body used to it.
His mind began to drift as he exercised, and he tried to remember his past. He was able to remember a lot about his life: his childhood, his college years, opening up his psychiatric practice. He tried to remember his patients from the last few years (but still over a hundred years ago, he had to keep reminding himself). He tried to see their faces in his mind, and he tried to recall their names, the problems he was trying to help them solve. He could remember some of them, but others were eluding him.
Then he tried to remember the last memories he had before waking up on this ship. He concentrated for a moment, pedaling a little faster almost like the mental frustration was manifesting itself in his physical output.
For a moment he was back in his office in Manhattan. He had seen his last patient for the day … but he couldn’t remember who that patient was; he couldn’t remember if that person had been a man or a woman, young or old.
Rolle closed his eyes as he pedaled harder and he tried to think back to that memory. He was at his desk … there was a knock at the door. He was about to tell the person to enter, but he remembered thinking it was odd that anyone was there. It was late in the day and his secretary had gone home already.
Two men entered his office. They were both tall and sturdy-looking, their faces set in serious expressions even though their faces were a blur to him right now. They both walked right towards him, a purposeful gait.
He still couldn’t see their faces no matter how much he tried to concentrate on the memory. But he remembered their stone-cold voices.
“Simon Rolle, it’s time to go,” one of the men said.
And then … and then …
… darkness.
“Rolle,” someone whispered.
Rolle opened his eyes and stopped pedaling the exercise bike. He saw the flash of movement out of the corner of his eye and his eyes darted towards the wide archway that led back out to the corridor.
Someone had been there, he was sure of it.
Someone had whispered his name.
He got off the stationary bike and stood next to it on now-rubbery legs. He hurried over to the exercise machine to grab his towel, his eyes still on the archway the whole time.
“Hello?” he called out.
He waited for an answer. He listened for sounds from the corridor.
Nothing.
Rolle hurried across the exercise mats to the archway and looked out at the corridor. He looked up and down the hall, but he didn’t see anyone out here. He didn’t hear anyone; he didn’t hear any sounds except the non-stop humming noise of the machines behind the walls of this ship.
Someone had been there, hadn’t they? He hadn’t imagined someone calling his name, had he?
Another side effect from their suspended animation?
He didn’t want to think about it—he just wanted to go back to his room and lie down. He dried his sweaty face with his towel and walked down the corridor to his room.
THIRTEEN
C romartie didn’t think he was going to be able to sleep.
He lay in his bunk and stared at the ceiling. He had the light on over the desk. He wanted the light on … he didn’t want to be in the darkness. Outside this ship was nothing but darkness and pinpoints of light that went on forever. He didn’t want to think about what was out there—he just wanted to lie in the light right now.
The hum of the air handlers was constant, along with whatever other machines that ran ceaselessly behind these walls and ceilings. Those machines were the only sound in his room besides his slow breathing.
He tried to concentrate on his breathing for a moment as he closed his eyes. He wanted to give his mind a break from thinking, but he couldn’t seem to shut his mind down.
The same questions kept coming back to him over and over again.
Had all of them really been abducted and put into cryo-sleep? Had they been stuffed into the cryochambers on this spaceship and then launched out into space? What had happened to his wife and kids back
His mind began to drift as he exercised, and he tried to remember his past. He was able to remember a lot about his life: his childhood, his college years, opening up his psychiatric practice. He tried to remember his patients from the last few years (but still over a hundred years ago, he had to keep reminding himself). He tried to see their faces in his mind, and he tried to recall their names, the problems he was trying to help them solve. He could remember some of them, but others were eluding him.
Then he tried to remember the last memories he had before waking up on this ship. He concentrated for a moment, pedaling a little faster almost like the mental frustration was manifesting itself in his physical output.
For a moment he was back in his office in Manhattan. He had seen his last patient for the day … but he couldn’t remember who that patient was; he couldn’t remember if that person had been a man or a woman, young or old.
Rolle closed his eyes as he pedaled harder and he tried to think back to that memory. He was at his desk … there was a knock at the door. He was about to tell the person to enter, but he remembered thinking it was odd that anyone was there. It was late in the day and his secretary had gone home already.
Two men entered his office. They were both tall and sturdy-looking, their faces set in serious expressions even though their faces were a blur to him right now. They both walked right towards him, a purposeful gait.
He still couldn’t see their faces no matter how much he tried to concentrate on the memory. But he remembered their stone-cold voices.
“Simon Rolle, it’s time to go,” one of the men said.
And then … and then …
… darkness.
“Rolle,” someone whispered.
Rolle opened his eyes and stopped pedaling the exercise bike. He saw the flash of movement out of the corner of his eye and his eyes darted towards the wide archway that led back out to the corridor.
Someone had been there, he was sure of it.
Someone had whispered his name.
He got off the stationary bike and stood next to it on now-rubbery legs. He hurried over to the exercise machine to grab his towel, his eyes still on the archway the whole time.
“Hello?” he called out.
He waited for an answer. He listened for sounds from the corridor.
Nothing.
Rolle hurried across the exercise mats to the archway and looked out at the corridor. He looked up and down the hall, but he didn’t see anyone out here. He didn’t hear anyone; he didn’t hear any sounds except the non-stop humming noise of the machines behind the walls of this ship.
Someone had been there, hadn’t they? He hadn’t imagined someone calling his name, had he?
Another side effect from their suspended animation?
He didn’t want to think about it—he just wanted to go back to his room and lie down. He dried his sweaty face with his towel and walked down the corridor to his room.
THIRTEEN
C romartie didn’t think he was going to be able to sleep.
He lay in his bunk and stared at the ceiling. He had the light on over the desk. He wanted the light on … he didn’t want to be in the darkness. Outside this ship was nothing but darkness and pinpoints of light that went on forever. He didn’t want to think about what was out there—he just wanted to lie in the light right now.
The hum of the air handlers was constant, along with whatever other machines that ran ceaselessly behind these walls and ceilings. Those machines were the only sound in his room besides his slow breathing.
He tried to concentrate on his breathing for a moment as he closed his eyes. He wanted to give his mind a break from thinking, but he couldn’t seem to shut his mind down.
The same questions kept coming back to him over and over again.
Had all of them really been abducted and put into cryo-sleep? Had they been stuffed into the cryochambers on this spaceship and then launched out into space? What had happened to his wife and kids back
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