Firstborn

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It wasn’t like waking. It was a sudden emergence, a clash of cymbals. Her eyes gaped wide open, and were filled with dazzling light.

She dragged deep breaths into her lungs, and gasped with the shock of selfhood.

Shock, yes. She shouldn’t be conscious. Something was wrong.

A pale shape swam in the air.

“Doctor Heyer?”

“No. No, Mum, it’s me.”

That face came into focus a little more, and there was her daughter, that strong face, those clear blue eyes, those slightly heavy dark brows. There was something on her cheek, though, some kind of symbol. A tattoo?

“Myra?” She found her throat scratchy, her voice a husk. She had a dim sense, now, of lying on her back, of a room around her, of equipment and people just out of her field of view. “What went wrong?”

“Wrong?”

“Why wasn’t I put into estivation?”

Myra hesitated. “Mum — what date do you think it is?”

“2050. June fifth.”

“No. It’s 2069, Mum. February. Nineteen years later. The hi -

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