Cryo chapter two
Carl exited the elevator, subvocalizing to his guide. In his mind, it looked like there was a little man walking purposefully beside him, matching his deliberately hurried stride.

The guide was a cartoon version of a real human, drawn in monochrome, wearing a white shirt, black pants, and a gray bow tie. His head was a single circle with floodfill black hair, a sharp angle for a nose, big glasses, and a cowlick that stood half a foot higher than his head. His glasses were huge white circles with no dots for pupils. He looked like something out of a Monopoly board set, and moved like a 1950's PSA cartoon.

Like most people of his generation, subvocalizing came naturally to Carl. His mouth would move, and he would breathe like he was talking, but no sound would pass his windpipe. All the same, he knew the Guide could get every word.

"How long has he been under?"

"Since April of 2142." The guide spoke in an lilting, intellectual voice.

Carl weaved through the busy hallways. He had never seen it this busy, with people rushing from one patient to the next, pushing patients past in wheelchairs, pulling the occasional gurney.

"What was his reason for going under?"

The guide's answer was immediate, "Political."

"Shit." Less than a decade after cryo was invented, the price had come down so low that people started using it for non-health related issues. Lock up your house, drive to the clinic, and wake up in the future! Some people did it for a holiday. One person was going under every evening in the belief that this would extend his life.

Other people, however, got into cryo to escape political situations. If they didn't agree with the man who was elected President, they would just go to sleep for the next four years. Carl knew how to keep professional detatchment as well as the next guy, but the political cryos bothered him. They represented the ultimate expression of pushing your problems onto the next generation.

"So, he's been trying to escape a political situation for the last forty years? What's he trying to get away from?"

There was a slight pause this time, "I can't find anything on file regarding that."

Up ahead, Carl could see the cluster of people. Orderlies, Nurses, and Doctors were gathered in a semicircle around the back wall of the administration floor mail room. The ones closest to the disturbance had their arms spread out wide, holding back the rest of the viewers. In the center, a man in a surgical gown held a saline drip stand in one hand, and a bone saw in the other.

He was bald, with no facial hair, just like all the other patients. He was crouched as though ready to spring, with a caged look in his eyes. His head darted back and forth, surveying the crowd, "I said stay back! I saw that! I saw that! Stay back, you!" He swiped at one section of the circle with the saw.

Carl saw Dr. Carstark standing on the periphery of the crowd, watching with his hands fisted on his hips, frowning slightly. He was a small, wiry man with an immaculately pressed suit under his lab coat. He was bald as a cueball on top, with a thick ring of gray hair just above his ears. He had on thick glasses and a bow tie. As Carl wove through the people to get to him, he suddenly thought about how much his guide resembled Dr. Carstark.

Classic displacement, ordering my own boss around. It's not healthy. I need to change that avatar.

Carstark was standing next to a nervous looking medico, who was wringing his hands and darting his head back and forth to keep a good view of the disturbance. He was dressed in medic greens, and had long blonde hair cascading down to his shoulders. He had the long face, rat-like in it's intensity.

When Carl reached them, he looked at the medico, "So, Simon. Been kicking the patients dog again?"

The medico looked at him sharply, "Bite me, Polame," then turned back to watching the patient.

Dr. Carstark did not take his eyes off the patient, "Apparently, Dr. Kelley was talking to this patient, a Mr. Johnathon Wesley, when he was unexpectedly called away. Before he could return, Mr. Wesley left his room, obtained a surgical weapon, and began threatening the staff."

"Where'd he get the bone saw, Simon?"

Simon whipped his head around to face Carl again, "You're not pinning this on me, Polame. You're the psychologist, I only work with the body." Simon started jabbing a finger at Carl, "You said you were overloaded. You said you needed help. You said you needed anybody who could read from a card. I put every available body in my staff on to helping you with your problem, myself included. Now you are not going to act pissy at me just because you gave me a psycho to deal with."

Carl threw up his hands in mock submission. In a quiet, measured tone, he said, "No, Simon, I'm not upset that you fumbled working with a psycho. I'm just a little curious how he got a fucking bone saw."

Simon waved him away, "I don't know. I wasn't there. I didn't see him escape."

"No. Of course not. You stepped away for one minute, he left the patient's briefing room, and walked across the hall to the unlocked 'Dangerous Surgical Weapons' closet, right?"

"Fuck you, Polame."

Carl looked at the patient. He seemed to have enforced a pretty tight little area around himself, standing behind the desk right in front of the wall of administration mailboxes. Looking back to Dr. Carstark, he said, "This is nuts, Dave. There's just too many people, and with too little time. Congress can't enforce this, and we only hurt ourselves by pushing this time limit."

Dr. Carstark didn't take his eyes off the patient, "I'd love to discuss it with you, Carl. I'd love to go and sit and have some tea with you, discuss our problems with Congress, and my hospital management policies. But before we go running off to the cafeteria, I'd like to get that nice man to put down his bone saw."

Carl frowned, "You want me to stop him?"

"You're the psychologist. I could send Simon here, but last time they talked, the patient bolted for the exit, and armed himself."

Simon glared at him, "So you're coming after me, too?"

Carstark shrugged ever so slightly, "I don't care whose fault it is. I just want someone to go talk him down, and so far you're not batting a thousand." He took a deep breath, "Carl, please ask the nice man to put down his weapon."

Carl swore under his breath, and the cartoon nerd walked up to him, "I'm sorry sir?"

He subvocalized, "Nothing." And started walking toward Mr. Wesley. The cartoon guide popped out of existence as Carl shouldered his way through the orderlies. He shoved his hands in his pockets, and walked up to the patient.

One of the first things they tell you about hostage negotiation is that you should have your hands out by your sides, to show that you are open, approachable, and unarmed. Somehow, though, Carl just couldn't bring himself to do it. It just felt like lying, like smarmy supplication, and he was just too mad to play that part. He walked up to the patient, stopped just outside swinging range, and said, "Excuse me."

Mr. Wesley had the saw pointed directly at his chest, "What do you want?"

Carl pulled one of his hands out of his pocket, and pointed behind the man, "That's my mailbox." He started walking toward the mailbox, unhurried.

Wesley jumped back, maintaining their distance, "What? What do you want?"

Carl pulled a stack of letters out of a box and began rifling through them, "I'm just getting my mail, pal. Calm down."

Wesley cast his gaze about, then seemed to come to a decision, "Yeah, well, you picked the wrong time to do it, buddy, 'cause you're my hostage now!" He started to move around behind Carl to put him in the classic TV hostage hold. Unfortunately, moving behind Carl while pulling the Saline drip proved more challenging than he had expected, and he stumbled a bit while rounding on Carl. Carl pushed Wesley back, keeping an eye on the saw, "Get away from me. What is your problem?"

Wesley dropped back into a crouch, holding the saw out at him, "What?"

"Look, before they come in here with stunners and tranquilizer darts, just tell me, why are you standing there, with your ass hanging out of your gown, threatening people with a saw?" The little jab of shame worked, as Wesley straightened up a bit, pulling the back of his gown together.

"I know what's going on." it was almost comical how unsure he seemed when he said this.

"Okay. So tell me. What's going on? Hell, if you convince me, I just might grab a scalpel and join you."

"This is no cryogenics lab."

Carl resisted a sarcastic impulse, "Okay, then. I give, what is it?"

"This is a Malaysian spy camp. You drug normal citizens, fly them to Malaysia, release them in a controlled environment, then train them to be spies for the enemy."

Carl had to deliberately fight an impulse to laugh. The "vast Malaysian threat" was an old spook story from about fifty years back. Hearing someone bring it up again was about like being accused of working for the British Redcoats, or the Russian communists.

"Wow, that's the dumbest thing I've heard in a while." In his peripheral vision, Carl could see Dr. Carstark pinch his eyes closed and shake his head. Wesley's eyes narrowed to slits.

He continued, "No, seriously, did the guy who was talking to you tell you about how cryogenic freezing feels like it takes no time at all? That's why it just feels like you've been drugged."

"It happens. I saw it in a movie."

Carl was openly smiling now, tapping the mail in his free hand, "Well, then it must be true." He took a deep breath and said, "Look, John, what year is it?"

"2142, that's how I knew the doctor was a fake." They both looked over at Simon. "He wouldn't tell me what year it is. And he wouldn't tell me anything about my family." He raised his voice to make sure Simon could hear, "Maybe because in Malaysia, they don't know anything about my family, huh?" Simon threw up his hands and shook his head.

Carl turned to Wesley, "In 2164, who took the gold in men's swimming 1500 meter freestyle?"

Wesley's eyes widened, and he looked down for a moment, "Uh, Graham Simmons. An Australian."

"How do you know that?"

"I don't know. I can picture it in my head, like I watched it on TV."

Carl shrugged, "In a way, you did. Turns out that when people are in downtime, they learn things much faster and easier than when they're awake. We think it's something to do with assimilating data while relaxed." He waited a beat for that to sink in, "Of course, that also means that you know facts that happened in 2164, so the year can't possibly be 2142, can it?"

Wesley seemed to understand, and it made him more cautious. He raised the saw again, "You're trying to trick me. You implanted that memory while I was drugged, just so you could quiz me about it later."

Carl sighed, then looked up suddenly, "John, who am I? No, don't look for a nametag, I don't have one. Just look at my face. Who am I?"

Wesley frowned a little, "You do look awfully familiar."

"Watch this." Carl struck a pose, as though holding an air guitar, and sang out, "In my early incubation, I left my childhood flame alight -" A couple of people in the peanut gallery applauded suddenly.

Recognition burst through Wesley's expression, "That's it! You're Sy Polame, from the band Solame." The band name was a pun, based on the lead singer's name, it was pronounced 'So Lame'.

Carl smiled again, "But that's not possible, is it? How old is Sy Polame?"

Wesley lowered the saw and cocked his head to one side, "That's right, Sy Polame is only about twenty years old. But you look at least fifty."

Carl's smile vanished, "Thirty-seven, thanks. I'm actually Sy's son, Carl."

Wesley stood still, trying to process that. "No. I read about that. He doesn't have any kids."

Carl folded his hands over his chest, tucking the letters under one arm, "Okay, genius. My explanation is that you've been in downtime for the last forty years, and that Sy Polame had a son, Carl. What's your explanation? Cloning? Plastic surgery? What?"

"Um. Hold on. Wait. I'm not sure." That was when the orderlies tackled him. One of them grabbed the arm where he was just barely holding on to the saw. Two others went for the rest of the body. He squealed a bit as they grabbed him, "Ow! Wait. Watch the needle."

Carl started walking back to Dr. Carstark, holding the letters up, "These belong to a Dr. Laura Kennelworth. Can somebody take care of this?" He handed the letters to an approaching secretary, "Sorry, I don't remember which box they were in."

She just smiled, "That was an amazing impression of your dad."

As he reached Dr. Carstark, he could see the doctor wasn't happy. Simon was gone, presumably to check on John Wesley. Dr. Carstark was shaking his head, hands still fisted on his hips, "I do not approve, doctor. That was wrong on so many counts."

Carl shrugged, "Do you know how hard it is to do damage with a bone saw? I mean, it's a saw. You have to hold a person still long enough to draw it across their body. It's no real weapon. I wasn't in any danger, and neither was anybody else." He stopped suddenly, and narrowed his eyes as he looked at Carstark, "Hey, how do I know you're not the head of a Malaysian spy ring?"

The doctor silently fumed, "My office, thirty minutes, senior staff. Don't forget." He pivoted on a heel, and headed back to his office.

As Carl headed back to the elevator he suddenly thought, "Oh, man. If Mr. Ruiz escaped while I was gone, there's no end to the trouble I'll get about that."



So, once again, what do you guys think? Leave me some comments, so I can fix issues.

- posted by BrandG @ 5:21 PM