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"Sleeping Beauty"
Sleep for one hundred years. Wake up in a new world.
The idea had appealed to me. But I’d been attracted to the fine print far more: When you wake up, you might not know who you are.
“An unfortunate side-effect,” the sloe-eyed scientist said, her red mouth curving. “But compared to losing a limb, what’s a little memory loss?”
“Where do I sign?” I asked.
I was twenty-five, far too young to want to forget who—and what—I was. Years of therapy hadn’t taught me how to accept the past however and, no matter how hard I tried to put it behind me, it kept poisoning my future. It would be easier to forget.
I readied the small cylindrical container that was to hold my personal items; everything I placed inside was impersonal. A comb. A bedroll. A spare uniform. A laser pistol. Nothing that said, “This is Aurora King.”
“If it isn’t Sleeping Beauty.”
I turned. Mac sauntered toward me. He too had signed up for the mission, but his reasons were all monetary. Though, if asked, he probably would have claimed otherwise.
Even in the spaceship’s harsh fluorescent lighting, Mac was beautiful—six feet of muscle and ego—and another thing I hoped to forget.
He propped an elbow against my sleeper capsule and crossed his ankles, flashing a grin. “So, Rory, want me to wake you with a kiss when we reach Epsilon 12?”
A number of hostile responses rose to my lips, but I choked them down. Shaking my head, I forced a smile. “Sure, Mac. If you remember.”
“Oh, I’ll remember.” He slid a hand down my cheek. “I’d never forget you.”
“Pretty words for a bastard,” I said lightly, pulling away.
His mouth thinned. “I told you that she came on to me, Rory. Nothing happened. You said you forgave me, so why are you still holding a grudge?”
“Forgiveness doesn’t equal forgetfulness.” I raised my chin. “And once a cheater, always a cheater.”
“For God’s sake—“
“All right, crew,” Commander Roberts yelled. “Get into your sleepers. Five minutes to launch!” Grateful for the interruption, I sealed my canister and locked it into the sleeper.
“Maybe you will forget. I hope you do.” He gave a sad smile and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. “See you in a hundred years, babe.”
My stomach twisted as I watched him walk away. He stretched out in his sleeper capsule and technicians began attaching various wires to his torso and arms. A blend of chemical compounds gurgled at the sleeper’s foot—the magical mixture that would freeze his limbs and organs for one hundred years while we traveled through space to Epsilon 12, the promise land. Mac noticed me watching and his lips puckered. A lump formed in my throat and I looked away.
“Bed time,” Commander Roberts said.
I nodded, sliding onto the cold metal. Technicians swarmed me. A needle pricked my skin. I fell asleep praying I’d forget, but I was no longer sure what.
Hyper-sleep shrinks years to seconds and, all too soon, I felt lips on mine. My eyes flew open, my knee jerked up, and someone cursed.
“Jesus, Rory! You nearly castrated me!”
I blinked up at the domed, metal ceiling. The lights flickered and buzzed. Dust furred every surface. One hundred years. I closed my eyes. Did I remember?
Dark room. Hands touching. Cold skin. Goosebumps. Dolls. Doctors offering peach, plastic parts. Where did Daddy touch you?
I ripped off the IVs, the plastic suction cups attached to my chest, the multi-colored tubing. The sleeper’s sensors screamed a warning. I hung my head over the side and vomited the black bile of my stomach.
When my stomach was empty, I still heaved. Distantly, I felt a hand on my back, rubbing. I tried to shift away, but the hand gripped my shoulder. “Easy, Aurora. Easy.”
I looked out of the corner of my eye. A tall, handsome man stood there. He was vaguely familiar, especially the sultry curve of his mouth, but I couldn’t place him.
“Who…who are you?” I rasped.
He paused. His brown eyes darkened. He opened his mouth. Shook his head. He glanced down at the ring on the hand that gripped my shoulder and then at my own hand. A gold band glimmered on the ring finger of my left hand.
“Don’t you remember, Rory?” he asked.
Too much, I wanted to say. I shook my head instead.
“I’m your husband.”
I searched his face. Uncertainty etched fine lines around his mouth—I remembered that expression. I touched his face and bit my lip.
“I remember…”
His hand gripped mine. “What, Rory? What do you remember?”
Our wedding day. Nights of kissing and touching. Days of laughter and teasing. My fingers traced his jaw, his unsmiling lips. I kept thinking there was something else, something more, flitting on the edges of my memory like an elusive fairy godmother.
Mac’s fingers squeezed mine, and it no longer mattered.
“I remember loving you,” I said.
He smiled and lowered his mouth to mine. “Sleeping Beauty,” he murmured against my lips.
His kiss deepened.
And I forgot everything else.
