Of the four he was the only one who didn’t dream, didn’t have nightmares. Ripley, Hicks, Newt, even Bishop, though what was left of Bishop was easy to maintain. It kept them alive, regulated their vitals, treated momentary blips in their systems. The four sleepers on board alternately dreamt and rested, speeding along their preprogrammed course coddled by the best technology civilization could devise. The machine that was the Sulaco was doing its job. Emotion is something they’re not required to quantify, much less act upon. The judgments they render are based solely on observation and analysis. Machines bear no grudges, engage in no animosity. And why not? Over the decades they’ve proven themselves a helluva lot more reliable than the people who designed them. When you lie down in deep sleep you surrender volition to the care of mechanicals, trusting in them, relying on them. The cold, the regulated atmosphere, the needles that poke and probe according to the preset medical programmes, rule your body, if not your life. Under certain circumstances being bored to death might be the preferable alternative. So along with your respiration and circulation your unconscious musings are similarly drawn out, lengthened, extended.
#THE DAMNED TRILOGY ALAN DEAN FOSTER HOW TO#
Only, the engineers haven’t figured out yet how to slow down dreams and their bastard cousin the nightmare. It’s their job to keep you under, slow down your body functions, delay awareness. They’re the inescapable downside to serving on a deep-space vessel. Postponing death does not equate with but rather mimics immortality.Įxcept for the nightmares. Pay’s good, and you have the chance to observe social and technological advance from a unique perspective. Not many professions where it’s considered desirable to sleep on the job. You can read, and watch the vid, and exercise, and think of what might have been had you opted to slay the boredom with deep sleep. A lifetime wasted gazing at gauges, seeking enlightenment in the unvarying glare of readouts of limited colours. Or even worse, you’ll survive, dazed and mumbling after the sacrifice of ten, twenty, thirty years of useless consciousness. Avoid the cryonic chambers and the boredom on a deep-space transport will kill you. But in deep space you don’t have any choice. The only cure is good sound sleep, and that just feeds the infection. Can’t take any pills or potions, can’t ask for a retroactive injection. Not a damn thing you can do about it, either. Just when you think you’ve got them licked they hit you all over again, sneaking up on you when you’re unprepared, when you’re completely relaxed and least expect them. They’re like a chronically recurring disease. David Giler & Walter Hill and Larry Fergusonįunny thing about nightmares.
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