"Explain."
"The hormone hCG!" TeDum proclaims.
Dee Zu really misses access to the Lode.
Now it's Bentley bending over her with a warm smile. "EZIC Cryonic Term Deposits regulations require that you authorize their designated agent—i.e. us—to suspend this potential person as defined in law. Do you so authorize Happy Chillin?"
Gabble. The last thing Dee Zu hears before the nothingness. But her last thoughts are of Cisco.
abide in faith
"Relax," TeDum says.
TeDee trundles along on the other side of him.
The belt moves silently, so smoothly Son isn't conscious of any motion.
"Alternative plan assessment."
"Ninety‐nine‐point‐nine percent probability, here in Happy Chillin, that subject's mortality is realized within ninety years."
"Goners for sure."
"Virtually guaranteed."
"You idiots. You've just said we'd live ninety more years."
"Ninety years each."
"In total, one hundred and eighty years."
"So let us go," Son says. "We've got lots of time, lots of food."
"One hundred and eighty years of what?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing to do."
"Total boredom."
"No fun."
"All glum."
"Let us reawaken you to a better world."
"Till then, abide in faith here with us."
"In Happy Chillin."
There's a sudden chill in the air at the approach of the nitrogen bath. Son tries breaking the shackles. "Get me off this conveyor now," he says, without much hope.
•
He'll stay awake till the cold takes him; he wants to know what it is to die.
He never even feels the prick of the injections. His constituent molecules start losing kinetic energy to their new medium and nearly all metabolic and cognitive processes come to a halt.
world record
So bad. What are they doing to her? This is awful. Beyond sick. Every cell in her body has a headache, plus they're all trying to puke at the same time. They're killing her.
Dee Zu remains strapped to the conveyor. At the same time she's buoyed by a warm, oily liquid, though she takes no comfort from that. Something has gone wrong.
"Are you okay?" Son's voice, from somewhere nearby. He sounds terrible.
She tries to speak, manages a croak. "Goddamn." She tries again: "No, I'm not okay."
"Bentley!" Son's own croak is probably supposed to be a yell. "You asshole."
"You said you were putting us to sleep," Dee Zu says. "What is this?"
She hears Son dry heaving at the same time he struggles against his constraints.
She thought they were putting them to sleep. And now look. What's gone wrong?
•
A big grin floats into view and hovers there under a big red quiff.
"You're awake!" Bentley says.
"They're awake." TeDee confirms this report in similarly grating tones of exuberance.
"Greetings, greetings," says TeDum. "Welcome."
"Dee Zu." Son's voice is stronger.
The gaggle of happy attendants migrate over to where they can harass Son instead. Dee Zu tries to look, but she's still strapped down, and she's too sick even to roll her head in his direction.
"Please report symptoms of distress," Bentley says to Son. "If any. Be as specific as you are able."
"I'm so sick I'm going to die. You asshole."
TeDee, or maybe TeDum, is attending to Dee Zu. He presses a DiagnoStik to her throat, then to her abdomen.
She's burning up, unbelievably thirsty. She starts coughing. She coughs till she has a splitting headache and her throat is so raw she can't even ask what's happening. The Dickhead rolls up to jam her mouth open with a clamp before sliding a minty vacuum hose into the back of her throat.
"Welcome, welcome," the others are telling Son.
"Please report," Bentley says to Dee Zu. "How do you feel?"
After Bentley remembers to tell the Dickhead to remove the hose from her throat, she says, "Totally excellent, you nitwit. What do you think?"
"Irony," says TeDum.
"As it were‐ishness," TeDee says.
"You jest." Bentley sounds congratulatory. "That's good. That is a good sign."
TeDee reels about in semi‐ecstatic mode. "There is hope," he says.
"Do we have a first?" asks TeDum.
Dee Zu fills with foreboding. "Bentley." She strikes as reasonable a tenor as possible. "Bentley."
"Yes?"
"You were going to freeze us."
"Yes."
"What went wrong?"
"Nothing. Nothing went wrong. We did freeze you."
•
Wow. So bad, this news, something she realizes she already knew.
"And now you are unfrozen," TeDum says.
"Thawed out," says TeDee.
"Alive again."
"Alive‐alive‐oh." TeDee sings this.
"It isn't working, is it?" she says. "I'm sick."
"It is working. No one else ever got this far before." Bentley adopts his most reassuring tones. "Congratulations," he says. "We are twenty‐five minutes into your revival, and all organs are functioning."
"Tests continue," chorus TeDee and TeDum.
"Blood chemistry, brain chemistry."
"Allow us to warm your bath further."
"Your comfort is our first concern."
"Your comfort and welfare."
"Congratulations." Bentley waxes even more effusive.
"Everything went right!"
"Very probably everything went right."
"Thirty‐five minutes and counting!"
"We have a new record, folks."
Dee Zu doesn't need the running commentary just now.
"What was the old record?" Son asks.
And the boy might learn to curb his curiosity.
"Eleven minutes."
"And twenty‐four point four seconds."
"William 'Lee' Farley Frick."
"Only his head."
"Boosted by medibot transfusion."
"So you are setting new standards!"
"Yes! A breakthough."
"We are the first."
"Of all affiliated EZIC Cryonic Term Deposits centers!"
"The first."
"Self‐repair."
"Our monitors have ascertained that your bodies host nanobots."
"Self‐replicators."
"Disassembler‐assembler self‐replicators."
"New technology."
"New and improved."
"The answer to cryogenic restoration!"
"Long awaited."
"Good news."
"But will they persist?"
"Forty minutes and counting."
"Another record!"
"Most promising."
"Hourly reports would be fine," says Dee Zu.
Bentley's smile wanes slightly. "You do not wish to share breaking news of your progress?"
"They must repair every cell in your bodies." TeDee introduces a cautionary note, though overall he remains joyous.
"Most of them."
"More good news. Your nanobots are replicating faster than expected."
"Much faster."
"Like rabbits."
"What?" Son says. "What the hell are you talking about?"
"It is our fervent hope that this procedure succeeds."
"Circumstances conducive to effective eventuation of your recovery were consensually agreed on the grounds of good evidence and in full cognizance of the contractual conditions and duties pertaining to the situation."
"Dee Zu?" Son sounds unhappy.
"Our first concern is for your comfort and welfare."
•
"Welcome!" Bentley is grinning.
"You've said that before," Dee Zu says.
"Welcome," says TeDee.
"Welcome," says Te
Dum.
One minute she's fighting the anesthetic, braced for the liquid nitrogen. The next she's sickened unto death and—unless they stop raising the temperature—in danger of being cooked in this oil bath. With sensors stuck all over her.
"How long were we out?" Son asks.
"No, no," TeDum assures him. "You never left Happy Chillin."
"What I meant to say." Son does a great job of sounding patient. "How long were we unconscious?"
"Suspended?"
"Christ! For how long?"
"How long?"
"Yes."
"Twenty‐two years."
deported
Dee Zu tries sitting on the edge of the conveyor. She wants to vomit but can't. Son has managed to stand.
"Here's the thing," says Bentley.
"The main point," says TeDee.
"The thing," TeDum says.
"Precisely." Bentley looks pleased. "It is time."
"Time?"
"You are to be released."
"Released?" Son says.
"We can't stay here?" says Dee Zu.
"That is correct. It is not possible to have you stay here."
"Why not?" she says.
"Pro bono client cryo, designated Inventory Dee Zu, female, origin obscure, forthwith and summarily revived from preventative suspension and judged viable and in good health—remarkable health, if I may be permitted a personal observation—is in possession of no identifying, much less authorizing, documents, and Happy Chillin is in possession of no records that would convey United Securistats of America resident‐class security clearance. According to our database, no record of such an individual exists either here or elsewhere. Thus visitor‐class security clearance must similarly be denied."
"Enough," Son says. He also clutches his head and groans.
"Pro bono client cryo, designated Inventory Son, male, origin obscure/unknown, forthwith and summarily revived…"
"Enough," Son says. "Let's have it in a nutshell."
"Security considerations plus circumstances beyond our control dictate that visitor status be denied."
•
"Our analysis of this device remains inconclusive, beyond noting it is comprised of the same unidentified metal as your other possessions."
Their belongings lie neatly assembled on a piece of clean white woven material. Son's spearsticks are bundled with the cord from one of his catchbags, his knife and GPS ball beside them. Bentley displays no real interest in the latter item.
"Do we get food?" Son asks.
TeDee waddles in dragging two plastic bags of water, and TeDum follows with neatly folded short‐sleeved tunics of some ambichromatic synthetic. Finally the Dickhead sidles in carrying a sackful of something heavy and drops it beside the other stuff.
"No charges will be levied for services rendered."
"All charges waived."
"Wave bye‐bye to charges."
Dee Zu's response is devoid of gratitude. "Services we neither requested nor wanted," she says.
"So you're letting us go?" No matter how shaky he might be, Son is down to business. He hefts their spearsticks, tightens the cord around them. Checks inside his bag. He has itemized the foodstocks while Bentley droned on.
"That is correct."
"You can't be serious," Dee Zu says. "What's the point? We've been away for twenty‐two years; there's nothing out there for us to go back to. It's dangerous."
"You lack the necessary security clearances." Bentley goes into bottom‐line mode. "You are to be deported."
"What are you talking about?"
"Directed away from the USA," TeDee says. His tottering expresses regret in some way Dee Zu can't put her finger on.
"How can you deport us?" Son asks. "Where are you going to send us?"
"Your duly authorized incoming flight plan, conserved in our database, has been carefully reverse engineered."
"What?"
"You are to be returned to your point of origin."
"Returned to sender," says TeDum.
"Address unknown."
"Home again."
"Home again."
"Jiggedy‐jig."
TeDee and TeDum reel about bumping bellies and grinning mightily.
"We're still frozen," Dee Zu says, "And this is a dream, right?"
"All costs are covered." Bentley's smile extends from ear to ear. "The William Farley Frick contract stipulates return private transport to his point of departure. He is currently unprepared to enjoy that service, however, and is expected to remain in that condition."
"Deceased."
"N'er to be released."
"Please be informed that his reservation has been declared transferable, and under those terms has been transferred to your good selves. You may now proceed to Mr. Frick's point of departure."
"Fuck off."
"There is more good news. You may be pleased to learn that his point of departure is the same station from which you yourselves departed only twenty‐two years ago."
"You are going home." TeDum reels about with delight.
"Sweet home," says TeDee.
•
Son reads aloud from a plaque attached to the airlock door: "Upgrades to pod facility complements of Dana Desbrier, Founding CEO of Magifacturing Inc. 'Never say die!'"
"A valued early client and shareholder," Bentley says.
"Hallowed be his name," chorus TeDee and TeDum.
"Unfortunately Mr. Desbrier is no longer viable due to factors beyond our control."
"One of the yellow lights?" Dee Zu says.
"Yes."
"Dead as a doornail," suggests Son.
TeDee and TeDum are all roly‐poly expeditiousness. "All aboard who's going aboard!"
"We wish you a comfortable flight."
"Stratospheric tailwinds could reduce flight time by twenty minutes."
"Headwinds might extend it by a similar period."
"Weather conditions at destination unknown."
"Sat surveillance out of order."
"We have technical people working on the problem."
"No rain, we hope."
"Or snow."
"You dope."
They giggle.
"Prepare for boarding procedures," says TeDee.
"Can't we stay here?" Dee Zu says. "Just for a while."
"All concerned must abide by the relevant rules, ensuring that no party to these transactions incurs liability."
"Back to square one, then," Son tells Dee Zu. "Standing outside in the Boogoo circus, dicks in hand."
"Speak for yourself," says Dee Zu.
She tries a grin, and Son finds his regard for her undiminished after all the years.
"We are also pleased to inform you that your personal belongings will be returned to you. We are further authorized to waive both surgical removal of internal and external anomalies and implantation of neurotoxic IED teeth."
•
The Dickhead loads Son first. "Dee Zu?" he calls.
As though it were all an elaborate trick on her part. "I'll be along shortly," she says. "Don't panic." What a kid.
preview
"Another mail delivery pod," Dee Zu wriggles in closer, tries to get comfortable
"I'm going to be sick," Son says.
"Really?"
"Really."
"Not ideal."
In fact he manages nothing more than dry heaves. "How can I be so sick and hungry at the same time?"
"I'm surprised you aren't horny as well."
"Hah!" he tells her. His hoodie looks more like a scarf.
The wonder of medibots.
•
But Son spends much of the flight glued to the viewports. This isn't the same world they left. Though he has seen this planet before. It could be the Earth that emerges, together with the rest of the solar system, from his ball.
"Look at that." Dee Zu points out that you have to look hard even to imagine the boundaries of the territorial boogoos.
Meanwhile white clouds float against blue sea and green continents. Expanses of both sea and land appear in soft focus, as though smudged. Son wants to wipe at the portal, then remembers he's getting a digital view. Maybe it's a cloud effect.
•
They're making their landing approach. They have to trust their pilot knows what it's doing, because nothing looks familiar.
Son's stomach lurches as retro rockets kick in. Their delivery vehicle veers north, then west toward a mountain range. A rapid succession of nose‐cone views of mostly green hills and plain and blue sky accompanies a loop‐de‐loop flourish, Son's stomach in belated tow. The pod soars straight up, pops its chute and settles back toward Earth.
brave new world
This situation we've got on our hands here is basically a Mexican standoff.
– Poppy
mexican standoff
The medibots know their business.
Never mind he has something like a tequila hangover and she smells more like embalming fluid than woman. Dee Zu's nakedness arouses him. Her skin is paler than it was, though it's still milk chocolate, red tone enhanced by morning sun. He's stirred both by her nakedness and by her frank gaze at his own.
"This is mondoland?" Dee Zu says.
"It is and it isn't."
"Insufficient data," she replies. "Please elaborate."
A slow three‐sixty of their surrounds reveals features still familiar for all they've been transformed.
"Whatever it looks like, we're home again."
"Speak for yourself."
It's warmer than Utah was, though cooler than when they were last here. But that's the least of the changes. This land is green, where it isn't orange or reddish. An especially lush palisade of vegetation north of them must be Eden. The high grassy ridge with clumps of trees to the east is Long Lookout Ridge. Not far southeast of Long Lookout a new feature stands roughly where Ahuk Hole should be, a low conical hill with vapors issuing from a crater on its peak. Lakes and streams brighten green plains to the south. The valley immediately north of where they stand is less familiar. The median ravine is concealed by water, for one thing. The stream itself is hidden where its bends lie behind clumps of trees growing along its banks, their leaves shimmering silvery green. These are just some of the changes he can see from here. What else awaits discovery? All this lies too far outside the ken to say.
Woogly patches toward the horizon provide a soft‐focus frame for white cumulus puffs floating vivid in the deep blue bowl overhead.
"Back in the malls," Dee Zu says, "I've tuned holoports to scenes something like this. I've also tested Worlds that looked similar."
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