ENZMINGER & WOLF
A LONG DAY

I wake up too early from cryo. My head is buzzing, my vision smeared like a badly filtered hologram, my mouth so dry I feel like a thousand-year-old mummy that forgot how saliva works. I’d spit — if I had anything to spit with. Right now I’m too busy trying to convince my numb legs that gravity is, in fact, still mandatory. I hate cryo. Worth repeating. Something finally kickstarts inside me. I swallow the post-cryo mucus avalanche and force the nausea back down. A heroic cough follows — thick, ugly, triumphant. Saliva production online. Sweet relief. “Cold start,” I mutter, and even manage a smile. I lean into my legs, start shuffling forward — then the hatred boils over. Pure instinct. I turn back toward the cryo-sarcophagus, roll the nasty mess into a proper payload, and launch it. Direct hit. I growl something along the lines of mother-loving freezing cryo and laugh at myself while stumbling toward the locker room. Yes. I still hate cryo. A long, hot shower drags me back among the living. The preservation gel washes off — a nutrient-packed, oxygen-rich miracle substance designed to make sure you don’t turn into an actual mummy mid-voyage. Would be funny though. Imagine the arrival team opening the chamber and playing archaeologist. “Fascinating specimen, colleague. Estimate the age?” “No idea. I just woke up from this frozen hellhole.” I laugh out loud. Alone. In the shower. Completely sane behavior. That’s when my Yinep watch vibrates: Drink. Eat. Capsules. Now. I forgot. Post-cryo pills skipped. Collapse imminent within the hour. I step out, still wobbling slightly, and pull on my suit. Yes. That suit. Turns out humanity eventually nailed it — fully functional, real-world survival gear, something straight out of Frank Herbert’s fever dreams. We built our own version. We called it the Yinep Suit. No more excuses. Put on our new Yinep Suit. Buckle up. Be quiet. Nobody dries out here and lives. It sold like fire in vacuum. Enough money to buy my own starship and get my family as far away from Earth as possible. We needed space. Earth was… rotting. You know how it is. I hurry back to the cryo station as my watch practically screams at me. The compartment glows like sunrise. Water, nutrients, two capsules. One for the body. One for the soul. Body first. Survival instinct is strong. I swallow, drink deep, then take the other capsule. “Good job, Kiri-Cryo,” I say softly, patting the machine I recently vandalized with biological warfare. I wipe it clean. You keep me alive on long journeys. You’re just… terribly cold. I scan the chamber. Rows of cryo units — family, friends… pets. Everyone asleep. Me awake. Cryo insomnia? Or just bad luck. Long day ahead. Then the cryo unit next to mine hums. Wait. Is that—? “Rufus?” The AI dog activates. “Woof!” Then: “Idiot.” I sigh. “Good morning to you too.” Maybe machines really do have souls. And if they do — this one is definitely enjoying my suffering.