight of a second cryotank in the other module, open as well. Unlike the one behind him, however, this one still had something in it.
“Commander, please—”
“Sara? Sara!”
Adrenaline surged through his aching limbs, giving him a burst of new strength. The techs and nurses tried to hold him down, but he fought back, pushing them aside as he lunged unsteadily forward. His legs gave way just as he reached the glass—the all-too-familiar glass.
The body inside was covered with a black plastic sheet, not quite thin enough for him to see through. Though the shroud was loosely thrown on, he could recognize the body underneath. White-blond hair spilled out across the top, while near the chest, a pale, shriveled hand stuck up through the sheet, still reaching out to him.
James’s eyes widened in horror. He slid down the glass to his knees, lukewarm tears streaming out his aching eyes while his arms and shoulders began to shake uncontrollably.
“Sara!”
* * * * *
Sara? Who’s Sara?
Deirdre watched as Commander McCoy forced his way through to the second cryotank. It was obvious that the person inside was someone he cared about very much—but who?
“What’s the name of the person in that tank?” she asked the nearest tech.
“Just a sec,” said the tech. His fingers flew across the control panel, bringing up a profile on the main screen. “Says here it’s a female by the name of Sara Galbraith-Dickson.”
“Galbraith-Dickson,” Deirdre muttered, the name immediately ringing a bell. “That must be the daughter of the last patrician.” From her research as the ship’s historian, she’d learned that the patrician’s daughter had boarded a different colony ship from her father. Deirdre had assumed that was because she’d been detained by the Nabattans and rescued by James, but his heart-stopping reaction made her wonder if there was more to that story than she knew.
“No!” James screamed, collapsing to his hands and knees. “Sara! Why?” Tears streamed down his face as he broke into uncontrollable sobs.
“What’s wrong?” Deirdre asked the tech. “Why is he upset?”
“Because the girl in the cryotank is dead.”
Deirdre’s eyes widened, and she covered her mouth with one hand. The nurses and other techs quickly rushed to the commander’s side, but he was utterly inconsolable. Even though Deirdre had very little idea what was going on, she couldn’t help but tear up at the sight.
“It’s all right,” said Maggie, throwing a blanket over James’s naked shoulders. “Come, sir, let’s get you to—”
“What did you do to her?” he yelled, shoving the head nurse away. “How could you let this happen?”
His eyes were as fierce with anger as his sobs had been filled with pain. His hands clenched and trembled, as if looking for someone or something to lash out at. Several of the nurses backed away in fright.
Deirdre glanced over her shoulder at Captain Carlson in the window to the control room above. He remained exactly where he stood, his impassive face a sharp contrast to the chaos and emotion on the floor.
The doors hissed open, and a pair of security guards rushed in with stunners in their hands.
“No!” Deirdre cried out, stepping between them and James. His bloodshot eyes turned on her, but she stood her ground. For a gut-wrenching moment, it seemed as if he were about to strike her, but then his rage deflated as he fell back to the floor.
“Commander McCoy?” said Deirdre, kneeling beside him. “Commander, what’s wrong?”
“Why did it have to be her?” he sobbed. “Why couldn’t it have been me?”
That’s exactly what I’d expect him to say, Deirdre thought giddily. She felt torn between fannish excitement and pain at seeing another soul in so much distress. She suppressed the urge to squeal and instead focused on doing her best to comfort him.
“We’re sorry, Commander,” she said, putting her hand on his shoulder. “We never meant for it to happen this way.”
He buried his face in his hands and wept. In that moment, something inside of her shifted. This was not the larger-than-life hero that she’d read about in the ship’s annals and her great-grandmother’s journal—this was an actual person, with all the weakness and fragility that entailed. In that moment she wanted nothing more than to take him in her arms and hold him until the pain was gone.
“That’s enough,” said Maggie, pulling her aside. “Commander, we really must see you to medical. If you’ll come this way…”
Deirdre watched silently as James followed the nurses through the door. Though his tears had ebbed, his feet were heavy, his mov
ements wooden. Even though he was almost exactly her age in terms of years lived, the sorrow on his face made him look much older.
The noise and activity all around her faded, and her breath caught suddenly in her throat. I know what he’s going through, she thought to herself. I’ve been through it before. More than anything else, that made her heart go out to him.
Chapter 21
James stared morosely at the drab gray ceiling of the ship’s medical bay. The place reminded him of the quarters he’d shared with Sara in the few short weeks before going into cryo. Her face flitted across his mind, and he clenched his eyes shut to keep the tears from spilling out. More than anything else, he wanted to wake up from this nightmare. He wanted to open his eyes and find Sterling and Lars and all his old friends having a good laugh, and they’d tell him it was all a joke at his expense. And Sara would be there, and he’d cry and laugh and everything would be all right.
The soft buzzing of the door chime made his heart skip a beat. Was it true? If it was Sara…
“Come in,” he called out.
The door hissed open, and a tall, thin brunette stepped in. She smiled warmly at him, but she was not Sara. Definitely not.
“Commander McCoy?”
He sat up slowly and nodded, leaning heavily on his knees. “That’s me.”
“Deirdre Johansen,” the girl said, extending her hand. Though she looked about his age, her vibrant smile made him wonder if she were a year or two younger. James took her hand, and she shook his with obvious enthusiasm.
“I don’t know if you remember,” she said, “but I was in the cryo chamber when you were revived. I’ve, ah, read all about you, even written—I’m the ship’s chief historian, you see. It’s kind of my job.”