Suspension wasn't death; everyone knew that. In fact, it was the antithesis of death. It saved lives by taking the maimed and sick and putting them mercifully to sleep, until they could be repaired.
True, their bodies grew cold, the lungs stopped pumping, the heart stopped throbbing; true, no doctor could tell, on sight, whether a suspendee was "alive" or "dead." The life processes were not entirely halted, but they were slowed enormously—enough so that chemical diffusion in the jellylike blood carried all the oxygen the body needed. But there was a difference: The dead were dead, whereas the suspendees could be brought back to life at any moment the Company chose.
But I couldn't make her see that. I couldn't even console her by reminding her that the old man was a mere Class E. For so was she.
I urged reasonably: "Rena, you think something is going on under the surface. Tell me about it. Why do you think your father was put in suspension?"
"To keep him out of the way. Because the Company is afraid of him."
I played a trump card: "Suppose I told you the real reason he's in the vaults."
She was hit by that, I could tell. She was staring at me with wonder in her eyes.
"You don't have to speculate about it, Rena. I looked up his record, you see."
"You—you—"