“Just relax, Christina,” the grey-haired doctor says, getting up from behind his desk. He approaches his patient to help her into the pod, before calibrating the unit’s environmental controls.
The young woman looks around her at the tiny container she is about to be encased in for the next sixty years, her breathing fast and shallow. “I’m not sure about this.”
“It’s what you wanted, remember?” He replies in his well-practised, calming manner. “Now, I need to strap you in. This is for your safety, so you won’t get hurt.”
He reaches slowly to connect the belts that will hold her upright in the pod. His gentle movements show no indication of the urgency of his task.
Christina looks across the room to the window. Outside is a world that can no longer support human life, a world that can no longer support her existence. She takes a deep breath and focuses on that view.
Her attention is distracted by the doctor reaching for a syringe. “I’m going to give you a chemical inhibitor to keep you asleep. You just go to sleep, and when you wake up, you will be at your new home.” He smiles reassuringly.
The straps seem to tighten by themselves and Christina struggles to get enough air into her lungs. She tries to bring her hand to her chest, but can only move it a few centimetres now her arms are bound. The sound of her heartbeat echoes around the pod.
“No!” She jerks forward against her restraints. “I’m not ready. Give me a minute.”
The doctor sighs, and looks directly into her eyes. “There is no more time, Christina,” he says in a slow, firm voice. “This is your only chance.”
Feeling the warmth of tears she doesn’t want him to witness, she looks up at the lid of the pod. It is the last thing she will see on this planet. She studies the curved shape, the dull grey colour, the clear observation panel. It seems a very ordinary design for something so life-changing. Turning her attention back to Doctor Marcel, she whispers, “I’m sorry, I can’t.”
There is a quiet thud as the syringe is returned to the metal tray. The doctor’s hands grasp the straps of the pod, and expertly release the fasteners. He turns and presses a button on the desk phone behind him, as his patient stumbles as quickly as she can, towards the furthest corner of the room.
“Yes, Doctor?” the receptionist’s cheerful voice carries from the speaker.
“Call the alternate. This one’s not going anywhere.”
Deborah Grant-Dudley 