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complex task modern technology has ever reputed to solve. Shouldn’t they have brought me in hours before my transmission instead of just a few minutes? What about blood work, MRIs, or other similarly detailed examinations? Is this really it?
    My hands shake as I drain warmth into the specimen cup, and twice my aim squirts off the mark. I finish and then wash my hands thoroughly. Splash a little water onto my face. If Misty detects how truly frightened I am, she’ll drag me out of the transmission station by my hair.
    Batista waits eagerly for me as I stride back into the examination room.
    â€œAre you ready, Cameron?”
    â€œI think so.”
    â€œThen let us proceed.” He steps out into the hall and motions for me to follow him. I look back for my clothes and find them in Misty’s hands.
    â€œNo need to redress,” Batista says. “Nothing can accompany you into the transmission portal.”
    I already knew this, of course—that I would be transmitting nude—but I didn’t realize they were going to parade me around the office in this ridiculous gown.
    Batista turns right and heads for the end of the hall, where the door marked TERMINAL waits. Like a black hole it waits, an unknown entity, a singularity where perception is stretched like taffy and sucked into an alternate universe. I can avoid that hole simply by turning away. Its gravitational pull can entrap me only if I get too close.
    â€œWelcome to the Houston transmission terminal,” Batista announces.
    He gestures into the room with a wide, sweeping arc of his hand and steps through the doorway. I turn to Misty—looking for what, I don’t know—and then follow Batista into the terminal.
    I suppose I was expecting something out of the future: a room full of bright, polished metal decorated by countless flashing lights and computer screens, technicians in full body jumpsuits running to and fro, shouting coordinates and download times and all kinds of other jargon. Of course, the terminal is nothing of the kind. It is a small and comfortable place that closely resembles our offices on the floor above. Several chairs have been placed on this side of the room, and against the far wall stands a row of three tall oak desks, semicircular in shape. Behind each is a set of two doors, labeled PASSENGERS and LUGGAGE , respective. At present only one of the desks is manned—by a thin, middle-aged woman I’ve never seen here at NeuroStor. She smiles as Batista ushers me toward her.
    â€œCheryl,” he says, “this is Mr. Cameron Fisher.”
    â€œPleased to meet you,” she beams. “Thank you so much for coming.”
    I look like an idiot in this hospital gown. I might as well be wearing pajamas.
    â€œWe have fashioned this room to resemble what we think the first transmission terminals will look like,” Batista explains. “Of course, when the technology is in wide use, there will be more portals in a single terminal, so this should be considered a scaled-down version of the real thing.”
    I stand there looking at him as if this tidbit of information actually matters to me.
    â€œYour transmission will begin whenever you are ready,” Batista says, and somehow hearing it spoken aloud weakens me further. My knees feel as if they might fail me. “The scan will last approximately ten minutes, transmission between fifteen and twenty. You should arrive at the Phoenix station by four o’clock Mountain Time, where reassimilation will cover another fifteen minutes or so. So we’re looking at about forty-five minutes total transmission time.”
    â€œJust like you explained to me about three times already,” I add.
    â€œRight. We’re sure that one of the initial misconceptions about transmission will be that it’s instantaneous. After all, it’s in our nature as human beings to be drawn to the sensational, confrontational, and romantic.
Star Trek
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