Chapter Twelve

 

 

 

"MY LOVE IS LIKE a goblet of purest crystal, studded with rich jewels. Chalcedony and onyx. Amethyst and fiery opal. There are times that this goblet brims over with the richness of our love for each other. And now it is shattered into a million daggered shards upon the stones."

 

Doc sat in a black leather chair in one corner of the room, eyes closed, fingers to his temples, muttering to himself.

 

The other four friends ignored him, preoccupied with what they'd foundthree deep-frozen bodies, pale and bloodless, with dozens of tubes and wires running to and from every part of them. Liquids were circulating slowly, some without color, most tinted shades of red.

 

The clear coffins that held the bodies were slightly frosted and ice-cold to the touch. But it was possible to make out something of each of the three freezies inside.

 

"It's a child here," Krysty said. "Little girl. Can't be more'n three years old. Why did they freeze her?"

 

"Old man this," Jak called from the far end of the row.

 

"Middle-aged black woman," J.B. announced. "Handsome looking."

 

Ryan sat down at the single long control console. The capsules were numbered 1, 2 and 3. There were sections on the console labeled with those numbers. On an impulse he pressed the main key for 1, the glistening pod that contained the child.

 

The screen lit up, glowing an unearthly green. The others went to stand behind Ryan and watch what was happening. Even Doc stirred himself from his almost catatonic lethargy to join the group.

 

There were forty or so lines in the display, each offering a different menu of information. One said simply Bio. Ryan operated the flickering cursor to bring it to the right place, then pressed the Go key.

 

They all read as the information scrolled upward, Jak's lips moving as he whispered the more difficult words under his breath. It was very short.

 

Hope Future, girl child abandoned in New York's Museum of Modern Art on April 7, 1998, newborn and in coma. Has massive and inoperable brain damage under existing parameters of medical knowledge. As part of cryo-campaign of late nineties she was treated in hope that one day she might be awakened to full and happy life. Her name, Hope Future, was selected after a nationwide TV and video competition.

 

That was all. Ryan pressed the Off switch and sat back with a sigh.

 

Doc broke the silence. "If I might paraphrase that great Englishman, Sir Winston Churchill, some future some hope."

 

"Going to thaw her out?" Krysty asked.

 

"Three-year-old brat? The heat scrambled your brains, Krysty? Leave her. Maybe one day she really can be a future's hope. But not with us."

 

"The others?" J.B. asked. "One's kind of old and sick."

 

He was eighty-seven years old and had been frozen at the point of death from a cerebral tumor. He had won a Nobel Prize for atomic physics and had been an expert on remote-control missile detonators. So the comp-screen proudly announced.

 

The decision to leave the physicist on ice was unanimous, though Doc mumbled something about thawing him out and cutting his throat.

 

"The lady?"

 

Ryan's fingers moved over the keys to try to find an answer to Krysty's query.

 

"Least she's not too old. And she doesn't look too ill," J.B. said, waiting for the screen to display the information.

 

Wyeth, Mildred Winonia. Doctor of Medicine. Degrees earned and honorary see full printout. Born December 17, 1964. Parents black activists. Father, minister, killed in KKK (qv) firebombing in 1965. Mother marched in late fifties and sixties see also Connor, Eugene ("Bull"); Kennedy, John Fitzgerald; Kennedy, Robert Francis; King, Martin Luther; Montgomery, Alabama; Selma, Alabama; Young, Andrew Jackson, Jr. Height, five feet four inches. Weight 136 pounds. Eyes brown. No distinguishing marks or scars.

 

Doc abruptly lost interest again and wandered off to peer into the cryo-containers.

 

Unmarried. Next of kin, mother. Leading U.S. authority on cryogenics, specializing in cryo-surgery. Frozen December 28, 2000 after complications arising from minor exploratory abdominal surgery. Details available under Medical History.

 

"Sounds quite a lady," Krysty commented. "Be interesting to try to defrost her."

 

"Probably kill her," Ryan replied. He watched as the screen continued to outline details of Mildred Wyeth's long-ago life, including where she'd lived and been educated, and titles of scientific papers she'd written. But there was one item that attracted the interest of all four of the watching companions.

 

Was chairperson of pistol club in hometown of Lincoln, Nebraska. Represented United States in Olympic Games of 1996 in free-shooting competition. Won silver medal.

 

J.B. ticked off the points on his fingers. "Woman. Looks healthy. Bright. Doctor. Real one, not like Doc. And she can handle a blaster. What are we waiting for, Ryan? Let's get her thawed out from the rad-blasted coffin."

 

Ryan couldn't see a single reason to argue with the Armorer. "Yeah. Let's do it."

 

 

 

THE FRIENDS REMEMBERED from their previous experience that the ritual of thawing out a freezie could take a long time.

 

All of their combined skills were needed to master the consoles. Fortunately, the basic process, once properly initiated, was run by the all-knowing comp-controls. But they had to try to monitor the display panels showing vital functions. For nearly two hours, every dial and meter remained blankly, stubbornly unchanged.

 

Doc had fallen asleep, head on his hands, snoring gently.

 

They could tell that things were happening. The flow of liquids became swifter, and the pod began to fill slowly with a swirling gas that obscured Dr. Mildred Wyeth.

 

"Look." Krysty pointed to the monitor labeled Vital Function 3. A small blip had been traveling soundlessly along a central line, but now there was a tiny hiccup in the blip's movement and the faintest beeping sound from the speakers.

 

Doc looked up blearily. "We have lift-off," he said, and fell straight back asleep again.

 

Gradually the other monitor screens clicked into reluctant life. Drainage levels of certain fluids rose, while others dropped. The at first imperceptible heartbeat became audible. But the misting grew thicker, until it was impossible to see into the capsule that held the late Mildred Wyeth.

 

Jak went out after a half hour to check the rest of the complex, and found that the automatic fire controls had put out the blaze. "All heads dead," he told them, grinning happily.

 

It took more than three hours before all the vital signs steadied.

 

"Soon," Ryan predicted.

 

The fog of vapors within the pod gradually cleared, and they gathered around, waiting for the automatic lock to spring open and release the woman. Now they could see the rise and fall of her chest beneath the thin cotton of the shroud.

 

"Soon," Krysty agreed.

 

"Think she'll be a triple-stupe?" J.B. asked.

 

Ryan shook his head. "Way it looks from what we've seen, the dice don't roll for us. Soon as the capsule opens we'd best get blasters cocked and ready."

 

The liquids bubbled and seethed, with a hollow, draining sound, loud enough to jerk Doc from the welcoming arms of Lethe into a sudden, startled wakefulness.

 

"What, what? I agree with everything that the last speaker said." He looked around, rubbing his eyes. "Sorry, gentlemen. My apologies. Must have closed my eyes for a moment. Pray carry on with your experiment. I shall be with you shortly." He laid his head back down on his arms and immediately began to snore.

 

Ryan looked at the old man, the thought crossing his mind that the day might be coming fast when they and Doc would have to part company. As long as he still kept a reasonable hold on reality then it was fair enough to let him keep riding with them. But this current madness seemed more deeply rooted than ever before. And you couldn't carry crazed passengers with you through Deathlands.

 

"Things moving," Jak called from beside the pod. "Think moved."

 

The fingers, with pale long nails, were twitching, opening and closing as though they gripped some invisible weapons. The eyes blinked open, staring blind and blank at the misted interior of the cryo-pod. The mouth moved in a nervous tic, the tip of the pink tongue flicking out over wrinkled, dry lips. Ryan noticed that like Doc, the woman had excellent, strong white teeth. A rarity now, in Deathlands.

 

"Come on, Mildred," Krysty whispered, her hand resting gently on the exterior of the capsule. "It's getting warmer," she added, looking at the others.

 

The blips on the screens were moving faster, like dancing emeralds. The beeping sounds were louder and closer together.

 

"Heart and breathing quicker," J.B. observed, his tone revealing his worry. "Could be too quick."

 

"Can we open it up faster?" Ryan asked, looking back at the main control consoles.

 

"There's a clock counting down on her numbered pod." Krysty pointed. "Down to three minutes and eighteen seconds."

 

"Bleeps going mutie-shit," Jak observed. "Explode any minute."

 

The four watchers slowly moved back from the pod, all holding blasters, ready to protect themselves against whatever.

 

"Two minutes dead," J.B. said.

 

They heard the synchronized snap of heavy sec locks opening, the noise again stirring Doc from his slumbers. He sat up, peering curiously across the room. "Nearly cooked to a turn, is it? Then let the thanksgiving commence."

 

"Forty seconds," Krysty counted. "Pulse and respiration are steadying."

 

At thirty seconds they heard the hiss of stabilizing air and the lid began to move slowly open. They smelled the strange odor they all recalled from the last freezie center, a bitter scent carrying the taint of an ancient, chemical death.

 

"Like knifing gut of up-belly gator," Jak said, wrinkling his nose and turning away in disgust at the fetid stench.

 

"Take your word for it," Ryan told him.

 

The digital printout clicked its way through the last ten seconds, freezing to a stop on 00.00.

 

The lid was now fully open, tendrils of dank mist trailing over the edges of the container. Dr. Mildred Wyeth lay there, eyes open, breathing steadily. She showed none of the signs of madness they'd seen on other thawing freezies.

 

The room was flooded with a sudden stillness as the five companions stared at the woman from the far-off, almost mythic past. And she, reclining, looked back at them.

 

"Hi," Ryan said.

 

Brown eyes turned to him. The woman's tongue moistened her lips, but she didn't speak.

 

"Hi," Ryan repeated.

 

Mildred Wyeth cleared her throat. "Hi, yourself," she said huskily. "If you're a cryo-ressus team, then I'm the goddamned Queen of Sheba!"