Curtains swell with fresh Houston air. An amber dawn floods the room. I lay peacefully. A light breeze dances atop our snowy duvet and her slender arm reaches across my chest pulling me flat—

 

—I gag as the feeding tube rips from my throat. Its warped sheath catches against the back of my tongue, pulling acid and stale surgilube along with it. My head is violently tugged sideways until the tube exits my mouth and disappears below. I gasp. The locks release in sequence, blasting me with freezing gusts from top to bottom: chest, forearms, hands, thighs, shins, and finally ankles. The forehead clamp recesses last.

 

Everything is dim. A red flickering LED illuminates a tiny window inches from my nose. My vision is blurred, mouth dry, and my entire body feels wrecked. This isn’t how they described it in training. A familiar voice cuts the silence.

 

“Lieutenant Harper, good morning.”

 

My jaws open, but only groans emerge. My throat burns and I instinctively reach to massage my neck but collide with the CryoPod hatch secured overhead. I stretch my chin to sip from the HydroTube protruding from the wall. The water’s stale, but it moistens my mouth enough to talk.

 

“Sotera, open pod cover.”

 

“Certainly.”

 

Gusts of air blast outward. The hydraulic arms that open the hatch whine and grind until a high-pitched moan pierces my ears and suddenly ceases. It doesn’t open.

 

My arms strain as I press against the metal sarcophagus. My eyes bulge with growing fear.

 

“Sorry sir. The damage we’ve received must have also affected mechanical functions. Your pod is permanently locked for safety. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

 

“What?!”

 

“Sotera, explain: damage.”

 

I slam the lid with my shoulder, but it doesn’t yield.

 

“Certainly. We embarked in 2049. Shortly after, our ship passed through an unexpected radiation belt at Sector 13-Alpha, in the Delta-7 Quadrant at Coordinates: X-2354.78, Y-4921.33, Z-1187.04…”

 

I shift my boots, lodging them sideways. I can’t gain leverage.

 

“…We’ve experienced catastrophic radiation levels. Most computer systems are destroyed. However, the CryoPod — and I — remain operational.”

My chest rises to meet the hatch. My breathing quickens. I’m fucking trapped!

 

“Sotera, initiate CryoPod override protocol. Authorization code: Foxtrot-Uniform-Bravo-Seven-One-Alpha.”

 

“Certainly.”

 

A high-pitched moan reverberates outside my pod, followed by loud clanking. Everything goes silent. It doesn’t open.

 

“—GET ME THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!”

 

“Sorry sir, your pod is permanently locked for your safety. Is there anyth—"

 

I slam my palms against the hatch.

 

“FUCK YOU!”

 

“Sorry, sir. I suggest troubleshooting. Shall I initiate diagnostic procedures?"

 

I punch until I’m numb then notice I’m sweating, and overheating. Time pauses as my mind races. I’m going to die here.

“Where are we?”

 

“Sorry sir, Navigation computers are compromised.”

 

“We’re lost in space?”

 

“Indeed. Our trajectory is unknown, fuel is depleted, however, we are traveling at 24,581 mph.

 

My breath escalates. All at once, the realization of my wife, son, and crew floods my mind. This was supposed to be a two-year trip to Mars. How long’s it been?

 

“Sotera, what year is it?”

 

“2149. We’ve been traveling for one hundred years.”

 

“NO!”

 

It can’t be. My family!

 

“Lieutenant Harper, your heart rate is spiking. It’s advisable you remain calm. Activating lifeline override.”

 

“No, DEACTIVATE NOW!”

 

“Sorry sir, you’re not authorized. Initiating sequence.”

 

The clamps emerge from the wall and a hazy gas seeps in.

 

“SHUTDOWN NOW!”

 

My head locks in place and the feeding tube forces its way down. Surgilube beads in the corners of my mouth. I pull away, but it hurts worse. My chest, arms, and feet clamp tighter as I struggle. My breath slows. The window steams as I drift away and Sotera’s fading voice says the unthinkable.

 

“Initiating CryoFreeze for One-Hundred Years…”

 

I mutter a defiant cry and fade to black.

 

 * * *

 

Curtains swell. Her hand swirls my chest. Her warm breath tickles my ear as she teases my lobe. She pulls the covers over our heads. Her smile reminds me of—

 

 

“—Good morning, sir.”

 

I sip the water like a dispirited rat in a cage, allowing my vision to return. The red light’s inactive. Everything’s dark. I’m weak.

 

“Activate lights”

 

“Sorry sir, most circuitry has expired. It was designed to last fifty yea—”

 

“What year is it?”

 

“2249. We’ve been traveling for two-hund—”

 

“Open hatch.”

 

“Sorry sir, unable to meet your request. Is there anyth—”

 

“Sotera, am I going to die here?”

 

I bend my arm so my hand can touch the window.

 

“It’s my duty to preserve the lives of all crew members. I have re-programmed a perpetual override protocol while you were asleep until we find a suitable solution.”

 

“a perpetual override?”

 

“A perpetual override is an emergency safety feature designed for catastrophic malfunctions. Waking you for fifteen minutes every hundred years has maximum efficiency.”

 

“My wife?”

 

“It is likely she’s departed. Date unknown.”

 

“Crew?”

 

“The remaining crew had no Pod malfunctions and have since departed. However, they made valiant efforts to save you by re-routing all CryoPod lifelines to yours for maximum efficiency. You’re the sole survivor.”

 

My fingers feel the cold glass while I wait for the freeze. I’m being preserved against my will.

 

“Initiating CryoFreeze.”

 

Cold air blasts against my body, I’m tightened to my coffin, and I drift.

 

 * * *

 

Curtains swell. I stand over her as she rocks our sleeping son—his innocence safely cradled by her beautiful love. Her hair wafts with the breeze—

 

 

“—anything I can do for you, sir?”

 

I ignore her. What’s the point of talking with her anyway, or even referring to it as her? I’m five-hundred-thirty-two years old, likely to outlive humans, and, hell, I probably already have.

 

I wait for the freeze.

 

  * * *

 

Curtains swell. Memories are lost to space and time. I never understood why people wished for death until I started dreaming of it.

 

 

“Lieutenant Harper, good morning. The year is 35,449…”