Waking Up

Chapter 1

Jason’s world began in pain. Blinding pain. Screaming pain. Or rather, it would have been screaming pain if he had enough air in him to scream. As it was, he almost exhaled his lungs in his attempt to howl his agony. Every muscle in his body was twitching, and the only thing that kept him from swallowing his tongue was the plastic mouthpiece holding it in place.

“Ah hatt deas par’.”

Though his body was still twitching spastically, kept from convulsions only by the straps across his body, Jason managed to twist his head slightly and peer out of the corner of his eye at the speaker.

Actually he wasn’t sure which of the three people in full body, airtight suits had spoken.

“Raylon’.” This time the speaker turned to address one of his comrades. “Da shou’ bah noff.” The man, Raylon, presumably, nodded in agreement and reached over to flip off a few switches and twist a dial back

As the dial twisted the agonizing pain subsided and Jason’s muscles, exhausted from the experience, seemed to melt into his bone.

“Walla now, Mirsta Bran . . .”

“Baine.” The suit on the far left chimed in immediately.

“Raht, whateva, Baine. Welca bake.”

Jason stared at the figures in surprise and confusion. There was no context, there was no place to begin to wonder what was going on. He was so caught up in his complete and utter confusion that he barely noticed as ‘Raylon’‘ plunged a needle into his arm. Darkness came quickly.

***
“I’m sorry, could you repeat that last part?”

This was not the first time Jason had asked someone to reiterate something; English had become another language, and languages were not one of his strong suits. Thankfully, between his constant exposure to this strangely twisted variation on his own native tongue, and an hour a day of ‘neurological prompting’ he was now able to understand, and speak with a perfectly natural accent.

The rate at which he had become proficient had surprised him. It had actually worried him some. Four years of Spanish in highschool, and three semesters of French in college had netted him the ability to order coffee and ask where the bathroom was, and not very well, at that. But somehow these new lessons came to him naturally and comfortably. When he had built up the vocabulary to ask about it. The ‘neurological prompting unit’ he was hooked up to daily, something that struck him as little more than a glorified walkman, was actually an obsolete piece of intelligence hardware originally designed to help government agents and witnesses who needed to become fluent in a new language, or get an accent to match a fictitious past, and needed to do it quickly.

Apparently with one of the newer models he could have been speaking any language he wanted like a native after a two hour session. This obsolete model worked well enough except that it took about a dozen sessions, and they had not been able to buy the new software that would have helped with the newer expressions. Those he’d have to learn on his own.

He hadn’t been able to follow much when they explained how it worked. He was somewhat concerned with what little he did understand, which was that it somehow transposed the lessons directly into his long term memory. It was an amazing tool, but there was a part of his brain that responded with a kind of primal revulsion at the thought of this machine being able to effect him so directly. Still, it was this or take years and years of expensive and boring language courses.

“What you just said, could you repeat it?” Jason was staring at the man intently.

The man behind the glass sighed. “I said ‘a lot has changed in the last sixty eight years.’” He paused at the expression on the defrosty’s face. “You didn’t know it was 2093.”

“It didn’t really come up.”

“You’re kidding. That’s the first question most people ask.”

Jason Baine chuckled. “My situation was a bit unique.”

The psychiatrist shrugged. He had obviously heard that more than once. “Undoubtedly it was, but even for people with ‘unique situations’ . . .”

“Well, it took about a day and a half of asking questions and getting people to dig through old archives, which, believe me, not many people were happy to do, to figure out why I was alive to begin with.”

“You didn’t mean to be frozen?”

“Well, I didn’t really plan for this. I was in a coma and my father, he had power of attorney, he decided that this was the best option. I was expecting an afterlife, or nothing, but instead I woke up here.”

“Oh.” The man’s expression was genuinely empathetic. “A bit of a shock, I’d expect.”

“Well, I’m still not completely convinced that this isn’t an elaborate version of hell.”

The smiled politely. “So, if we can continue?”

Jason sighed, apparently his humor hadn’t been ahead of its time, as he had so often claimed. “Sure. By all means, let’s continue.”

“What does this look like?”

Jason stared at the blotch on the paper for a few seconds before sighing and rubbing his face. “That’s the exact same ink blotch you asked me to identify fifteen ink blotches ago.”

The man nodded and, smiling, made a note on his pad of paper. “Holmes, very holmes. We put it in to check your consistency and your memory.”

“Well then, I wouldn’t want to be inconsistent. It looks like twin salamanders. And what do you mean ‘holmes, very holmes’?”

“Hm? Oh, it’s an expression. It means ‘that was smart, quick witted. That was astute.’ I think the etymology of the word has something to do with Sherlock Holmes. Anyhow, it’s just a pat on the back.”

Jason made a mental note.

“We just have a few more. What do you think of this one?”

Jason hesitated, his eyes flickering from the ink blotch to the front of the hospital robe he was wearing, then back. “I’d rather not say.”

“I told you, Mr. Baine, this is a necessary part of the process. I know how dull it can be, believe me, but we’ve brought back less than a hundred cryos so far, and we need to gather as much information as possible. Both about the psychology of the people from your time period, and any effects that the cryogenic process might have had on you.”

“I understand that. What I see in there has nothing to do with the people from my time period, or my time in cryo.”

The psychologist raised an eyebrow. “I’m sorry, but I really can’t just skip over . . .”

Jason glowered at the man, stopping him mid sentence. For a moment the former detective struggled with his temper. In the end, though, reason won out. He forced himself to shrug in surrender and speak in an even tone as he locked eyes on the corner of the room.

“It looks like the bloodstain I saw on the front of my shirt just before I died.”

The psychologist was quiet for a moment before carefully tucking away the picture. “And this one.” His voice was softer this time.

Jason glanced up. “A duck bowling.”

It took them five minutes to finish up the blotch tests, and then two hours before the whole session was over.

Alone again Jason had the computer read the newspaper to him while he exercised. Only two days before they had finally told him he could start a serious exercise regimen again. As much work as was being done on his body to prepare it for his reintroduction into the world the stress of his workouts could have done more harm than good and he had been required, for the first three fourths of his stay, to spend most of his time staring at the walls. It had nearly driven him mad. He needed to get back into fighting form. Jason had never been the body builder type, he was a real fighter. A street fighter. In a street fight strength could be useful but it wasn’t nearly as important as speed and endurance, and Jason had both. Well, he used to have both, these days he felt like a tank running on empty, he hoped it was just mental exhaustion expressing itself physically, but even the interview with the shrink had left him wanting a nap.

Dealing with the psychiatrist was not Jason’s favorite activity, but it was far from the worst. At least with the shrink he had something to think about. Something to do. It was the immunizations that really tore him up.

A shot he could handle. Hell, there’d been a time, back when he’d been doing some work overseas, when he’d had to give himself antibiotic shots over the course of a couple of months after something had crept into his tent and bit him in the middle of the night. But he had gotten almost thirty shots in the last three days. Both of his arms were swollen and as sore as they had ever been, and he had started waking up in cold sweats. The doctors promised it would end soon enough, but their version of ‘soon enough’ and Jason’s version were two very different things.

And then there were the pills. Like shots, pills were something that Jason could generally handle just fine, but it was the number of drugs being pumped into his system that made him less than happy. It made his stomach upset. It gave him diarrhea. Or maybe the diarrhea was from the nutritional supplements they insisted he took with every meal. The good news was that the rate that they were putting him through the program he didn’t have much farther to go. After six weeks he’d complained about the regimen and they promised that if he let them continue at the rate they’d been going he’d be out of the hospital, immune system entirely up to date and ready to go inside of ten days. They said he was moving through the whole program much faster than most of the patients, but they were monitoring his body closely and had no reason to believe that they needed to slow down.

Apparently most of the patients being defrosted had died of cancer or AIDS or some other degenerative disease and were recovering as much from what had killed them as the process that had revived them. Jason, on the other hand, had been in perfect health when he died. Well, except for the rather large holes the bullets had left.

Jason did a dozen sit-ups before he was too nauseous and dizzy to continue. It took a good fifteen minutes before his stomach settled down enough for him to do another dozen.

***
The morning before his scheduled release from the hospital Jason woke up early and excited. He was going to get to talk to his accountant. It wasn’t that he was excited to get to talk about money, but this was going to be his first contact with somebody who wasn’t from the facility. And it was going to be a real conversation, too, back and forth, two people talking. He’d been interviewed by more doctors than he could count, but actual meaningful interactions were rare.

Jason had to laugh at himself. He was looking to an accountant for conversation and companionship; maybe the daily visits from the shrink weren’t a waste of time afterall.

It was a good day in general. All of the treatments and drugs were finished. They were just observing him now, an intensive physical was followed up by a meeting with his shrink, and an introduction to his councilor, Sonia Ilk. She had been in a bit of a rush, but Jason had gotten a good first impression. She was short, maybe 5'2, with straight black hair and a skin tone that seemed to indicate a mixture of Oriental and European descent. She’d set up an appointment for two days after he got out and given him her phone number ‘for emergencies only’. It had come as something of a shock when she explained that his meetings with her and his checkups with a facility doctor were legally mandated. He was, for all intents and purposes, on parole. Missing a meeting without an acceptable excuse could have legal repercussions.

It was after lunch before all of his institute related appointments were finished. Jason found himself pacing restlessly around his room.

Finally his accountant showed up.

“Mr. Baine.”

The man’s voice was as drab as his wardrobe, which was almost as lifeless as his face. Jason winced. This was not the kind of person one could drag much casual chit-chatting out of. Not with a ten-ton tractor and six winches.

“Good to meet you.” Jason smiled politely through the glass.

“You look younger than I’d expected.”

Jason frowned. He had always had something of a baby face. It came up from time to time, but it wasn’t something he was fond of having brought up.

The man seemed not to notice his discomfort. But then, he didn’t seem to notice that the conversation was taking place through the thick clear sheet of wall meant to separate Jason from the outside world until his immune system was checked one last time. In his earlier life Jason would have assumed that the man dealt with a lot of convicts, but it was perfectly possible that, in this new world, most transactions took place through six inches of bulletproof glass. He rather hoped not, but it was a good idea to be prepared.

“A pleasure.” The man’s inflection didn’t change an iota. “I’m here representing Mart Savots regarding your investments.”

“Um . . .” Jason flushed. “I think there’s been a mistake, I don’t think I have any investments in Mart Savots . . .”

“The corporation did not exist during your former life. You did, however, have two savings accounts with First National, and of course a checking account. The checking account was shut down after your death, and the money deposited into your savings. The grand total of your accounts at that time was $56,727.18. When your father died, seven years after you, his will stipulated that you receive two million dollars. As you were frozen at the time the money was added to your general funds.”

“Wow, I thought for sure he had cut me out of the will. I guess dying got me back in his good graces. If I’d known that I might have tried it sooner.”

The man did not look amused. He didn’t really look annoyed either. He just . . . looked, making sure Jason was done before he continued.

“First National was later bought out by the Trunks corporation, which merged with Di-tapper . . .”

“Uh, I don’t know anything about those corporations . . .”

“Of course not, sir. The banking system went through a certain amount of upheaval after your death. Several short lived conglomerates appeared overnight, bought out most of the banks in the country, then dissolved, and were reabsorbed into new institutions.” The man skimmed down the page. “Suffice to say six years ago we gained possession of your account which has now reached a value of $21,855,948.75. It likely would have been more, but without an accountant actively switching it to better rates it stagnated a bit.”

Jason whistled. “Maybe, but that doesn’t seem too bad to me. Um, I think. How much is that worth in today’s money?”

“You mean what is the equivalent for your time?”

“Yeah. Sorry.”

The man paused for a moment, as though thinking, though nothing on his face indicated any mental activitiy. “It is impossible to give an answer with any real meaning. Food stuffs, particularly fruits and vegetables, are significantly more expensive. But if you’re looking for a vehicle or an apartment, the prices will probably only be two or three times more than you’re used to. And as for computers, unless you go for the top of the line you’ll actually pay much, much less.”

“Makes sense. Um, so, long story short, how long could I live off of my current funds if I didn’t get a job or anything?”

“That depends largely on the life style you choose to live. And what kinds of investments you’re willing to make. If you move your money into a long term account, which, to be frank, should have been done when you were originally frozen, and you live a relatively modest lifestyle, which is to say, a small to medium sized house in a middle class neighborhood, and only used one or two vehicles, and if you kept your expenses down to under half a million a year, you could live off of the interest indefinitely, with enough left in your account to cover most emergencies.”

“Nice.”

The man nodded in concession, still not smiling.

“Well, I tell you what, I’m supposed to get out of here in a couple of days, if you could have a few different possible investment strategies for me, I’ll be happy to look over them and make some decisions.”

The dour figure nodded and began packing up his suitcase.

“I don’t suppose you could stick around a few minutes? I have all sorts of questions about what’s going on outside. Things I can’t really find out for myself, since nobody here really talks to me except to tell me where they’re going to stick the next needle.”

“Sorry.” The man didn’t look up from his packing. “I have six clients in Pohl Penitentiary who are expecting me this afternoon. If I don’t show up there’s a good chance I won’t be alive for work tomorrow.”

Jason blinked as the man walked away. He was almost certain that the man had been joking. Except that, as before, there had been no inflection, no indication of any joviality, or for that matter life in the man at all.

Jason shook his head in confusion and went back to his usual pass time of pacing the floor waiting for the next doctor to show up and tell him to do something.

It was nice, he admitted to himself as he stretched his legs, to think that he had the opportunity, the ability to simply rest on his money. His and his father’s money, that is. It was certainly pleasant to think that if he wanted to he could get a little place somewhere and drink beers and watch tv until he died. But it wasn’t in him to do that. He could have done that in his first life. True, he would have had to have gotten a management position at his father’s office, and showed up three or four days out of the week, but nothing would have been required of him. He could have come in late, left early, kept a television in there for the few hours in between. His father had only been interested in appearances, police work had been too blue collar for his tastes. He would have been happy to support his son in a life of leisure, so long as he didn’t embarrass the family.

But Jason couldn’t then, or now. It wasn’t who he was.

He picked up the little rubber ball they gave him to exercise his fingers with and began pumping vigorously as he thought. It would be tough to get back into his old profession. So much change, so many advancements, it would be a fight, an uphill battle. But he could do it. He knew he could. It was the only thing he had ever wanted to do, and he would do it again, or break his back trying.