COLD SLEEP C.J. Cherryh I wake.
I remember.
I remember the transport offices. I remember, on the wall, a picture of Mars, and another of Earth. I remember a medical office.
I do not remember falling asleep.
Muscles are very weak. I am cold, but warmth moves through me, not like a wind, but like a strange, sluggish tide flowing toward my core.
290Am1e, the computer says, in the screen above me.
Respond.
I try to speak. Yes. It requires breath. Instead I move my hand. I blink.
Are we there? I try to say.
Are we at Proxima? I shape the words. I cannot make the sound.
But the screen shows me things. It tells me procedures. And my muscles, one by one, twitch, beginning with my face, proceeding to my left arm.
Waking process engaged, the screen says.
It goes on. The warmth spreads.
I remember.
I sleep.
...
