Bill came awake feeling as though he’d just gone a few rounds with a gallon of middling-quality Texas ‘shine, responding to the half-heard questions of the cryo-tech with a low groan. He sat up slowly, big hands gripping the sides of the glass coffin as he levered his bulk into an upright position. His bare feet were pressed firmly against the bottom of the tube, his shoulders nearly touching either side, and he’d ended up sleeping (if it could be called that) with his head at an angle, to keep the crown of his skull from pressing against the top of the cylindrical bed. The pad that had been intended as a pillow had ended up in his neck, and images of a trash compactor briefly flashed through the drill-hand’s mind as the muttering to his right reached a pregnant pause.

Focussing red-rimmed eyes on the young technician and trying to ignore the parade stomping through the back of his cranium, Bill stared blankly at the clip-board wielding doctor for several seconds before mustering all of his powers of speech into an eloquent grunt.

“Huh?”

“I asked how you felt, Mr. Cothran.”

“Like a grizzly bear in a shoebox,” Bill growled, shoving the provided step-stool away and sliding off the edge of the cryo-bed onto unsteady feet. 

“Pardon?” the technician responded with a raised eyebrow.

“Like a bear...in a shoebox,” Bill repeated slowly. “Cramped. Grumpy. [i]Hungry.[/i]”

The younger man laughed and began asking a series of questions, reading them verbatim from the clipboard in his hands. As the roughneck stretched his screaming muscles, he made a token effort to answer the the questions before finally waving them away.

“Just...Check the right answers. I’m fine.” Bill paused, then put one large mit on the man’s shoulder. “Coffee. I need...All of it. Where is the coffee?”

Bill followed the bewildered tech’s pointing finger, ignoring his protests and leaving him to finish the post-cryo survey on his own. An indeterminate amount of time later, with a pot and a half of hot coffee sloshing about in his belly and a massive thermos of the same gripped tightly in his right hand, Bill found himself clumping heavily through the halls of the [i]Copernicus[/i], dressed in the provided miner’s uniform. 

The ship, though somewhat cramped for a man of Bill’s stature, seemed clean and functional. Having been a miner in his later career, the drill-hand was used to enclosed spaces, and wasn’t as bothered by the windowless and tunnellike corridors. They were just one more mine to him, one that was far less likely to cave in. Though there was always the danger of explosive decompression...
Bill shook his head vigorously to banish the thought, immediately regretting the action as his neck muscles protested and the band that seemed to have taken up residence somewhere in his skull resumed playing with grating enthusiasm. As he approached the door to the auditorium he paused, briefly juggling the thermos of coffee in his right hand with the paper plate in his left, trying to keep from dropping one of the half-dozen donuts he’d snatched to assuage the gnawing emptiness in his gut. After a brief battle with physics he growled, and settled for punching the “open” button by the door with the thick pinky of his right hand.

The holographic trees filling the open space of the auditorium gave the driller several seconds pause as his tired mind briefly recoiled, confused by the sight of so much silent plantlife seemingly crammed into one room. He shook his head again, more slowly this time, grumbling under his breath about “nerds and their fuckin’ toys” before spotting his buddy Reece towards the front of the room. With ponderous steps he made his way down the stairs and into the meeting room, passing the small knots of people who’d managed to get there first. He briefly appraised the Military Police 1st Sergeant, looking resplendent as always in her ACUs, then eyed the dark-skinned Marine a few rows ahead of her with distaste. He’d had occasion to meet both, following an altercation between himself and Reece and a few local hoodlums outside The Mountain a few days before launch. The soldier had been professional and polite, just the way Bill imagined someone in her position should be.

The black-uniformed Marine, however, had grated his nerves with his sarcastic demeanor. [i]Of course the mouthy punk’s smilin’,[/i] Bill thought bitterly as Mike laughed at something one of his fellow SRT members had said in the course of their conversation. Stomping over to Reece, he put the smart-aleck Marine out of his mind and lowered himself gingerly into one of the provided chairs, balancing his plate of donuts on one knee before cramming half of one into his mouth.

“Well, we sure as shit ain’t in Kansas, eh kid?” he mumbled around a mouthful of chocolate eclair, brushing crumbs from his bushy mustache and short beard with the back of his hand.