I'm doing something a li'l bit different and am going to start presenting short fiction here on the blog. The first selection is a piece I'm in the middle of writing, and will serialize it weekly until it is concluded. This piece is quasi-science-fiction, about a novelist who is revived from cryogenic suspension after one hundred years. He "died" in 2009. I haven't written fiction in ages, so I beg your indulgence, should you choose to read it. Feedback is welcomed. And since this is a work of fiction, I've got to invoke copyright.

You don’t always get what you pay for.

I died about one hundred years ago. The term the cryologists used was “de-animate.” Whatever. I died from a rare form of leukemia, which seemed to find itself in me in the prime of my life. I had as much as a man like me could have- happiness, a loyal partner, my own home, a boat. Those things seem so very far away now.

When I bought the cryosuspension policy, I had the promise of a cure when science, that ambiguous ideal, had the means to revivify me from the deep freeze and cure my sad and ailing body. I remember dying. Late in the first decade of the twenty-first century, few could ever say they remember dying. I now can, and so many like me that bought the policy. There I was, the hotshot novelist, dying on the deck of my Oregon beach-house, with my partner Roy and my dog Muppet with a few friends weeping, blocking my view of the ocean, somewhat. It was fine. I went out assured that I’d live again after a short sleep in the underworld, and they would all be by my side. They promised they would buy the policies, perhaps to please me, and make my own death easier. The de-animation technicians were inside, watching the World Series, when I drew my last breath in that life. The techs had all the charm of quarrymen, though I entrusted my future life, my rebirth, to those men and their boxes of tubes and ice. In retrospect, my friends saw my decision to go into cryosuspension as a bit of a crank, the dying whim of the dying writer. They deferred, now long since at peace. Perhaps, Roy and my dog still walk that beach. I’ll never see them.

For a century, my body lay vitrified in a tank of liquid nitrogen. On a spring day in 2111, I was taken out into a new world to thaw. Nanobots were discharged to my organs to repair the damage of the cancer and the freeze, and I lay in a coma for a month before they brought me back into the world of the living. With the flick of a switch, or something, they turned on my brain and retrieved my soul. I awoke to the sound of my name, repeated over and over again through the perfect smile of a Revival Therapist. “You are Micah Waterman... You are Micah Waterman... You are Micah Waterman.” The very first thought that entered my very old but seemingly working mind was ‘it smells like sauerkraut in here.’ I summoned up the breath to say “Hello,” though I was confused. Perhaps I didn’t really die and this is just the damn hospital in Portland. Thoughts came so slow and time seemed so bent that I didn’t know what to think. That’s what the Revival Therapist is for.

“Micah Waterman, you have been revived from cryosuspension. I am here to help you adjust to where you are and the time that has passed between de-animation and today. Think of today as your first birthday, Micah. You have a lot to learn, and we are going to move at your own pace though the process. You are at the LifeBridge facility in Eureka, California. You are going to have many questions, but today is about assuring that your physical and mental functions are comfortable to you and healthy. I will begin by saying that you will have an unpleasant taste for a few days...” And so on. This woman was saying what she was saying with such familiarity, I was reminded of a waitress reading off the daily specials. I wondered if there still were waitresses. I had no idea of when this was, and the room itself was bare, and her manner of dress suggested little. I never really knew what to expect about the “future” I’d been promised. I suppose no one does.

Over the course of that week, I received many painless nanobot treatments, and found that these very polite but somewhat impersonal people still made use of physical therapy. There were plenty of aches, digestive issues, and the lot, but I was told that my recovery was exemplary. Answers to questions would come after the first week, and they seemed quite assured that there was no other way of doing business. I complied, though I was anxious to see if Roy or any of my friends were to be revived. At forty-something, actually one hundred and forty something, I had no real idea what to do, and felt somewhat at the mercy of the Revival Therapist, who was to be my sole source of information. What else could I do?

With a carefully rehearsed speech, Andrea coolly recited the missed days, years, decades, the gaping chasm between my incarnations. Humanity had progressed about as reasonably as I’d hoped, technology seemed a tad unimpressive, but I suppose with the usual pitiful distraction of war and politics that science had lagged a little behind what the talking heads of my time predicted. Socially, it seemed as if things had evolved progressively enough, and the dystopian in me was pleased that I seemingly evaded the fate of living amidst zombies, robots, and the terror of Orwell. The west coast was always so good at doing its own thing, and luckily they were no longer in cahoots with Washington. My laughter seemed to puzzle Andrea over that point. If she’d only known what we went through... at least I’d earned my right to be curmudgeonly. I was excited and ready to see it all.

The next day was the day designed for much harder news. I learned that Roy did not undergo the procedure, nor any of my friends. Andrea couldn’t tell me what happened to him, though I was given some letters he’d sent after I passed in the dim hope I could read them someday. Neatly sealed in a box were pictures and videos of my life then, along with my books. One of Roy’s shirts, Muppet’s collar, beach sand. Roy did well in leaving me the last bit of my old world, and I cried all over it. For hours. The house had long since been taken by the rising tides, but the box smelled like that house. Andrea tried to cheer me up with a dumb joke: “Hard to swallow a time capsule, eh?” It didn’t work, though I could tell that was about as much rapport as she could muster. I went to sleep that night, the last night in LifeBridge, with Roy’s godawful plaid shirt that I picked on him so much about over my pillow, and Muppet’s ancient collar in my hand.

The next day was bright and crisp. I was to leave the center, but Andrea told me little about where I’d go or how I’d get there. I’d left myself ample funds that would have hopefully accrued interest and made me far richer than I ever was in that life, but when the West Coast seceded the revival funds that all those of us in cryosuspension didn’t convert. I was assured by Andrea that LifeBridge would see to it that I was compensated, and my living expenses would be covered at a reasonable rate. I thought that as a novelist from the last century, there might be a university that would be quite eager to have me do some seminars and lectures, though oddly she seemed to avoid responding to my suggestion. I had run though so many emotions since being re-animated, and now, for the first time in one hundred years, I found myself getting angry. I confronted Andrea for some answers.

“In this time, Micah, you can’t walk out the front door and be in charge of your life again. A lot has happened between then and now, and I know there was no way to prepare you for that before you de-animated. As with all those who we de-animate, you will be taken to live with those from your time, Micah, to make it easy, and so you can enjoy life to the fullest without worrying about everything you would have to do and know to be comfortable in this time. Micah, it’s not easy to say this, but you are a Ward of the State.”

Devastation is a word for it. As a writer of science-fiction, I wanted nothing more than to see the future I’d created in my books. I wanted to fly to the moon or Mars, to be welcomed as a repository of information from another time, to see what the hell the damn Internet had evolved into. Now I was to be flown inland to some country club in the Cascades where all the other Revived live, apparently. After I froze, it became far cheaper and far trendier to be cryosuspended, even before natural death. There were so many of us now that the West Coast had decided that it was best to keep us amongst ourselves, rather than even try to integrate us into their society. Eventually, Andrea assured me, through training and desensitization, I could fill out my years closer to society, though she warned me that it’s nearly impossible for Revived to fit in perfectly. We were sort of an expat subculture in our own world. Though, it wasn’t really my world anymore, it belonged all those future generations we spoke so whimsically about. I didn’t know it at the time, but I’d been given sedatives and re-patterning neural-nanobots to help me ease into the transition. We all get those, apparently. I’m sure I didn’t think much about that when I signed the policy. One supposes that this makes their job somewhat easier.

Under a stunning blue sky, I was flown in a rather unremarkable jet to my new home, on the banks of the Snake River. I clutched the box that Roy packed tightly, and tried to get a sense of this new-fangled world through the tinted glass of the windows. I felt like I was purposefully not allowed to see or ask too much; LifeBridge seemed to have the whole operation choreographed to a tee. Phoenix Ranch had its own little airstrip, and just outside that, the place would have been a dream come true for the leisure-obsessed of my era. It was laid out like the kind of subdivisions I hated to watch gradually sprawl across the continent. Currency-free shopping for the clothes and (surprisingly) working gadgets of my decade, movie theatres with all the titles I lived and died to, horse-back riding, white-water rafting... the place would’ve been a Mecca for the retired American. I was taken on a tour through all of this my a new Personal Transition Assistant, Paul. He was cute, and had the kind of charisma a tour-guide would, and the man just seemed all too happy. I was taken to my new 'home,' a spacious log-cabin with all of the pre-modern conveniences, and Paul really emphasized the TV worked and it had all of the shows of my previous life, “from cartoons to car crashes!” he gushed. Since I’d been a minor celebrity a century ago, there were some knickknacks and pictures representing my career on the walls, and the rather clunky old refrigerator was stocked with all the food I mentioned I loved during a tedious interview I’d given to some gourmand rag in 2001. A bottle of Hungarian Tokaji, my favorite white wine, sat on the counter. The attention to detail, and nostalgia, was incredible. And, incredibly spooky.

I asked Paul to sit and share some wine. He seemed to wince at the thought of drinking wine, and settled on just a splash in his glass. Even that seemed a bit much for him. He was dressed in a rather poorly coordinated Hawaiian shirt and corduroy pants. “Paul,” I said, “you people are really trying too hard. I know it’s 2111 and not 2009. I’m a writer, I can fathom social and technological change. I know I’m one hundred and forty years old- I no longer have leukemia, and thanks to the nanobots I’ll probably never have a headache either. Just tell me, honestly, why does LifeBridge and the government want so much to keep the future so far away from me. It’s what I signed up for.”

His forced smile quickly flattened, and his eyes went glassy. “Mr. Waterman, LifeBridge didn’t promise you anything other than Revival, which it has done. They have gone out of their way to be sure that you and all of the thousands of other Revived are cared for to the best of our abilities. Let’s face it: the Revived are... a... social phenomenon. Much about our times are the same: we still eat oranges and barbeque and we still have dance clubs and yacht races. But far too much has changed than you can accept, and we know that from experience. Right now, Phoenix Ranch is the best place for you and your contemporaries. Believe me. Trust me. I’m here to help you in any way that I can to adapt, and I will gradually be able to educate you on some of our many differences. But, over time, Mr. Waterman. All of our residents are happy and content here. Sure, they want to travel and see the world, but they have come to understand that after being on ice for so long, what feels best to them, and what will feel best to you, is to savor all of the pleasures of being alive, and all of the pleasures of your time. Right here."

He went on to say that they can adjust my mood should I need it, as the neural-nanobots can be given instructions by Paul to help make the transition easier. Great. I relied on what little theatrical training I had and feigned appreciation for his honesty, and said that adjustments would not be needed, that with a little time, I’d be just fine. I further over-thanked him for his services, and told him I wanted to set about unpacking my box, and to settle into my new home alone. With a sharp gaze, Paul explained that he lives just a minute down the pine-shaded road, and if I needed him, he was only a call-button away, though we would have therapy daily. Super. He asked me to be ready to meet the neighbors at the community center in an hour- there’d be a reception, and a “full spread.” Most of them had de-animated within ten years of my own, so we should all be able to get along, he announced, without seeming to process the illogic of the idea. This is living life to the fullest, I thought to myself. Sure is. What LifeBridge didn’t do their research on is just how much of a cynic I can be, or was.

I unpacked, showered my ancient body with a familiar brand of soap, and got ready to meet the neighbors.

(to be continued)