REFREEZERS

6163 CE

A voice said, “Repair automata have contained the air and other vital resources, but the heat-control system for the backup steering power supplies is damaged. Take this corridor forward and follow the mouse on the other side.”

Follow the mouse? Doug gritted his teeth and launched himself across the corridor’s haze-obscured gap, nearly smashing his faceplate against a jagged rim of steel. A tiny hover with a long glowing tail jetted up in front of his eyes, waggled, and then led him down a maze of airlocks and tunnels into Tompuso‘s spine itself.

He entered a blacked-out chamber, peering through flotsam and haze. His suit light sketched vague bulks of machinery packed closely; arcs of electricity flickered in the smoke. The Sinese voice said, “Please follow the directions I will give you. Do not touch the equipment until I specify what is to be done. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Doug said.

“Excellent. First, locate the blue-lighted buttons in the ceiling. Yes. Press the one which is flashing. Say ‘Complete’ when you have done so.”

Doug obeyed each instruction, reciting “Complete,” and thinking of Nye. The thought broke his concentration, and he had to repeat several steps, getting the uncanny feeling that Nye, or maybe even Geordie, was here watching him. Maybe that was all right. But where was ‘here’, anyway? Had this ship he had worked on for so long really taken him out of the Solar System, and were they now beyond the light of any sun?

Hours later, he finished the job. The voice said in a musical inflection, “We are deeply grateful for your efforts, and at the arrival point the crew of this vessel will offer its gratitude and recognition for your service. The repair automata will complete the re-welding of hull breaches and all remaining cleanup. You may now follow the markers to a personnel refreezer chamber to complete your journey. Thank you.”

“Can’t I at least get a sandwich?” Doug called, trying to joke with this disembodied voice. The work had drained him; the suit’s heaters appeared to be functioning poorly.

“Excellent and nutritious Hau Ren food will be provided at the arrival point. You must enter the personnel refreezer with a voided stomach. Please ask further questions of the refreezer‘s instruction automaton. Thank you.”

Doug found his way out of the spine, located the guide arrows, and found a refreezer. It refused to open. When he banged the door in frustration, a voice said, “This refreezer is occupied. Please follow the arrows to an alternative choice.”

Again he traced his way, and again he met with an occupied unit. Twice more the same thing happened; at last he came on a refreezer with its door open. Hungry, exhausted, he stripped down, climbed in, and heard the voice say, “This unit has discharged, and is not capable of recycling into sleep mode. Please follow the arrows to an alternative choice.”

Cursing, Doug fought his way out and dressed again. His suit air supply was becoming smelly, a sure sign that the recyclers were approaching full discharge. Living on the Hive had been easier than this, all except for Wenrock, and Wenrock was more than three thousand years dead.

He cranked open another unit, and a man lay in it; his sleeve name tag read Thomas Chi. Not wanting to risk the man’s life, Doug started to slam the door, but something in the man’s face stopped him, and he looked closer. Thomas‘s face bore odd striations and hollows that outlined the man’s teeth. Doug extended a finger and probed gently at the hollow spot just above the upper jaw beside the nose. The skin gave under his finger, and a hole opened; a haze of dust and tissue shreds floated up and out. Thomas Chi was dead.

Doug recoiled, blurting, “What happened?”

The ship’s synthesized voice answered, “Thomas Chi did not survive the reawakening for this task. No failure in the life-support system was detected. We regret the loss.” The intonation was flat.

It took Doug another half hour to find a woman named Alyssha Riley, in exactly the same condition.