A Stranger in Eden

Chapter 1

And ever has it been that love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation.

— Kahlil Gibran, from The Prophet

Disembodied and drifting in darkness, Sean Weber floated gradually into consciousness. Something pressed against his nose and mouth, forcing air into his tight, congested lungs. A slow, irregular beep sounded somewhere near his head. Unfamiliar voices swelled around him, distant and otherworldly, a soup of medical terms of which he understood only snippets:…blood pressure…oxygen level…core temperature… Someone lifted his left eyelid and shone a bright light into his pupil. The light seemed exceedingly bright, and his whole left eye socket ached from it. They did the same with his other eye.

We might have some pupil reaction, a male voice said in the blackness. Maintain the oxygen infusion a little longer.

His core temperature is 35.9, a female voice said. It appears to be rising on its own.

Good. Give him one more boost for good measure.

A soft mechanical whirring began. An odd sensation of warmth rose in Sean’s body. He felt as though warm molasses were being poured into his bones. The beep of the heart rate monitor increased. Nausea quickly followed the warmth.

This one is younger than most of the others, the first male voice said. Why did they put him under?

He had a malignant tumor wrapped around his brain stem, the second replied. Luckily, our staff was able to remove it while he was still in stasis. We also put in a neural patch to facilitate healing.

What are his chances?

Not good, I’m afraid. He was likely comatose and within hours of death when they put him under. I’m surprised we’ve been able to revive his vital signs.

The two men continued their banter. Sean wondered vaguely if they were really talking about him, as he had no recollection of having a serious illness. The whole situation seemed distant, dreamy, and absurd. He felt like drifting off to sleep, but now there came a gradually rising level of physical discomfort. He felt as though someone were slowly lowering him, head first, into an icy cold pool.

The woman spoke up. He’s starting to shiver.

Yes. That’s a good sign. Take off the mask.

Sean felt the face mask being removed.

Looks like he’s breathing on his own, she said.

Try talking to him, Cee-Cee.

Sean, the woman spoke into his ear. Can you hear me?

Sean did not want to answer. He wanted to drift back to sleep, back into the soft netherworld of unconsciousness.

Mr. Weber, we are reviving you from cryosleep. You’ve been under for a very long time. If you can hear me, move a finger on your right hand.

Sean focused his attention on his fingers. He tried to move them, but the connection seemed lost.

No response, she said. He might be vegetative like the others.

But this one is showing brainwave activity.

A conversation about the amplitude of alpha waves ensued between the man and the woman, but Sean could not catch the thread of its meaning. As he began lapsing back into unconsciousness, he felt a soft hand take his. It felt hot on his cool skin. The woman’s voice came again, her breath caressing his ear as she spoke.

Sean, if you can hear me, squeeze my hand.

Sean focused intensely on the warmth cradled in his hand. Long-dormant motor neurons in his brain came to life. A faint electrical message, sent forth by his will, leaped across neural synapses down his neck, through his arm, to the muscles in his hand.

He’s responding, Issac, the woman said.

Good God! Let’s get him into the critical care ward before we lose him.

Sean felt them quickly disconnect things from his arms, head, and chest. Then came the sensation of movement. He was being rolled on a platform. Footsteps kept pace alongside him. Sean tried to remember the sequence of events that had brought him to this time and place, but his memory failed him. The moment seemed to exist in a vacuum, originating from nothing, connected to nothing, adding up to nothing.

The rolling platform stopped in a darker, quieter place where the air was markedly warmer. Someone covered him with a fuzzy blanket. Vaguely, he sensed that he was naked.

Sean heard more footsteps approach. So this is him? a nasal, third male voice said. Sean Weber. Caucasian male. How old is he?

Thirty-three at the time of interment, the older male voice answered. He was born January 10, 1969. We’re lucky to have this information; the cylinder we found him in was in bad shape.

So you say he’s woken up?

Yes, the woman said. And he even squeezed my hand.

Sean heard the nasal man’s voice close to his ear.

Are you still with us, Mr. Weber?

Sean squeezed the hand.

He heard you.

Good. Now listen to me very carefully. It is crucial that you fight to stay awake. Do you understand that? You must fight to stay awake—or you may never awaken again.

Sean gave the hand another squeeze.

He’s responding, the woman said. He understands you. She slipped her hand from his and tucked his beneath the blanket.

Sean became aware that there was something heavy attached to his other arm. Stay awake or you may never awaken again. These words terrified him. Why do I have to stay awake? Who are these people? What are they doing to me? Sean wondered if he were dreaming. Perhaps he wasn’t really involved this. Perhaps he was only watching events as they unfolded in the distance. A familiar face framed by reddish brown hair appeared in the darkness. She gazed at him with a sad, forlorn expression—Leona!

What did he say? the nasal man asked.

It sounded like ‘Leona,’ the woman replied.

Who’s Leona?

Probably his wife or biological sister. Poor guy.

Leona gazed at him forlornly from the edge of the hospital bed, deep green eyes, her warm hands clasping his. He knew every curve of her face; he’d often traced them after they’d made love, as the moonlight shone through the white gauzy curtains of their bedroom window. Leona smiled sadly at him; it was a bittersweet expression of longing and hope. She seemed about to speak to him, to impart some important message, but her image dissolved into a misty gray, and the immutable darkness returned. Leona, come back.

Leona’s dead, the nasal male voice said into Sean’s ear. She’s been dead for a long time.

Dead? How can that be? Leona!

Why did you tell him that, Dr. Elgin? the woman asked. Are you trying to shock him back into oblivion?

I am telling him the truth. There’s no use in deceiving him.

Your bedside manner leaves a lot to be desired.

Elgin sighed. Ms. Collins, please come out into the hallway with me. I’d like to speak with you for a moment in private.

Sean heard footsteps leave the room and the closing of a door. Now all was silent except for the soft hum of an electric motor. He saw only the vague outline of someone leaning over him. All else was a miserable blur, a pastiche of muted color.

I apologize for the minor disruption, Sean, came the older man’s voice. You’ve come a long way to be with us. Had we known we’d successfully revive you, we would have planned a celebration.

Sean’s tongue felt as though it were made of leather. Wh—who are you? he forced out in a hoarse whisper.

Dr. Isaac Trexler. I’m the medical engineering liaison in the project that revived you.

Revived? Where am I? Sean tried to rise but found that his abdominal muscles would not respond. His legs would not move, either. Oh, my God. Am I paralyzed?

Relax. Trexler said soothingly. You are in Hospital No. 12 in Seattle. The facilities here are some of the best in the city.

The name did not ring a bell with Sean. For that matter he could not recall any hospital in Seattle that had a number instead of a proper name.

Would you like something to drink?

Sean nodded weakly; his nausea had subsided. He closed his eyes, frantically trying to remember the circumstances that had brought him to this place. Although his mind was filled with images and memories of events, he could not place them in any sort of order. Twinges of a headache surged from somewhere behind his eye sockets.

Trexler inserted a straw into Sean’s mouth. Here, have some of this.

The fluid that flowed into his mouth tasted vaguely like black licorice. Part of his tongue was numb. He had difficulty swallowing and nearly choked.

Easy does it.

Sean opened his eyes. His vision was still poor. I can’t see.

Maybe this will help.

Trexler put some drops into Sean’s eyes. After a few blinks, Sean’s vision improved enough that he could make out shapes, but everything still looked hazy. Sean tried to raise his arms but found he could not lift them. He realized he had practically no feeling in the lower half of his body.

I can’t move. I can hardly feel anything.

I’m sorry, but we had to operate on your brain stem to remove a tumor there. It was a very invasive operation. We couldn’t have revived you without removing it first. You would have quickly died.

Will I always be this way? Paralyzed?

Your movement and physical sensations will eventually return, although you might need old-fashioned physical therapy to recover your strength and coordination.

A sliding door opened in the far part of the room. The figure that passed through joined Trexler at the bedside.

Ah, now his eyes are open, the nasal voice said. He’s making quick progress. He placed a filled hypodermic syringe on a nearby tray.

Sean recognized the voice from earlier. What happened to my wife? he asked.

The two doctors traded glances.

How amusing, Elgin said to Trexler. He wants to know what happened to his wife.

Trexler dabbed his brow with a white handkerchief he’d produced from beneath his white lab smock. Yes, indeed. We shall contact the Bureau of Information and have them pull what records they can find on Mr. Weber. We know as little about him as he knows about us. He gazed squarely at Sean. You’ve been asleep, Mr. Weber, for 115 years. On behalf of Dr. Elgin, myself, and the rest of the hospital staff, I’d like to welcome you to the 22nd century.

Chapter 2

Sean sat up in his bed with a start. Bright lights still burned in his eyes from some dream that had troubled his sleep.

My God, Leona, what happened to us?

He rested his gaze on the yellow digits of the clock on the wall. It was still early morning. He scanned the hospital room as he had done hundreds of times in the last few weeks. It was sterile white and night-lit with a cool bluish-white light tube overhead. The hospital suite had a congested feeling, not unlike the critical care ward he had been moved from three weeks before. A video camera panning inside a reflective half-sphere on the ceiling watched him with its unblinking eye. No doubt they had seen him awaken.

Is there anything wrong? a man’s voice squawked from a hidden speaker.

Sean felt thirsty. He reached over to the gray pitcher on the stand next to the bed and shook it. It was nearly empty.

I’m thirsty.

Drinking water on the way, the man sighed over the speaker.

Sean stared at the blank wall where the Video Receiver had been. The VR device, about a meter high, two meters across, and as thin as a finger, was the direct descendant of high-definition television. His time viewing the VR had been brief, however. A few days after he moved into the room, it had been abruptly removed from the wall. He gathered during his brief viewing experience that the United States and most foreign countries he remembered no longer existed in their present forms. The US had been transformed into the United Sovereign Republics, with its federal capital in Colorado Springs, and Oregon, Washington, Idaho, and northern Utah and California had been melded into a super-state called New Eden. Most of the changes had come at a turning point in the middle of the 21st century when some sort of worldwide economic or social cataclysm had taken place.

Sean flipped through an ancient, tattered copy of The Complete Illustrated Book of Birds, which had been left by the bedside by one of the hospital staff in the critical care ward. He had never had any interest in birds, but this voluminous work had been his chief source of diversion during the hours between tests and physical therapy. In the last few weeks, with nothing better to do, he studied the book intensely as though it were a tome of ancient wisdom, memorizing parts of it. He now considered himself an expert in bird biology and felt he could probably identify a thousand types of birds on sight. The book did not satisfy his real curiosity, however; Sean wanted to learn about the new world into which he had awakened. His access to information was limited. Trexler’s answers about the world had been curt and uninformative, and Elgin was scarcely communicative at all. The importance of politics and world history diminished in Sean’s mind when he rubbed his sore arms. The veins on his arms and legs were black and bruised from the numerous times the hospital personnel had taken blood and given him venous injections of mysterious substances that made him feel sick, often to the point of vomiting. Every part of his body had been pricked, probed, scanned, and analyzed by some device or arcane medical machinery. Some of the tests were painful. His right side just below his rib cage still ached where they had taken the liver tissue sample that morning.

Sean put his pillow behind his back. He had the urge to walk up and down the hospital hallway, but they kept the door locked. He had awoken from cryosleep partially paralyzed and suffering from a constant, blinding headache. Trexler explained that Sean had been frozen with a massive tumor deep in his brain. At least one operation had been attempted during his time, as evidenced by a surgical scar on his scalp, which was now concealed by his black hair that had grown out since his resuscitation.

Sean’s current physician team had executed a relatively painless three-step process to cure him. First, they had withered the tumor by inoculating him with an anti-cancer virus that had been developed 40 years prior, and then they had regenerated Sean’s damaged brain tissue with another drug that had been developed to reverse Alzheimer’s disease. Day by day, the headaches became less severe until they vanished altogether, and sensation gradually tingled back into his left arm and leg. Finally, Sean’s physicians put him in physical therapy. Trexler informed Sean that he had been frozen on the brink of death; the tumor would have killed him within days of resuscitation without treatment.

Sean’s thoughts returned to Leona. He wondered what had become of her. Surely she was dead, unless she too was frozen, which was extremely unlikely. Sean visualized Leona frozen in a cylinder filled with a slurry of sub-zero liquids as he had been. He cringed at the thought.

The tumor or the cryogenic process had affected his memory. The latest event he could recall with any certainty was Thanksgiving dinner 2002 on a snowy afternoon at his in-laws’ farmhouse in central Washington. Up to that point, he remembered having a persistent headache that increased over a matter of weeks. He recalled numerous doctor visits and diagnoses of stress and lack of sleep. Sean thought that maybe something happened that Thanksgiving, because after that evening, all was a jumble of memories of white rooms and a tired-looking Leona sitting nearby reading a book, occasionally looking up at him with a concerned expression.

The future had been bright. Sean and Leona had been married for only three years after living together for six. They had recently relocated to Seattle, where he had landed a lucrative new job as a computer software engineer. Leona had yet to find new work as an elementary schoolteacher. They had just purchased a three-bedroom home in the Queen Anne district with their savings and were working on adding a new member to their household. What error in cell reproduction had torn their lives asunder? Sean wondered how Leona had moved on without him. Did she expect he would be revived from cryosleep after only a few years when medical science had caught up with his condition? Trexler had interviewed him the other day about Leona, recording all information that Sean could recall of Leona at the time. Trexler said he had initiated a search for Leona’s file at the Bureau of Information, but the Bureau had so far returned nothing. It did reveal, however, that the company that had frozen him went bankrupt six years after his date of interment.

A female orderly, a buxom, middle-aged woman with a crew cut, entered the room carrying another gray water pitcher. Moving slowly and carefully, the rubber soles of her shoes squinching on the polished floor with each step, she replaced Sean’s pitcher with the one she carried.

Thank you, Sean said.

She nodded once and shut the door behind her. Sean frowned. The hospital staff that addressed his needs was not a talkative bunch.

He poured some water from the pitcher into a plastic cup and took a sip. It was lukewarm, as usual, with a slightly metallic taste. After he refused to eat, they had changed his diet from artificial-tasting hospital food to things more familiar and palatable. Perhaps he would receive cold water, too, if he did not drink it lukewarm.

It disturbed Sean to no end that he had no documents, photos, keepsakes, or any other tangible sign of Leona’s existence. Even his wedding band was gone. For all the evidence that remained of her in the world, it was as though she’d never existed.

His eyes rested on the viewplate that Trexler had given him. It was a simple device to operate, and he had spent many idle hours making rough sketches of objects around the room in its DRAW FREEHAND mode. Such drawings turned out reasonably well, but the portraits he’d sketched of Leona by memory with his unskilled hand were inaccurate and distinctly unflattering. He’d eventually deleted every single one of them. This morning he decided to try something different.

He set the viewplate in his lap and turned it on. This time he set it the WRITE DOCUMENT mode. Faint gray lines appeared on its softly lit cream-colored writing surface. He took a deep breath, lowered the scribe to the surface, and wrote: Dear Leona.

Sean paused to contemplate the salutation. Seeing it there on the electric surface of the ultra-modern device had an odd, palliative effect on him. It made his dead wife seem vital and relevant. He wasn’t sure what to write next, but he continued anyway.

Who could have guessed that I’d be writing to you from this odd place and time? I haven’t yet figured out whether my new lease on life is a curse or a blessing. Leona, do you know you occupy my thoughts during every waking moment and fill my dreams when I sleep?

He rapped the scribe against the viewplate while he reflected on the gulf of time between her lifetime and his displaced existence. Then a comforting thought came to him: by writing to her, he was resurrecting her, recreating her existence in the present. A letter to her would be evidence of her life. For a moment, he imagined that the magic viewplate could somehow reach back through time and space to communicate with her.

Leona, my love, I find myself in a strange situation. You are now dead, yet I never knew of your passing. It seems I saw you only yesterday, yet you probably passed away decades ago. I have seen no certificate of your death, and I did not witness your departure from the world. Perhaps you are sleeping in the ether. I feel your presence. Wake up! You are alive again! Through my willpower and letters, I will sustain you, just as you sustained me when I lay at the brink of death. Now that I live again, I will live for two.

I am writing to you on a device called a viewplate. It’s kind of an electronic version of an Etch-a-Sketch (remember those?) only it’s much thinner and doesn’t have knobs, and when you turn it off, you can see through it as though it were a pane of glass. My writing instrument is a gold-nibbed pen with no ink and a plastic eraser on the other end. You can transfer documents between plates with cables or plastic cards that look like credit cards. I was told that paper is very scarce and valuable here, and viewplates have replaced paper for every practical purpose, from books to magazines to scratch paper. They come in different sizes, and apparently, even the basic models can hold thousands of documents. Remember all those papers that always seemed to accumulate throughout our house? One of these things would have taken care of that!

I’ve learned that I’m in a country called the USR, which means United Sovereign Republics. Washington is now a postal zone in a state called New Eden. The President is a woman named Miranda Marx. Most everything else about this place is a mystery to me.

Already I am discovering that information doesn’t flow as freely now as it did in our time, and I’m alarmed that it’s taking them so long to retrieve information about us. What sort of inefficient database system are they using, and why is it so incomplete? Dr. Trexler gave me an odd look when I asked him if I could have access to the Internet. What happened to our Age of Information?

According to Dr. Trexler, the USR Bureau of Information in Colorado Springs stores the master records of all North Americans, including DNA imprints, but the Bureau has no information on you. And why should the country keep records of a frozen, terminally ill brain tumor patient when later it had a civil war to contend with? The march of time has trampled us into obscurity, Leona!

Sean gazed out the window of his room. An unfamiliar skyline stretched into the distance. It was much more expansive than the Seattle he remembered. And where were the Space Needle and Safeco Stadium? For that matter, where was Union Bay with its picturesque docks, and Lake Washington with its floating bridges? It occurred to Sean that not only was the city skyline unfamiliar; he did not know a soul out there.

Leona, beloved, whatever happened to you?

Chapter 3

Dr. Isaac Trexler entered Dr. Jonah Elgin’s Art Deco-furnished corner office on the 10th Floor of Hospital No. 12 at 12:30 sharp. The view from Elgin’s office was the best in the building, but the windows faced north, which made the office notably darker and clammier than most of the lower offices whose windows faced south. Trexler shut the door behind him.

Have a seat, Isaac, Elgin said in his nasal voice. It’s rare that you come up to my office for a visit. What can I do for you?

I’ve come to inquire about the status of Sean Weber, Trexler said.

We’re still doing tests to discover why he survived whereas the other five did not.

Could it be that he was frozen just before death instead of just after as the others appeared to have been?

Negative. I suspect that there may be a hidden chemical difference between him and the others. I plan to repeat the cryogenic process on him to test my hypothesis.

Trexler sat up in his chair. You want to freeze him again? What makes you certain he’ll survive it?

I’m not certain he will. We’ve had mixed results with our animal test subjects.

But he’s human being, for God’s sake. You can’t use him as one of your test animals just to test your hypothesis.

I can do as I like with him. He’s a non-person. And don’t forget who is directing this project.

Well, at least perfect your methods, first. Don’t simply freeze him again until you’re completely certain you can resuscitate him.

We’d take every precaution to ensure success.

You say you have mixed results using the lab animals. What sort of problem are you having?

It’s all here. Elgin gave Trexler a datacard. Look at this when you have the time.

Have you been using Cosine’s tissue-oxygenation process?

Elgin frowned. We were having difficulty implementing the process properly, so we abandoned it.

Trexler stroked his chin. Perhaps you could use Cosine’s assistance.

I didn’t feel it was appropriate to approach Ms. Collins for assistance. Particularly after she rebuffed us, telling us she didn’t want anything to do with the project after his resuscitation.

She didn’t want to take part in your dehumanizing him.

Elgin smiled. All of us are concerned for Mr. Weber, but we don’t allow our emotions to hinder our objectivity. I doubt that Ms. Collins has the objectivity we need. You may recall her emotional outburst during the resuscitation process. The next thing you know, she’ll be protecting the lab rabbits from our experiments.

Jonah, have you considered the human aspect of your experiment? He’s not a lab animal.

Of course he isn’t. But consider this: had it not been for us, Mr. Weber would still be frozen in that rusty, dented up capsule. At six weeks, he’s already gotten more life than he was entitled to. Besides, he’s not one of us. He wouldn’t thrive in our society.

Perhaps we should study him in different ways. We could learn much about his culture by talking and interacting with him. I think there’s sociological value in this. Consider all the films from his era that have been revived in the last ten years.

Yes, Isaac. Those films are objects of humor and ridicule. You know that. The State allows them only because they show how far we’ve advanced from his era.

You’re old enough to remember the pre-war era. You know as well as I do that what’s taught at the Social Development Centers is sometimes neither accurate nor complete. Sometimes it’s calculated for deception.

Elgin sighed. We’ve had this discussion before, Isaac. Let’s not engage in it right now. Why did you come to my office?

To make a request: I would like Sean to enter our society.

Why?

As I stated earlier, we could benefit by learning from him.

Who would benefit? Me? You?

Trexler hesitated. Those he meets.

I’m not sure the citizens of New Eden are prepared for that. I refuse your request.

Couldn’t you reconsider?

Under what grounds?

Suppose I asked Cosine to render her assistance in the oxygenation process. Her assistance would enhance your research. You could resume using animal subjects.

And Mr. Weber?

He would leave the hospital.

He’d be an illegal alien.

I have connections at the Bureau of Immigration. I could get him provisional citizenship under Article 19. I can arrange this very quickly.

If he became a citizen of any country, we would not be able to use him freely for our experiments.

Yes, but you wouldn’t need to. With Cosine’s assistance, you could refine the cryo-resuscitation process on animal subjects.

Negative. We do not need Ms. Collins’ assistance, and Mr. Weber stays in the hospital.

Trexler stood up and began pacing. Jonah, you showed only scant interest in this project until we revived Sean.

Correct.

Why does it matter so much to you now?

I should ask you the same, Isaac. Why is Sean so important to you?

A friend of mine could use his help with historical research.

That’s what libraries are for.

Not the study of censored books—I’m thinking of a more in-depth type of study.

If the State learns that we let Mr. Weber out of the hospital so that he can spread his outmoded ideas, we could be implicated for social disruption.

He’s not the type that would try to start a revolution.

How do you know?

I’ve spent hours talking with him. Trexler returned to his seat, breathing hard.

You’re looking winded. Have you been to a doctor yourself, lately?

It’s nothing. It will pass.

Elgin gave Trexler an uneasy look. Yes, I’ll admit that his successful resuscitation sparked my interest. But the chief benefits for studying him are scientific, not social. The knowledge gained from our research can be used in long-range space flight.

We already have long-term sleep. That’s proven sufficient.

To Mars, maybe, but the kind of sleep that Mr. Weber survived will enable travel to the stars. Think of it—there’d be no limit to how far man could travel through space if we were able to place all bodily functions into stasis as was done with Mr. Weber. Elgin sighed. I regret that I have to depart for the Bokanovsky Institute in Boston to participate in the genome-recombination project I volunteered for before Mr. Weber unexpectedly awakened, but I’ve postponed my trip as long as I can.

The Bokanovsky Institute? Very prestigious.

Did I tell you about the project I’m on?

Trexler shook his head.

Elgin smiled. Imagine what it would be like if everyone were born with both male and female genitalia. Such a physiology would dramatically increase the variety of sexual activities the average citizen could engage in. And think of the social benefit—we would finally have true sexual equality within classes. He delicately straightened a stack of datacards on his desk. At this time, we’re on the brink of solving a particularly thorny problem with hormone balance. The trick is to maintain full operation of both male and female genitalia without compromising the libido.

Trexler tightened his lips.

It doesn’t appear that you share my enthusiasm, Isaac.

Don’t you think we’ve gone far enough?

We cannot cease our social evolution until the ideal has been achieved.

We’ve already achieved Huxley’s ideal.

Huxley wasn’t farsighted enough: he didn’t anticipate the possibility of the Universal Hermaphrodite in his magnificent social plan. Elgin locked his hands together. But it is our legislators in Colorado Springs who will ultimately decide the direction of our social order, not you or me. Getting back to Mr. Weber’s project, I would have preferred to refreeze him before I left, but since I’m running short on time, I’ll leave the process to you.

I’m not inclined to performing it.

Ah, Isaac, you may be well respected at this hospital, but I can have you removed from this project. You’re long past retirement age. A few letters to the hospital committee and—well, you know.

Perhaps you can consider Sean’s situation, Jonah. The man has lost his wife, his family, his career.

That’s exactly why he’s perfect for our experiments—he has nothing to lose.

But someone went through great expense and trouble to freeze him. The man was still young. He had his whole life ahead of him. Trexler leaned forward on the desk. If he died while in your care, it would be murder.

Elgin laughed. Isaac, you seem to believe that I intend to harm Mr. Weber. I sincerely believe we have a good chance of recovering him. We’ve reconstructed the process under which he was frozen using the original patent submitted by the company at the time he was interred in the capsule. If anything, we have a better chance of reviving him the second time around because he won’t have a cancerous tumor the size of a hypo-apple growing in his skull.

We can’t risk losing him.

The loss of one man in a world of 9.7 billion is of little consequence.

You’re not leaving me any choice, Trexler said.

I’m glad you agree. I depart for Atlanta in a few days. You’ll be in charge of refreezing Mr. Weber. The entire staff will be at your disposal to assist you.

Trexler nearly passed out in the elevator down to his office. Once inside, he took two of the heart medication tablets he stored in his desk and chewed them vigorously. The dizziness and shortness of breath subsided.

As he reclined in his chair waiting for the medication to take full effect, he gazed at the holograph portrait of Cosine on his desk. He put a datacard into his 3D viewplate and perused his holograph album of her. This was his earliest holo of her; she was ten years old, sitting at his desk at the SDC reading Anna Karenina. This was her graduation portrait from the SDC. In the next one, she was on vacation in Hawaii with her first husband, Galileo. Here, she posed with her friends Starlight and Ensa on a snowy slope of Mt. Hood. He studied Cosine’s pictures in sequence from the earliest ones taken at the SDC to the more recent ones of the adult woman. He noted an unmistakable trace of sadness in her eyes that seemed to increase with the passage of years. He caressed her cheek on the monochrome studio holograph she had sent him for his eighty-fourth birthday. My Cee-Cee, there is yet a chance you may someday own the love I have lost.

The clock chimed 13:00. Cosine got off work at 19:00. Trexler picked up the phone terminal handset and dialed her number.

* * *

Dear Leona,

It’s been almost six weeks since I woke up in this place. I’m happy to report that all the medical tests abruptly stopped a few days ago. I sense that changes are afoot, though I can’t tell you what they are or what’s bringing them about.

Did I tell you they’ve started bringing me chocolate milkshakes and hamburgers? The chocolate milkshakes are a good approximation of vanilla, the bread tastes like peanuts, and the hamburger patties taste like salty, over-spiced sausage. And I have no idea what the lettuce and tomatoes are made of. But I’m not complaining—the food is much better now than it was before.

I’m still getting more information on how I ended up here. It seems that the cryonics company that treated me went bankrupt. Then came some worldwide economic collapse, and I was moved to some underground storage facility (or mausoleum). The ground above was bombed during the Second American Civil War, and the storage area collapsed. Apparently, I was forgotten about until the ground was excavated for the construction of a shopping center. The time I was frozen in the capsule passed like a dreamless sleep. When Dr. Trexler and his staff brought me back, they knew almost nothing about me except my name and date of birth. I was one of seven people they found. I was the only one they were able to revive.

Incredibly, the Bureau of Information found a record of my death in their electronic database, but there’s no record of yours. And they still haven’t been able to retrieve any information about how you lived your life afterward except that some old county records show you sold our house in March 2016. Dr. Trexler said the chances of knowing for certain what happened to you are slim, as lots of paper records from our era were destroyed during the War. Why is there no electronic record of your passing? Dr. Trexler thinks you might have died along with the millions when the USA and USR bombed each other’s cities and your death was never recorded, as so many others weren’t. Dr. Trexler had a teary-eyed expression during our discussion of this, which makes me believe he lost someone close to him during the War. I was going to ask him if he did, but I didn’t want to pry.

Chapter 4

Cosine stepped into Isaac’s office at Hospital No. 12. The door slid shut behind her. She always felt at home in his old-fashioned office. The cozy room, with its subdued lighting, was tastefully furnished in rare, expensive authentic oak. She always liked the look and feel of the ornately carved old wood.

Isaac looked up at Cosine from the viewplate on his desk. There you are! I was becoming worried about you.

Sorry I’m late, she said as she hung her jacket on a hook by the door. "There was a malfunction with the rail. The car was stuck over Helm Street for half an hour until the maintenance workers let us down.

I tried calling.

The batteries were run down in my mobile phone. I found out when I tried to call you. She quickly moved behind the desk and kissed him on the cheek.

This old man missed you, Cee-Cee, he said.

I missed you, too. She took a seat in one of the wood and leather chairs in front of his desk. I’m sorry, Isaac. I’ve been busy with last-minute design changes in the Russian oxygen generator plant. Would you believe I’ve scarcely had a day off since we revived Sean? She gazed out the window behind him as she spoke. Already, the white lights of the Seattle metro area were brighter than the receding blue of the dusky sky.

He held up a plastic dish of confections in fluorescent red wrappers. Candy?

No, thank you.

Are you sure? They’re sweetened with sucrose instead of Sorbitine. One of the nurses gave them to me. I won’t eat all of them myself.

Cosine reconsidered his offer. Okay. On second thought, I’ll take two. One for me and one for Rudyard.

He tossed her the candies. She caught each with a deft sweep of her hand and stuffed them into her black imitation-leather belt pouch.

By the way, how is Rudyard?

Just fine. He’s been busy working hard on some article. He gets home late most nights. Later than me, even.

And Starlight?

The same as always. She’s dating some guy she met at a rave a few weeks ago. She must not be bored with him yet; I haven’t seen her since. How is Sean?

I’m pleased to say that he’s come a long way. His headaches are gone, and he’s responded well to physical therapy.

I was concerned about him. I’m glad he’s doing better.

Isaac brought his hands together. "The reason I asked you to