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Jackson settled into the deep-space transport pod. His n***d body rested on a cushion of air and specially treated foam with built-in stimulators that protected against pressure ulcers. The technicians bent over him to connect various straps and tubes, with trailing lines that led to devices that measured all functions. They sealed the pod’s clear acrylic lid. Rich oxygen hissed softly, along with something else. Jackson resisted the urge to push himself out of his cocoon, out of that possible coffin, one of twenty-five attached to the spacecraft’s cargo deck.
“Breath slow and easy,” the technicians had told him. “The long sleep will take you within a minute.”
Jackson began to count. He made it to 39, his age, before stopping.
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He hung out at the Blue Agave Saloon o
