looked puzzled. “Morning? I don’t think I know that one.”
“From ‘antimeridian.’ Before the sun is overhead.”
“Ah. A planet-based reference, then.” She dismissed the idea with a casual shrug. “In any case, you were promoted to brigadier general in 1374, and were instrumental in the victory at Cassandra in 1376. The following year—that would be 3152 by the old-style calendar—you elected to accept a promotion to major general and long-term cybe-hibe internment in lieu of mandatory retirement.”
“Of course I did. I wasn’t even two centuries old.” His eyes narrowed. “How old are you, anyway, Captain?”
She grinned. “Old enough. Older than I look, anyway.”
“Genetic antiagathic prostheses?”
“Some,” she admitted. “There are a fair number of people alive in the Associative now who are pushing a thousand, and that’s not counting uploaders. Partly genetic prosthesis, partly nanogenetic enhancement. And I’ve spent two tours so far inside one of those pods.”
“Really?” He was impressed. “In the names of all the gods and goddesses, why?”
She shrugged again. “Cultural disjunct, I suppose.”
“Copy that.” The gulf between civilian life and life in the Marine Corps had been enormous even back in his day. It might be considerably worse now.
“The Corps is my home,” she added. “Most of my family was on Actinia.”
He heard the pain in her voice, and decided not to question her further on that. Evidently, he’d missed a lot of history. Eight centuries’ worth.
The numbers finally came together for him. “Okay. I’ve been out of it for 852 years. I take it there’s a crisis?”
Again, that perplexed look. “What makes you think that, sir?”
“An old expression, ancient even in my day,” he replied. “?‘In case of war, break glass.’?”
“I … don’t understand, sir.”
“Never mind.” He looked around the chamber that had changed so much in eight centuries. Eleven other pods rested quietly in alcoves around the oval space. His command constellation. The other waking personnel appeared to be working at reviving them. “What’d they do, rebuild the place around us?”
“Moved you to a larger facility, about three hundred years ago. You’re in Eris Ring, now.”
“Huh. We got hibed in Noctis Lab. On Mars.”
“That facility was closed, sir, not long after they brought you up here. The whole of Mars is military-free, now. The Associative’s been downscaling all of the military services for a long time, now.”
“I see.” He was looking forward to catching up on history. It promised to be very interesting indeed. “Eris? A planetoid?”
“Dwarf planet, Sir. Sol system … one of the scatter-disk objects.”
“TNO,” Garroway said, nodding. “I know.” Trans-Neptunian Objects was a catch-phrase for some thousands of worlds and worldlets circling Sol beyond the orbit of Neptune, most beyond even the Kuiper Belt. Eris, in fact, according to history downloads he’d scanned, had been responsible for downgrading another dwarf planet—Pluto—from its former status as a full-fledged planet. That had been over a thousand years ago—no. He stopped himself. Two thousand years ago.
He nodded toward the other personnel working on the silent cybe-hibe pods. “They’re recalling my people?”
“Yes, sir. But the orders were to wake you first. Then your command staff. Protocol. Your brigade will not be revived until you’ve received a full briefing, and give the appropriate orders.”
“Okay. You know, you didn’t answer my question, Captain.”
“Which one, sir?”
“Is there a crisis?”
“So I gather. I don’t have any details, though. You’ll get that in your briefing download.”
“I expect I will.” Carefully, he swung his legs out of the pod recess, his bare feet reaching for the deck. Most of the nanogel was gone, now. He glanced down at himself, then at Captain Schilling. “Hm. I trust there are no nudity taboos in this century.”
She smiled. “No, sir. Nothing like that. But I have a uniform for you, if you want to be presentable for your constellation when they come around.”
“Good idea. But food first, I think. Uh, no … maybe a shower …”
“Both are waiting for you, General. Do you feel like you can stand, yet?”
“Not sure. But I sure as hell intend to try.” His feet found the deck. He swayed alarmingly, but with Schilling’s help, he managed to stay on his feet. She had a floater chair waiting for him in case he needed it, but full muscular control reasserted itself swiftly and he waved it away, preferring to do this on his own if he could. The cybe-hibe procedure permeated the body with molecule-sized machines that did everything from arresting cell metabolism to keeping muscle groups healthy, if inactive. There was some stiffness, and a few unsteady moments as he relearned how to keep his balance, but surprisingly few aftereffects of an eight-century sleep.
Eight centuries? How much had the world, the Galaxy, changed? How much had Humankind changed? When he’d entered cybe-hibe—it seemed literally like just last night—there’d been the bright promise of a new, golden age. The dread, ancient enemy, the xenophobic Xul, had been defeated at last. Across a Galaxy that had seemed a desert in terms of sentient life—where only a handful of reclusive or unusually sequestered intelligent species had survived the Xul predations—more and more nonhuman cultures were being discovered, contacted, and invited to join the loose and somewhat freewheeling association that was then being called the Galactic Commonwealth.
Now it was being called the Associative? There would be other changes, of course, besides the name. He found himself anxious to learn them … as well as a bit afraid.
The shower proved to be a transparent cylinder giving him a choice of traditional water at any temperature, high-frequency sound waves, or total immersion in a thin, hazy nano-parafluid programmed to cleanse his skin while permitting him to continue breathing normally. He chose water, more for the stimulation of the pounding on his skin than anything else. Garroway found he needed the liaison officer’s help, though. Without his implant, he couldn’t interact with the damned shower controls.
When he was clean and dry, Schilling gave him a button-sized pellet that, when pressed against his chest and activated by her thought, swiftly grew into a skin-tight set of dark gray neck-to-soles utilities. It was, he thought grimly, downright embarrassing. Here he was a Marine major general, and he couldn’t even bathe or dress himself without the captain’s help.
Then she led him into the mess hall, and he realized just how much things had really changed as he’d slept down through the centuries. …
The compartment was large and spherical, with much of one entire half either transparent, or, more
