Bevin hurried down the corridor, barely glancing at a group of noncoms in his haste. Five
minutes later he was in the observation room overlooking the tank. David still floated, lifeless in the blue liquid.

“What’s our temp, Wil?” Bevin asked the technician who was manning a set of instrument panels.

“50 Kelvin, sir.”

So cold, Bevin thought. Liquid nitrogen would be frozen by now.

“It’s not going to happen, sir,” Wil said. “It’s been 8 hours with no change.”

Bevin stared at David through the glass, chest tight with emotion. Godammit, he thought. I was so sure. He took a deep breath and nodded. “Call it.”

Wil spoke into the microphone. “PFC David Price, age 22. Time of death…” The tech went on, recording details of the test. Bevin turned and walked towards the door.

As his hand closed on the doorknob, a soft beep sounded behind him. Bevin spun around and rushed to the display. He stared at the temperature gauge in disbelief.

“51 Kelvin,” Wil whispered.

With tears in his eyes, Bevin smiled.