They did not so much waken as find themselves to be. They remembered. A ship. A journey to a star. The quiet sleep, tended by machines. Were they still dreaming? But it had been no sleep of dreams. When they closed their eyes, they were five, each separate in a bed of ice, watched separately by a brain of dancing light: heartbeats and breathing—distinct, joined only in purpose, not in mind.
Assab had quarreled with Whitaker. Stratova had lusted after Hung. Kaku had brooded by himself, one of them, but apart, never open to their hearts.