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208 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 2001
"We are all that's left of the human race. We have to act like humans. Right?"
"We have to survive," Olga said with finality.
"No, we don't," Violet Blake said. "We don't have to survive, we have to be worthy of survival. I know you're a biologist and maybe you see survival in purely evolutionary terms, but we've evolved beyond being just another bunch of primates, haven't we? Isn't human culture, human morality part of our evolution? Isn't it part of what defines us as a species? If we give that up and start behaving like savages and survive by being savages, have we saved human life or just devolved into some lesser species?"
It took less than a year for Billy Weir to lose his mind.
He lay still, absolutely still, unable to move a muscle, unable to move his eyes, unable to control his breathing, paralyzed, utterly, absolutely paralyzed.
The technology of the hibernation berth had worked. It was ninety-nine-point-nine-percent successful. It had stopped his heart, his kidneys, his liver. It had stopped every system, down to the cellular level.
It had failed to still his mind.
The system supplied his miniscule needs for oxygen and water and nutrition. But it did nothing for the sleepless consciousness imprisoned in the all-but-dead body.
He raved silently. He hallucinated. He regained his sanity and lost it and regained it as the years passed, as the decades passed, as the very definition of madness became irrelevant.
He was in hell. He was in heaven. He floated, disembodied. He was chained to his own corpse. He rose and sank. He thought and imagined, and he almost flicked out, extinguished.
He begged for death.
And all of it over again, again, again. Time was nothing, leaping by in years and decades, crawling past so slowly that each millisecond might be a century.
…something fibrous, as if the berth had been filled with . . .
Jobs reeled. His stomach heaved with nothing to expel. A weird moan came form his dry throat.
The berth was filled with what could only be fungus of some sort, generations of it, filling the berth. Like bread mold. That’s how it looked. Green and black. No shape visible within, nothing human, just a six-foot box filled with decay.
Jobs’s hands shook. He reached to open the lid.
No. No. No, he couldn’t. No, there was nothing in there, nothing for him to see. Let it be an undifferentiated horror, don’t let some faint outline of the familiar appear. He didn’t want to see his father’s skull, his teeth grinning up through the rot, no.
He turned away.