by Amy Cross
As soon as the red lights blink to green, I hit the relay pad and the door slides open with a satisfying hiss. I duck down and step into the pod, and I immediately see her: cocooned in a plastic shell, barely visible beneath a mass of wires and tubes, she could be anybody right now. Still, I know that deep down, under all this medical equipment, it's definitely her. Checking the monitors, I see that she's still in deep sleep, which is perfect. It doesn't happen often, of course, but occasionally systems can malfunction. I once heard of a pod that arrived at a station near Io-6, and when the occupant was checked, she was found to have suffocated on a patch of mold that had grown in her throat during the journey. I'd never have forgiven myself if anything had happened with my new arrival, but fortunately it looks as if everything's okay.
"Welcome home," I say quietly, spotting the name-tag on the side of her cocoon. "Crizz Arnold. So that's what they're calling you these days, is it? Crizz? What the hell's that supposed to be short for?"
I can't help but smile.
She'd hate that name. Hell, I hate it. Supreme Command has been trying to get people to use modern names for years, even going so far as to hand out financial reward to any parents who go with something new instead of a classic name. I don't see what the hell's wrong with calling someone Nicholas or Thomas or Sarah, instead of monstrosities like Crizz. I swear to God, one day the modern world is going to give me the biggest ulcer in human history.
"Crizz," I mutter with a smile. "So fucking... ordinary..."
The truth is, I've waited so long for this moment, I'm almost scared to begin the long process of rousing her from deep sleep. It's going to be so weird seeing her again, especially given that her understanding of the situation will be somewhat limited. Nevertheless, after all the work that's been put into this moment, and after all the lives that have been lost in order to engineer this most unlikely of reunions, I guess the next part should be relatively easy. Reaching over to a nearby monitor, I press a couple of panels and begin the process that will eventually raise her from her four-week slumber.
I take a deep breath.
The only sound comes from the pod's computer system, which is quietly buzzing away as it initiates the pre-programmed resuscitation routine. All very straightforward, of course, but I can't help worrying. One crossed circuit or failed algorithm and her body could be irreparably damaged. If she died now, after everything that has happened, I worry that the cause would be crushed. For better or for worse, trillions of people across the universe are waiting patiently for some sign that she survived.
Their hope must be answered.
"Resuscitation in progress," the ship's computer says calmly. "Do not interrupt power supply. Do not change settings. Resuscitation will be complete in one hour. Manual user response is not required."
"Check life signs," I reply.
"Life signs stable," the computer continues. "All readings are within accepted parameters."
"Double-check."
"Life signs stable," the computer says again. "All readings are within accepted parameters."
"Again."
"Life signs stable," the computer says again. "All readings are within accepted parameters."
"Inform me immediately if anything changes," I reply, finally feeling as if I can trust the system to complete its work without my constant interruptions.
"Request lodged."
"Careful," I mutter, "or I'll lodge it somewhere you don't like."
This all seemed so complicated and unrealistic when we started planning, but it's finally worked. I want to pinch myself, to make sure that I'm not dreaming. It's hard to believe that we could have got her here, and that in an hour I'll be able to talk to her again. It'll be just like the old days. Well, kind of. I guess things are bound to be a little tricky at first, but we're still fundamentally the same people. They might have taken away her memories, but they can't take away the fire that burns in her soul. They can't take a passionate, angry person and turn her into a cowardly, subordinate drone. They think they can, but they can't. I refuse to let them.
"Don't worry," I say, keeping my eyes firmly fixed on the wires that cover her face. "You'll be out of there soon, and then we can pick up right where we left off." I pause for a moment. "Well, almost."
Chapter Two
Crizz
I wake up twice. Or rather, some part of me wakes up, flickers its eyes, and then goes back to sleep.
The rest of me waits.
Every few seconds, I become briefly aware of a sensation. Hands on my body, for example, or a voice. It never lasts, though. Soon the memory is lost, floating away into the darkness. I try to hold on, to remember, but something is stopping me. I'm in a void, with nothing around me, but I can't help imagining a vast, rushing river washing over my body. At the same time, I know that every fleeting thought is temporary, bound to be washed away on a black tide.
Nearby, someone's screaming.
I turn to look, but I can't open my eyes. I can definitely hear someone, though. It's a voice, familiar yet strange, crying out for help. Whoever she is, she seems to be in great danger, and I want to help her. When I try to move my body, however, I find that I'm frozen in place. The screaming gets louder, but at the same time it sounds increasingly stifled.
And then silence falls.
I can hear the echo of the scream still in my mind, but not the scream itself.
Now there's a kind of hissing sound, like steam being released under pressure.
I wait.
"This is going to hurt," a woman says, an echo without a voice.
All around me, there's nothing but emptiness and sorrow. Even the stars have been dimmed. And yet, somehow, I'm aware of something else. A pair of hands, holding me, carrying me. I want to believe that they're real, but at the same time I'm convinced that there's something I'm forgetting. Something important. Something -
Chapter Three
Sutter
It takes me a while to get her through to the station's examination room. I should probably have just done all this in the pod, but I can't be entirely certain that the damn thing doesn't have a few hidden eyes and ears. At least with the station proper, I know when I'm being watched. I've spent years bypassing the main security systems, and I've engineered certain 'blind spots' where I'm completely unobserved. Now more than ever, I need a little privacy.
"Don't worry," I say as I set Crizz's motionless body down on the table. "Just a few more things to do before you get up."
Now that she's out of the pod's stasis cell, it's very clear that she's been through a lot. The last time I saw her, almost a decade ago, she was a fresh-faced and confident young woman, slightly gaunt thanks to lack of food but, for the most part, buzzing with the vibrant energy of anticipated revolution. Looking at her right now, however, I can see the first hints of age and hardship on her face. There are a couple of very fine lines under her eyes, making her look a little older than her twenty-two years, but it's definitely still her. There's a kind of burning compassion and hunger in her soul that can't be suppressed, no matter how hard certain people might try.
Then again, it's important that I check. Just to be absolutely certain that this isn't some kind of trick.
It takes me a few minutes to prepare the injection. The milky white liquid in the syringe is the final step in the process of resuscitation, and it has to be delivered manually due to some obscure S.E.A.S. rule about the sanctity of human life. I can't remember the details or the reasoning; only that someone somewhere, much higher up in the organization, decided that machines shouldn't be the ones to make the final push that brings a human being back from stasis. Normally I'd be only too happy to flout such a ridiculous rule, but today I'm keen to use the opportunity that has been afforded to me. I need to be in complete control.
Placing the syringe on a nearby table, I lean over Crizz's body - I'm still getting used to that name - and carefully unzip the side of her tunic, exposing her bare chest beneath. As I pull the fabric further a
part, I instinctively look over my shoulder, as if I expect someone to wander up from behind and catch me in the act. The truth, of course, is that the nearest human being is a very long way from here. It's just me and Crizz in the station, in a metal sphere that's spinning along its orbital path at a speed of several hundred miles an hour, far above the surface of Io-5. We're all alone in the heavens.
"Sorry about this," I whisper as I take hold of her left breast and gently lift it up, exposing the skin beneath the lower curve, "but duty calls."
Sure enough, the scar is right there. It's just half an inch long, and over the years it has faded to the point that it's barely visible, but it's there as plain as day. Either they didn't know it was there, or they didn't think it was important.
Grabbing a laser scalpel, I activate the lowest setting and carefully cut a thin line directly along the scar. A thin trickle of blood oozes from the wound, but nothing too drastic. Setting the scalpel aside for a moment, I poke two fingers into the slit and quickly find what I'm looking for: a small metal thread, no more than half an inch long and no thicker than a human hair. Placing it in a nearby dish, I grab the scalpel and switch to the 'repair' setting, before carefully sealing the wound back up and then wiping the blood away with the sleeve of my tunic. Moments later, there's nothing left except for the scar, which looks no more obvious than before.
"I just had to be sure," I whisper, letting her breast fall gently back into place before carefully zipping her tunic closed again. I know I shouldn't have invaded her privacy like that, but I figure she let me see her naked body plenty of times in the past, and at least this time I've got a damn good reason for taking a look. If she knew what I was doing, she'd be grateful. Hell, she'd think I was a goddamn hero.
Now that everything's ready, I pause for a moment. I've waited so, so long to get my hands on her again, but suddenly I'm a little nervous. I've been in this station for more than a decade, and for the past few weeks - ever since Deborah died - I've been completely alone. It was very easy to come up with grand plans, but now I have Crizz with me, I suddenly realize that the time for planning is over, and the time for action has arrived. I should be excited and happy, but instead I'm worried. What if, after all this time, I was wrong?
Sighing, I realize that there's only one way to find out.
After I've injected the contents of the syringe into her arm, I use my fingers to pull her eyelids open. The pupils are still dilated, and I guess it'll be a few more minutes before she's fully conscious, so I take a moment to recover the metal thread and place it in a secure plastic container, which I store carefully in one of the nearby lockers. I need to make sure that Crizz doesn't find the damn thing once she's awake, but fortunately I'm fairly sure she'll be focused on getting to know her new duties, at least for the first few days. By the time she's up to poking about, I'll have downloaded the contents of the thread to a secure, off-network device, and I'll be able to destroy the incriminating evidence by jettisoning it out into the void of space.
Hearing a noise from the table, I look over and see that Crizz is starting to stir. She's not awake yet, but there's a frown on her face and it's almost as if she's having a bad dream. I watch for a moment as her closed eyelids flicker, and her mouth opens a little. She exhales a wisp of white smoke, a remnant from the stasis procedure, and then she starts licking her lips. All newly-revived stasis passengers lick their lips excessively while they're waking up, due to a natural desire for water. I head over to the sink and fill a glass for her, figuring that I should probably try to get on her good side as soon as possible. I have no idea how her head will be when she wakes up, or how far along her indoctrination has come, but I know one thing: when she finally comes around, she'll have a hell of a lot of questions.
The worst part, though, is that despite everything we've been through over the years, she won't have any idea who I am.
Chapter Four
Crizz
"Let go of me!" I shout, trying to push him away.
"Will you just calm down for a moment?" he replies, pushing me back down onto the bed. "Jesus Christ, don't you remember anything?"
I try to get free, but his grip is too firm and although I hate to admit defeat, I finally have to accept that there's no point fighting him. After one final, utterly vain grunt of frustration, I take a deep breath and try to regather my composure, while staring up at the man's face and searching his eyes for some hint of his intention. He's an older guy, maybe in his early fifties, and his dark, receding hairline frames an open face. Judging by the faint smile on his lips, he seems to find me amusing.
"Who are you?" I ask.
"It's okay," he continues, easing his grip a little. "My name is Nicholas Sutter. I'm the lead project coordinator for this outpost. We're in a class-C station in orbit around Io-5, and we're running a series of methane-hydrozone rigs down on the surface." He pauses, as if he expects me to say something. "Does that make any sense to you at all?" he asks eventually. "Please, tell me you understand. I know standards are slipping, but there's no way they'd send you out here without at least some basic information."
I stare at him.
"Come on," he continues, gently slapping the side of my face. "You've got a brain, haven't you?"
"Stop that," I tell him, turning away.
"Aren't you starting to remember yet?"
"How did I get here?" I ask.
"By shuttle," he replies. "More like a pod, really. You were placed in suspended animation at the 51-Alpha home-base in sector five, and you spent four weeks in transit. You arrived here about five hours ago, and I thawed you out. Nice of me, huh?"
Staring at him, I realize that despite the fog in my mind, his words are slowly starting to make sense. I have a vague memory of being at some kind of home-base station, and waiting for orders; I also remember going through basic training, not only for my physical capabilities but also for mental strength and technical capability. A rush of images is flooding into my mind, but I'm starting to realize that this guy might not be crazy after all.
"Io-5," I whisper, remembering some kind of briefing that I was given before I left. Still, it feels like just yesterday that I was at the home-base. I was just out of the academy, still getting used to being in deep space. There's no way four weeks can have passed.
"It can be quite disorientating when you first come up," he says, taking a step back. "Granted, you're a little more out of it than most, but still..." He pauses. "I guess you can be forgiven for acting out, but don't worry, the fog will clear eventually and you'll be back to normal. Whatever normal means for you, anyway. Do you even remember your name?"
I stare at him.
"No?" he asks.
"Of course I remember my name," I say firmly, trying not to sound too defensive.
"Go on, then."
I pause for a moment. Although I feel as if my name is right on the tip of my tongue, I can't quite manage to pull it up from the murky depths of my mind. I try to think back to other familiar things - my childhood, or my military training - but everything's a kind of gray, blurry mess. I feel as if I'm at a distinct disadvantage, and I hate the way this asshole seems to find the whole situation amusing.
"Don't worry," he continues, smiling as he grabs a clipboard. "I've got it right here in black and white. You're Crizz Arnold, you're twenty-five years old, and you were born at the third Martian colony base. Aw, that's practically all the way back at sector zero, isn't it?" He pauses again, with an amused smile on his face. "You're a long way out now, Crizz Arnold. I hope they told you it's usually a one-way ticket when you come this far. People don't usually end up going home."
I stare at him, still trying to take in all of this information.
"I know," he adds with a faint smile. "Crizz is an ugly name, isn't it? I share your pain. You don't have any nicknames, do you? Preferably something nice and traditional. None of this new garbage. I swear to God, they seem to be competing to see who can shove the ugliest strings of letters together."
"Who are you?" I ask.
"Nick Sutter," he replies, reaching out and shaking my hand. "A much nicer name, huh? For better or for worse, this little round piece of junk is my home. We're in high orbit around Io-5 in one of the fleet's oldest and most denigrated rust-buckets. Still, it's better than nothing, and at least there aren't many people around to bother us. The place only requires a two-man crew, and that's being generous. Some days, there's not much else to do apart from press a few buttons and stare out the window."
"Two-man?" I reply. "So who was with you before I showed up?"
"No-one," he says, and for the first time he seems a little uncomfortable. "That's why you were sent. There was an accident a few weeks ago. My former colleague, a very friendly lady named Deborah Martinez, was killed when a bay-door sealant blew. I tried to save her, but it didn't take long for me to realize there was nothing else I could do, so I..." He pauses, as if the memory is too painful. "When someone gets blown out into space," he adds finally, "they don't tend to come back."
"What did you do?" I ask cautiously.
"I had to make a decision," he continues. "I could have tried to go after her with the lander, but I wouldn't have got to her in time to save her. At best, I'd have hauled her back to the station so she could die in her bunk, but it would have just been prolonging her pain. I chose to make it quick, and despite a few sleepless nights, I still think I made the right choice."
"But -"
"Please don't try to turn this into an ethical argument," he replies, interrupting me. "The past is the past, and I'd do the same thing again. I'd do it to you, and I hope you'd do it to me. There's no point extending anyone's suffering if the worst happens."
