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I know before I even open my eyes. There's the overwhelming nausea, like awakening from anaesthesia which I guess this isn't too far removed from.
I don't want to open my eyes. I don't want for this to be happening again. Two times in less than two years that I've been forced into a reality I wasn't prepared for, never to reach my intended destination. Once, it was a man's fault. The other, I'm still trying to figure out. Or I was. I know I'm not in Darrow anymore, the hard back of my pod enough to bring me back to the moment I thought we were only four months away from Homestead II.
When I do open my eyes, the light is almost blinding. I'm reaching to cover them as a voice asks me how I'm feeling, tells it's normal to feel confused. I don't think she has the slightest clue. I'm told, then, that I've just spent 120 years in suspended animation and I almost want to laugh but then my hands cover my mouth instead and I try not to cry. I don't know what I've done to deserve this, and I'm scared to move and see if Jim is going to be waiting somewhere, pretending that he had no part in it.
The propaganda spiel never comes, though, and instead the voice falls silent as the pod's door opens. There's no mention of my cabin. There's no warning of the side effects of travel sickness. I stand on my own and look around, unsurprised to see no one but me seems to be awake. I'm surprised, though, to realize I don't struggle to walk like I did the first time. I don't know how long I've been asleep. Just moments ago I thought I was in bed in Darrow.
Something's gone wrong all over again and I don't even seem to have a second-rate mechanic with a guilt complex to help me this time.
I don't want to open my eyes. I don't want for this to be happening again. Two times in less than two years that I've been forced into a reality I wasn't prepared for, never to reach my intended destination. Once, it was a man's fault. The other, I'm still trying to figure out. Or I was. I know I'm not in Darrow anymore, the hard back of my pod enough to bring me back to the moment I thought we were only four months away from Homestead II.
When I do open my eyes, the light is almost blinding. I'm reaching to cover them as a voice asks me how I'm feeling, tells it's normal to feel confused. I don't think she has the slightest clue. I'm told, then, that I've just spent 120 years in suspended animation and I almost want to laugh but then my hands cover my mouth instead and I try not to cry. I don't know what I've done to deserve this, and I'm scared to move and see if Jim is going to be waiting somewhere, pretending that he had no part in it.
The propaganda spiel never comes, though, and instead the voice falls silent as the pod's door opens. There's no mention of my cabin. There's no warning of the side effects of travel sickness. I stand on my own and look around, unsurprised to see no one but me seems to be awake. I'm surprised, though, to realize I don't struggle to walk like I did the first time. I don't know how long I've been asleep. Just moments ago I thought I was in bed in Darrow.
Something's gone wrong all over again and I don't even seem to have a second-rate mechanic with a guilt complex to help me this time.
