The sleep of reason
Leon Zeldis
The sleep of reason breeds monsters
(Francisco Goya)
The first sense he gradually recovered was hearing. Suddenly he was conscious of a rumor, a tremor that became more defined by moments, sounds of instruments, hums of electricity, dull shocks, pulsations, and among all these, unintelligible interjections, orders given in such a low voice that he could not make out the language spoken.
He was invaded by a feeling of jubilation, exultation. He had done it! He had been right, and all doubting Thomases who had laughed at him, including his own wife, had been wrong! He felt a tinge of remorse, thinking of Laura. How many years had passed? Perhaps centuries. Laura and all her generation had probably disappeared, and his memory erased.
The sounds around him continued without change. For some reason, he didn't want to open his eyes. His internal sensations had returned. He felt he was breathing unassisted. His throat was dry, and something had been introduced into his mouth that bothered him. Possibly an ultrasound probe. He felt various aches in arms legs, the neck. Nothing unbearable. He paid attention to the sounds, trying to distinguish what language they were speaking, but found nothing, except for the certainty that it was neither English nor Spanish. He thought it might be Japanese, or an African language. He was not surprised; the Japanese were in the forefront of the technology. Surely they would have developed the instruments and procedures to revive people held in cryogenic stasis.
Again he was filled with joy. He had to make an effort to refrain from exploding in a burst of laughter. When he was diagnosed with cancer, it took him only a short time to reach a decision. He did not trust surgery; what's more, he had an irrational fear of the scalpel. His mother, too, had died of cancer. His decision was logical and reasonable: in the course of time, the cure for all diseases would be found, including cancer. The thing was to be able to wait. He wanted his body to be frozen, kept at a temperature that would prevent decomposition of the tissues. The cells would revive after being unfrozen. That had been demonstrated. The technology to revive persons was almost within reach, how much easier it would be in future generations, when a cure had been found! That was only theory, but now it was a fact.
The proof was himself: he was alive!
Involuntarily, a sigh left his lips. Immediately he felt a change in the noises surrounding him. The whispers increased and he felt being touched in the arms and the neck. Still, he didn't want to open the eyes. Carefully, he moved a finger of the right hand. Success! He could move it, with some muscle pain, but without difficulty. His brain controlled his body. He was really alive!
He started making plans for the future. Was he the first to be revived? If that was the case, he could sell the story to the press. If there was press in that future. Communications had to exist. Perhaps television, or internet, or whatever. A man from the twenty-first century revived. That did not happen every day. His name probably was being displayed throughout the planet.
The planet. This reminded him of certain projects discussed before the procedure. Eventually, he was told, the bodies kept in cryogenic stasis would be sent into outer space, where the cold and the absence of bacteria would keep them in perfect conservation as long as necessary, without having to maintain the cold artificially, as on the surface of the earth.
Somebody started carefully pulling out the tube from his throat. He had a momentary spasm of nausea, but it passed and the tube was out and he could breathe unmolested.
Slowly, he opened his eyes. Lights, colors, vague shadows. It was difficult to focus the eyes. The muscles had lost the habit. Besides, the light was dazzling. The room became almost completely silent, only the background noise of the instruments continued.
He tried to raise an arm to shade the eyes, but was unable. He had an instant of panic, until realizing that the problem was not in his muscles, but that he was tied down on the bed. He turned his head and could see, close to the headboard, a silver table like that of a hospital, displaying a collection of surgical instruments, knives of various sizes, saws, and other tools whose purpose he could not even guess. Tired, he laid back his head and closed the eyes.
It was logical that activating his muscles would be difficult. Nothing to worry about. He thought of the funds he had left deposited in the bank. His lawyers had sworn that no court of law in the world would allow one of his heirs to touch that money According to his calculations, discounting the expenses of maintaining the body; the capital should duplicate every twenty years or less. He was probably mega-millionaire. He laughed inside. With enough money you can buy even immortality!
He felt a bit stronger and opened his eyes again. This time it seemed that he could focus better, or perhaps they had lowered the intensity of the lights. He could discern figures with white coats, but the faces were in the shadows.
A bluish tentacle slid over his chest and arranged an electric contact. A feeling of horror seized him. What was that?
With desperate effort he half-closed the eyes to help in focusing them. He finally distinguished the faces of those around: shapeless bulbs, with disgusting fringes of flaccid flesh hanging over things that could be eyes or mouths or beaks, or something else.
Now they approached, balancing, stretching towards him their viscous tentacles, whispering in their unintelligible language. A cry of desperation came from the depth of his soul. Immediately, two fetid, dripping tentacles closed his mouth.
Opening his eyes as wide as he could, he saw them grabbing the knives and coming closer. He was unable to cry.
Then the experiments started.