Bud Sparhawk - Frost

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Frost

by Bud Sparhawk

Cold. I awake so cold that my heart feels a frozen pellet, barely able to pump slush-filled

blood through my frigid veins. I strain to free my eyelids of their icy coating. How long, I

wonder? Centuries? Eons? I shiver at the thought of so much frozen time.

Flitting memories of previous awakenings dance at the edges of memory, but, aside from

these, little else climbs from the empty pit of my memory.

"I feel he is awake," an alien voice chirps. With that sound I realize that I have traveled to

the far stars. With that knowledge I welcome the warmth seeping into my body. It thaws the

core of ice at my center, and melts the years of stasis away, drop by drop; a year of icicles

here, snowflakes of months there, a glacier of frozen centuries melting away as life returns

and a flurry of wakening muscles arrives.

I wonder at what I awaits me as the ice that held my eyelids finally gives way. Best, I think,

to linger a moment more and savor this sweet anticipation of the new and strange. Once my

eyes open I will be forced to face whatever reality awaits me.

"Can you move?" the voice asks and I detect a warm breath, heavy with the scent of sweet

herbs, on my cheek. "Please indicate that you are functional." I open my eyes and see a pair

of soft brown eyes staring at me. The face surrounding those eyes is mantis-like – alien. She

tilts her head in concern.

I wiggle my fingers and toes and nod to acknowledge her inquiry as I stare about me.

The ceiling glows with a warm autumn light, tinged in russet hues. There is very little

equipment – apparently these aliens are beyond the need for the vast array of medical

facilities I had devised to revive the frozen. I vow to learn as much of their revival process as

I can before, before... What is the thought trying to come to mind? I struggle, but cannot

focus.

A smaller triangular head peers over the creature's shoulder. "Is it all right, Paula?" he asks. I

think it strange that I understand them, but my curiosity dies quickly, leaving placid

acceptance in its wake.

"Yes, of course " the female responds. "Do you know your identity?" she asks.

I glance at the mirrored surface above me. I am nude and hairless and wear a tightly fitted

helmet. Despite my nakedness amongst these aliens, I feel no distress. Is this perhaps some

lingering, unexpected effect of the stasis, as much as my faulty memory and my strange,

calm passivity?

"I am... Frost," I answer, and then add with greater certainty, "Doctor Frost."

"And where are you from, Doctor Frost?" she asks calmly.

Would I be as calm if I were suddenly to find myself reviving an alien creature? Would I be

able to confront an alien with such calm and aplomb?

"I am from the High Brasilia, in near Earth orbit," I respond. "And whom do I have the honor of

addressing?"

"My name is Paula," she replies with a nonchalant wave of her hand in the direction of the

smaller alien. "And this is my... husband, Paul. We welcome you to the Christmas season and

wish to have you help us celebrate."

There is a rote quality to her voice, as if she has said this many times before, but that

question pales when I wonder how there could be a Christmas celebration here? This question

makes my confusion worse. Just who am I?

I'd easily recalled my name and where I had lived. But the reasons that I'd traveled frozen

into the far future, never to return, was still unknown. No matter how I try, I cannot bring

any personal memories to mind. Perhaps it is an effect of the revival process. I hope my

memories will eventually return or I'll not be able to satisfy my hosts' almost certain desire for

information about my origins. I reach up to remove the helmet so that I can sit up.

"No, no!" Paula exclaims, placing an appendage atop the helmet and forcing my hands away

with the others. "You must wear this. It will help with the remembering."

Ah, her words show that I was right; she does have experience with this. She must have

learned from others; perhaps I'd had shipmates or maybe instructions had accompanied me.

But I could recall no such device as this helmet. Was that another failure of my poor

memory?

"You are to stay with us," she announces in a way that brooks no refusal. "We will enjoy

having you."

"Your courtesy is appreciated, but I wouldn't want to disturb your home life," I stutter,

expecting to be housed in some sterile examination facility where I would, no doubt, be

visited by an endless stream of alien scientists, all anxious for the information that my mind

refuses to divulge. Again, I strain to clear the fog that obscures it.

"It will be no bother," she assures me. "Besides, my children love to see you and hear

whatever Christmas stories you have to tell."

At that point I am frozen with amazement: Would I have been so trusting of an alien from the

distant stars as to invite them into the bosom of my family? I think not, and that might be a

difference between this kindly creature and myself, between her society and my own. Could

it be that this is a gentler world? Poor beings, to be so vulnerable and innocent.

Wait a moment! For a split second I recalled that I had a family! But when I try to focus, the

thought fades away until I can recall neither faces nor names. Give it time, I tell myself; give

it time. Perhaps the mind revives much more slowly than the body.

"Mama, mama!" Two smaller versions of the aliens race from the front door of a low-roofed

building of strangely filigreed tiles and covered with faintly scented brush. The first to reach

Paula is a yellow-crested lad, while the other has a back fin as dark as night. They tangle

their arms with hers, and wiggle under her low-slung waist as she hugs them to her, laughing

the while.

"These are my sons," she remarks, turning each to face me. "This one is Dominik and the dark

one is Slova. Say hello to Doctor Frost, boys."

Each 'boy' stands very straight and then bends slightly at the waist. "Pleased to meet you,

sir," they recite together.

This formal courtesy astounds me. I have a vague feeling that this is not normal behavior for

youngsters. There's an air of slight familiarity in their demeanor, as though I were some

frequent visitor or that humans made occasional visits, but not quite so rare as to awe

them.

"And this is my darling little Mishta," Paul says as he shows me the beautiful miniature clasped

to his breast. "She is my daughter," he pronounces proudly. "Say hello to Frost," he prompts.

Mishta giggles delightfully and turns to hide her face on Paul's shoulder, sneaking a small peek

at me after a moment.

"I am very pleased to meet you, Mishta," I say stiffly and touch her tiny forearm with my

finger. Children? A small thought had suddenly glimmered from the cold pit of memory. Had I

children? Or had Evelyn refused, like so many of her contemporaries, because of the sad

state of affairs on Earth?

Evelyn! Memories of her appear from nowhere with sledgehammer force. Oh my God, how

could I have forgotten sweet, darling, lovely Evelyn – the most wonderful thing that had ever

happened in my life. The image of her perfect face comes clearly into my mind's eye; her

golden hair, her blue, blue eyes, and the even, white teeth that glistened when she beamed

that gorgeous smile of hers at me.

I remember her lithe figure, the wonderfully athletic body that had entranced and fascinated

me. She had been the perfect bride, the epitome of the new order of humanity that would

inherit the stars. With a pang of regret I wondered why I had ever left. How many years

have you been dead and gone, my love, I ask myself, as I sped through space and slept my

way through the centuries? My heart aches at the memory of her sweet, sweet face.

Yet vague thoughts of children continue to bother me. Had Evelyn been my entire family,

sufficient in every way? I strain to recall our life together, but with no success. Perhaps the

answer will come in time. Again I resolved to wait: "The helmet will help you with the

remembering," Paula had said. I have no choice but to wait.

The two boys are leaping about the room the next morning when I come down to find that

my hosts have prepared a breakfast of pancakes and fruits. I eat heartily along with them.

"Tell us about Christmas on Earth," plead the children. "Tell us what the Earth children do at

Christmas time."

"Now boys," Paula says softly as she presses closely to my side and adjusts something at the

back of the helmet. "There's plenty of time before Christmas. I think our guest needs time to

settle in. I'm sure that he will tell us about Christmas whenever he is ready."

I smile at her. "It's not a problem. I do remember some things." And it is true. Without

apparent strain, memories of my early childhood have come back to me. The words roll out as

if from a well-rehearsed script. "Now let's see, where shall I begin?"

I ponder the situation as a sense of wonder comes over me. How could these creatures, so

alien and so distant from my home, have a holiday named Christmas – and that it should have

so many similarities is beyond belief. Had the outpouring wave of humanity carried our sacred

traditions ahead of me? How else could it have come about? I add it to the list of questions I

will ask.

"Long before Christmas day the children would be all a-twitter with excitement," I begin.

"Parents would be unpacking the decorations and shifting the furniture to make a space for

the tree. Whispered discussions about presents would be conducted where the recipient

couldn't overhear - so naturally whenever adults started talking quietly every child would

prick up their ears and listen intently, hoping to hear the slightest hint of what was to come.

Presents would suddenly appear in the bottoms of closets and secret places in the basement

and attics. Rolls of wrapping papers would disappear for hours as one person or another

would secretly wrap some treasure. In the quiet times every child would make up a list of

everything they wanted Santa to bring them..."

The smallest boy, Slova, suddenly chimes: "Tell us about the elves. You forgot about the

elves!"

Paula claps a hand over Slova's mouth. "Hush, Slova. You will hear about these things when

it is time and not before. Please do go on, Frost."

Apparently the boys have heard much of this before, but from whom I cannot imagine. It is

another mystery that I must clear up in time.

I continue as if there had been no interruption. "Once the children's lists were prepared, they

would be sent to the North Pole with great fanfare. It was always best to mail them well

before Christmas so there would be plenty of time for the elves to build the toys and

treasures that Santa would deliver.

"Santa kept all of his elves in his workshops since they were not allowed to mingle among

true humans. Nevertheless, even these defective creatures could create small wonders,

given enough incentives by the ever-diligent supervision of Santa's men. The elves' skills

crafted everything desired by truly human children. When the toys were completed, they

stored them in charmed bags: No matter how many they put in these bags they could never

be filled."

Dominik screws his head sideways until I think it will break. "Then why did they need more

than one bag?" he asks.

Paula intervenes once more and saves me some embarrassment: "Come along boys; time to

go to school. Perhaps tonight Frost will share some more memories. Now run along, and don't

forget your lessons!"

Dominik and Slova seem reluctant to leave my side for a moment and then, with a rush of

limbs and scurrying of feet, they race out the door. "Bye," they yell in unison.

"Such dears," Paula says softly. "They are really excited about Christmas. They love your

emotions so much."

"You mean my story, don't you?" I reply.

"Yes, that's what I meant."

Later, when I have an opportunity to reflect on the boys' reactions that morning, I recall the

anticipation of my own children as the Christmas holiday approached: Little Fred asking his

endless questions about the days remaining until Santa would arrive; Sam trying to act as if

it didn't matter, but searching for his hidden gifts just the same, and Helen gazing with

wondering eyes at every glistening decoration and light.

Each of their faces comes into my mind as I recall their names. Sam and Helen bore Evelyn's

finely chiseled features, while Fred favored my side of the family with his distinctive nose and

chin. I remember mercurial Fred racing about as if there were never enough time to get

everything done and trying to cram as much into each day as he could. I recall how Sam

would ponder every aspect of his life with an air of gravity, weighing the simplest decision

with grave import. Helen was a treasure, my own little girl whose outpouring of love

threatened to smother all who came into her charmed circle. All had been blessed by the

board soon after birth, further proof of Evelyn's and my own perfect humanity.

Again, why did I leave these treasures, my precious children behind? What happened to

them? Where is the line of their descent into this present age? I have no other memories of

them, no details save images of their physical appearance and brief, too brief mental

sketches of their childish personalities. I pray that further memories will come in time.

That night I repeat what little I've recalled to the family as they huddle next to me, quite

close. Their sensitivity to my emotional state seems strange; and that itself is another

unanswered question to put with the many others, only a few of which I can recall. Despite

repeated queries I am no closer to discovering the strange coincidence of this alien Christmas

either. Both Paul and Paula evade every question I ask with a laugh and a "later, dear Frost;

you will have your answers later as a Christmas surprise."

I embellish my descriptions of the anticipation of Christmas, repeating it for the occasional

visitors and to the other children Dominik and Slova bring to me during the day. To a fault all

are intensely polite and well mannered; a very civilized race. I wonder at the rapt expressions

in their postures as I recall scenes of my youth with them sitting close to me.

One of the boys asks about how we prepared our houses for the season so I describe the

sconces and the wreaths, the candles and the pictures, the heirlooms placed in their special

places, the decorative bowls filled with sweets and fruits. I tell them about the lights and the

decorations; a crystal créche and another of wood that father had picked up at a cull's

house, a pair of china angels, a plate painted by my grandmother, and stockings knitted by

the colonists for each child to hang by the fireplace. It was a mixed collection of bric-a-brac,

but one permeated with love and memories.

"We must decorate our house too," Dominik says impulsively, pulling me to the great room.

Without pause he reaches into a box and withdraws a spun glass angel of exquisite design

that sparkles in the light. This angel, unlike those I remember, has its multiple legs spread

wide and features the familiar triangular alien head.

As the day progresses the house begins to take on a festive air. Mishta scrawls a huge

wreath onto the front door while we work elsewhere, unknowing of her artistic bent. Her

childish masterpiece brings a scream from Paul when he arrives, which starts Mishta crying -

a hacking sound much like a saw going through a tree trunk. Paula gives a hearty chortle and

decides that it is just perfect and should remain there.

"This is so familiar," I say and begin speaking of my own Christmas memories, of loving family

and good friends. By the time I finish telling what I could remember of those times, all of

them are pressed tightly against me, as if copying the warmth of my mother's remembered

embrace.

"We know how you must have felt," Paul says, drawing Mishta nearer his own side and

stroking her back. The others echo his sentiment. A raspy noise that I'd learned was their

equivalent of crying comes from Slova. I marvel at the emotional depths of these aliens, to

think that my memories should affect them so much.

Night comes and I lie abed, going over the events of the day, recalling the raspy laughter,

when memories emerge of a similar sound in the background as a stiff subject lay on a slab.

Was it something about preservation, persistence... my part in some experiment? Is it a

memory from long before High Brasilia?

The subject's skin is bluish gray, the color of the recently drowned, and covered with a

glistening coat of sticky fluid. Pipes emerge from beneath the table and converge on a face

mask. Other, smaller tubes are attached to the subject's arms and legs, while a fiendishly

wicked chrome pipe was inserted into her anus.

"Perfect stasis," Frogbottom remarked as he pinged the subject's frozen toe with his

forefinger. "She's been under for six months and we've seen no sign of deterioration. If this

test is any accurate predictor, we should be able to keep her like this for years, decades

even!"

"No need to feed or house them, then?" asked one burly man, wearing long military braid. "We

could keep a force in readiness as long as we need, right?"

Another voice interrupted before I could answer. "We need to think of how we can use this.

Have you any suggestions, Frost?"

"Perhaps I do, ... " I recall saying, but the rest is lost to memory.

Morning comes and I help Paula strip the husks from the yellowish vegetables she is preparing

for dinner. Dominik asks. "Can you help get a Christmas tree for our house, Frost? I know

where we can find a nice one."

Paula hesitates for a moment before responding. "I think that you'd best wait until Paul

comes back. After all, we don't want our guest working for us, do we?" With a quick glance

at the pile of vegetables in the pan in front of me she adds, "Well, not hard work anyway.

But, perhaps he can accompany you and Paul when you go to get the tree."

"Wow! We're going to get the tree!" the boys shout together as they race around the room.

Then both of them hurry to the front of the house where they await the arrival of their

father.

The forest proves to be shrub land dotted with tiny globular bushes bearing little resemblance

to the conical Christmas trees that I recall with such warmth. They pick one that seems the

right size for the corner of the great room and Paul cuts it close to the base with a single

swipe of a long-bladed knife.

Getting it through the doorway and into the great room takes the combined efforts of both

boys, Paul, Paula, and myself, for the branches are quite sturdy and bend only under heavy

pressure. We get ninety percent of the tree through the frame when the final branches finally

assert themselves and, with an explosive push, propel the tree, along with all of us, into the

center of the room where we tumble in a tangled, laughing heap. Somehow they reflect the

humor that I feel back to me and our laughter grows and grows until, exhausted, we lie silent

on the floor.

The tree is too big for the space we had prepared. I guess that some things never change.

That evening we decorate the tree with ornaments that so closely resemble those that I

remember that they bring tears to my eyes; drops of colored glass, balls with luminescent

glory, spirals of gold and silver, and chains of crystallized light. When night comes and only

the light from the small lamps Paul had affixed to the tree illuminate the room, I remember

another Christmas, not of my youth, but of my later days. The family draws closer as I begin

to speak.

"It had been Christmas eve when we gathered around the ceramic tree in our quarters. We

couldn't have a real one on the station - bio-filters, you know. No, it was a masterpiece of

the colonists' hands - more lifelike and perfect than any real tree could possibly be. Evelyn

had adorned it with the bric-a-brac we'd accumulated over the years; gold and silver trinkets

from our honeymoon visit to Mexico's processing center, bangles taken from the coastal

drifters our ship's crew had encountered near New Orleans, little colored glass balls she had

our colonists create in the zero-gee glasswork, and small knitted dolls and such that the

colonial women knitted while they awaited processing.

"Our most prized ornament was a paper star that adorned the peak of the tree. It was a

cheap thing; cones of gold-colored paper glued together to form a sphere of points with a

spiral of wire beneath to hold it to the peak. Over the years several of the cones had come

loose, and the gold was flaking from the others. Nevertheless, each year we took it from its

box and carefully gave it the place of honor. It had been my own father's father's star, and

one that rested atop their trees for years.

"We had finished a wonderful holiday feast, returned from church, and made an obligatory

and terribly expensive, call to Evelyn's mother, who wouldn't remember the call ten minutes

after we hung up, and then exchanged presents.

"Fred made me a nice platinum letter opener and gave his mother a nice bracelet made from

scrap jewelry – diamonds, I recall. Sam gave me a bottle of scent, and for Helen he painted a

picture of the station, with the colonists' ships racing away toward the edges, but done in

bright fluorescent colors that bore no relationship to each other or the station's real

coloring.

"What I wouldn't give to go back to that moment and touch that garish picture once more," I

finish, with a feeling of immense regret as Paula and Paul rock back and forth with their

children in their arms. I am becoming quite used to their habit of crowding close and am

beginning to find their warmth and the fragrance of their herb-scented breath rather

pleasant.

A few days later I can remember more. "Christmas was also a time of responsibility," I say at

the beginning of the evening's story telling time. Only tonight, on Christmas eve, there are no

guests. For some reason Paula turned away all who came instead of welcoming them in, as

was usually the case. Paul reclines near the tree with Mishta draped over his shoulder.

Before I begin Paula makes a small adjustment to my helmet, then holds the two boys

closely, as if to protect them, or maybe she is just holding on to them because one day too

soon their youthful innocence will depart and it will no longer be proper to hug them so

tightly. It is a quiet time. In the distance I can imagine church bells tolling out the call to

services.

I start to speak softly, placing words around the thoughts as they spring from the depths of

my memory. "In the evening, after the dinner dishes were put away, we would drive to our

enclave's church. The congregation was a diverse group, with nearly every religion and sect

represented. Everyone attended the same service since it was important for all of us to

share. Even my agnostic uncles went, protesting laughingly all the way.

"But attending services was a responsibility to the family and to the great work.

Responsibility was a big part of Christmas; doing things for others, renewing the ties of family

and friends, giving deference to God, and serving as best you could."

With those words other thoughts begin to intrude, more sinister ones that do not spring from

my lips but stay in my mind. I remember that shortly after putting the kids to bed I'd received

a call: Could I come down for a few moments, they asked; there seems to be a little problem.

With a tinge of regret I gave each child a quick kiss and left. After all, processing was my

responsibility.

That was the last time I saw my dear children, I recall with horrifying clarity.

Burning questions flare into being, absent of the references behind them: What disaster had

befallen us? Was I culpable in exposing Brasilia to the danger? Could I have saved Evelyn and

the children? Vague memories of the cull war raging on the surface of the Earth below flit

through my head, but fail to clarify. I briefly recall watching the brilliant night-time glow of

Earth's cities fade to black, one by one, the coastal areas becoming obscured by billowing

clouds and flaring flames.

I must have sought refuge in the Center, for I recall sleeping on benches or under a stasis

table. One clear memory comes to mind with a rude shock: it is the steady boom, boom,

boom of explosives as the enemy worked their way toward the heart of the station.

I recall how we began to process the remaining colonists, marching them quickly from their

pens to the chambers, moving them first by the dozens, and then the hundreds. We worked

furiously, racing against time until the last was done.

"Your records, Hans," someone said. "You must destroy your records at once." Then memory

fails and I slump back, exhausted.

For a moment I reflect on how unkind fate is to deliver me into the hands of these kind and

gentle people. How could they know that their very lives, their very selves, revive such

painful memories, remind me of those precious four who had died so brutally and too soon? I

almost yearn for the return to the nothingness of cold sleep; this time to wake no more, to

cease remembering my bitter loss.

I open my eyes to find Paula leaning over me in a posture of what appears to be rapture, so

thrown back is her head. "Are your memories too painful for you? Are you remembering too

much?" she pleas with anxiety evident in her voice as she reaches toward the helmet.

"No. Yes," I reply sadly and the recalled memories recede. "I am starting to remember some

things that don't relate to Christmas at all. Perhaps it is time for me to go to bed. I'm afraid

my mood might spoil your Christmas eve."

Paula protests vigorously, but in the end lets me leave the great room and the warm glow of

the tree. "We will have the feast of Christmas in the morning," she promises with rising

excitement in her voice.

That night I quietly explore these new memories. The feeling that I must escape some

unremembered pain is still with me. Momentarily I wish that I had awakened in some place so

different that no reminder of my own sweet family would haunt me, but this alien realm

reflects too many hints of what I'd lost. With these dark thoughts in my head I pray that I

will not dream and fall asleep.

The next morning I wake with a tingling in my mind, as if some sleeping giant were about to

awake. I can almost feel connections healing and synapses closing as my memories begin to

climb out of their deep, chill pit at last.

Paula and the children are waiting at breakfast, and what a breakfast it is! The table is

spread with every type of fruit and herb, and some I have not seen before. Steaming

beverages sit in little pots and a pitcher of my favorite drink stands tall before my place. I

have not seen a meal like this since the morning I was frozen, although in that instance it

was to build the carbohydrates and sugars in the blood, and not to celebrate the holiday.

"Do you approve?" Paul asks anxiously.

"Indeed I do. Oh, yes. Most certainly. This is wonderful. How can I ever thank you enough?"

Paula smiles by turning her head. "Perhaps you will share more of your memories after we

eat? That would be payment in full." The children squeal in delight and begin gobbling their

food as if they want to get the meal finished as quickly as possible. The feeling is contagious,

for both Paul and Paula eat with unaccustomed speed.

"As soon as you're finished we'll go in the great room," she suggests politely as I slowly

consume my food. I can feel the pressure of their stares as I chew my final portion, burp

politely, and push back from the table.

As soon as I am comfortably settled Paula reaches behind the helmet. "I think this is the final

adjustment," she murmurs.

"Yes," I respond as her forelimb presses tightly against my arm, "When I awoke this morning I

felt that this would be a special day." And with those words the curtain around my memories

dissolves as the morning mist before the rising sun.

An avalanche of images, concepts, places, and people fills every corner of my mind, jostling

and chivvying for their proper positions. I recall a judge, a crowd of naked people screaming

in an airless tiny room, Evelyn with a doll in her hand as little Fred plays with a toy truck of

solid gold that one of the colonists had tried to sneak past emigration. I remember hesitating

before a keyboard, unwilling to destroy the great work of my life, and of feeling the butt of a

rifle hitting my shoulder, throwing me away from the machine.

The trial! I remember the trial; that mock justice the defectives staged over our noble

mission, our true calling to prevent the unfit from further polluting man's seed and interfering

with our destiny.

They accused me of being one of the leaders, the man who perfected the solution to Earth's

genetic pollution. "Frost," they had named me then; "Doctor Frost."

My timetable would have succeeded if only the weak politicians who had initially swarmed to

our banner had not lost heart. But my successes were not supported by their moral courage

and so they had lost; humanity had lost, and now the cowards sought to cast me as a

scapegoat to protect themselves. So be it, I cursed; let them stew in the mess they allowed

to happen.

High Brasilia was to be sent into the sun. Those defects, those misfits, those horrid genetic

cripples all hated the station for its role of perfecting humanity and for its role in attempting

to free our progeny from afflictions of mind and body. I pitied their inability to grasp the

beauty of the great undertaking through the days and weeks and months of the trials,

through the endless prattle of ill-informed tales and rumors.

"Where is this Charnel House?" I remember yelling at one woman who screamed accusations

of genocide at me. "Stop spreading these lies," I cried out. "Where is the evidence? Where

are the bones, the fillings from their teeth? The colonists are speeding to the stars, as we

promised. If you want them back then go and fetch them," I finished with a smile, knowing

full well that she could not hope to reach those empty shells of ships – one per thousand

colonists processed – that we had carefully launched each month to support our claims.

The defectives hoped that this trial would destroy the cause I supported. But they

understood so little. I knew others would continue the great undertaking to purify our gene

pool, others as appalled as I by the barbaric remnants of our animal ancestry. Time would

prove the truth of our cause. Time would vindicate my work. When this sham trial was over I

would continue the great mission.

Then the trial erupted. My records from Brasilia were discovered, the ones that I failed to

destroy, the ones that contained data about my experiments, about our operations.

Day by day they played them out, detailing how the thousands of my erstwhile 'colonists'

shivered and screamed, shuddered and shat, died of pain and cellular explosions, sat as

vegetables when awakened, or were simply too weak to allow me to finish a series.

In the marginalia I'd kept my daily counts of the efficiency of the bulk processing. I had even,

in a weak moment of hubris, committed a design of an improved high-capacity processing

chamber to my files. I had been so proud of the solar furnaces we'd incorporated – even

bridgework and fillings would vaporize under its fierce focus.

Needless to say we of the station, of all those who played a part, were held accountable.

What a travesty of justice, I thought at the time, as they sentenced each of our loyal

members to death.

They made me watch every execution; brutal, barbaric, hideous methods far different from

the humane industrial practices I had perfected. At the end they throttled my precious

Evelyn. I watched her eyes bulge, her lips turn blue with cyanosis, her tongue swell, and her

lovely, pale face turn a deep, dark red. I watched with growing horror as her life was slowly

extinguished and my wife, my beautiful wife was destroyed.

That same pain of loss stabs through me again and I feel the salt tears fill my eyes. Oh, the

horror of her death, the pain and suffering she must have felt. At that moment I remember

praying that they would take me next and still my aching heart. They could only kill me once

for what I had done, and when that was done I would be free of the memory of her death.

As I return to the present I feel that I am being smothered. I open my eyes to discover the

family crawling on top of me in postures of rapture. Paula and Paul are swinging their heads in

ecstasy and the children are drooling with pleasure. "More, more," demands Paula and

wrenches the helmet from my head.

Cascading memories my mind. There is nothing I can do to stem the flow of emotion-laden

memories that spring forth uncensored and with absolute clarity from the depths of my mind.

Hour after hour I remember the pain and agony of Evelyn's unnecessary, so mean-spirited

death. She had never harmed anyone, never even taken a colonist's goods until after they

had been processed. Such a moral person should not have suffered such an ignoble death.

Each time this thought comes to mind Paul gives a groan of pleasure and Paula presses

herself ever closer. I am drowning in memory and awash in horror.

"Please let this end," I plead tearfully as memories of my children's bodies being stacked with

the others enter my thoughts.

Through it all I remember the uncountable times I have gone through this before. I recall the

hundreds and hundreds of prior awakenings. They form a seemingly endless temporal corridor

painted with scenes of repeated pain and suffering extending years and centuries into the

past. How I had come to this; how long had this gone on, and how long it would continue are

startlingly clear to me, a revelation of such depth that I am overwhelmed.

The butt of the judge's pistol came down on the desk as he pronounced the final judgment.

"There is only one punishment suitable for your crimes. I order you put to stasis and launched

to the heavens where God will forge your fate."

I remember laughing at his sentence, as if their weak God could possibly affect me. My God,

the only true God, knows the true inheritors of the stars. My God had not intended for people

only partly risen from the beasts to go forth, but had reserved that right for the pure

humans.

I welcomed the cold sting of pseudo-death, knowing that the inheritors of my kind would find

me. When next I opened my eyes I would have evaded the punishment that they thought to

give.

With that thought I realize that the helmet must have been suppressing memories, allowing

Paula to eke them out for her family to savor before the emotional feast that I would now

provide!

Paula groans in ecstasy at my emotional reaction to my realization of the horror that is my

destiny. There is no surcease until evening, when all are satiated.

I embrace the balm of lost memory when Paula replaces the helmet on my head and leads me

to the slab. I lay down and close my eyes, yearning for forgetfulness, but knowing that I will

wake again, I wonder how long it will be before Lethe finally envelops me in her cloak?

"I am ready," I say simply as I eagerly await the bite of the needle in my arm, anxious for the

forgetfulness of cold sleep, and eager for the pleasant memories that will emerge when I am

reawakened for Christmas, just as I equally fear the horror and pain that awaits me. My fate

is to be heaven and hell in equal measures, a generous portion from the just God I may never

meet.

Cold. The first thing that I become aware of is the intense cold that permeates every cell of

my body, a cold so deep that I feel as if the core of my heart is a frozen pellet, barely able

to pump slush-filled blood through my frigid veins. I strain to free my eyelids of their icy

coating, anxious to discover what wonders await me.

The End

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Bud Sparhawk - Frost

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