Larry Niven - The Barsoom Project

“Dead. And I think you guessed it-her mother’s maiden name was Eviane Rivers.”

Michelle Sturgeon floated in a tank of water a few degrees cooler than skin temperature. Hundreds of pounds of Epsom salts were dissolved in the water. She was as buoyant as a balloon. There was no light. There was no sound. 100 mg of synthetic tranquilizer/hypnotic had left her without the urge to do anything but lie here and relax.

Without light, without sound, without a reference of physical sensation, her mind drifted in its cocoon of warmth, and her recent troubled sensations died away.

Who was she? Eviane? Yes. Eviane. Strong. Powerful.

Who else? Some part of her was far, far away, alone and miserable. As she should be. Michelle was bad. Had done something terrible. Eviane didn’t want to think about that part.

Wait, now. There were lights in the darkness!

They sparkled, and moved in rhythm across her line of sight. They were differing colors, jewel-like. She liked them.

There was sound. A heartbeat sound, one that she felt in the water, in her body, in her chest. She was getting… not sleepy. She was beyond sleepy somehow, but still awake. Her body was sleepy, her mind alert… at least, part of her mind.

It was confusing. Everything seemed to be happening so slowly. So much had happened in the past hours. It seemed like a dream.

Everything was slowing, slowing…

Eviane fought to hold on, but felt herself swirling down and down into the void, into an infinitely deep black hole rimmed with red, following the steady pulse of the light, the rhythmic beat of the sound, the gentle lapping of the warm water. Down and down and down and dark.

Out of the dark came light. She was in a place she knew, a beach, a place from her past.

The surf rolled in, and she sat in the warm sand, watching passively. She was warmed and comforted by the touch of the sun, and utterly content.

A man came out of the surf, dripping water and foam, smiling at her. He was a tall man with light red hair. His smile made her feel warm.

He reached out his hands to her. They were large and broad. Had she seen him before? Could she trust him? She wasn’t sure, but she liked him.

Where was Mommy? Michelle looked for her mother, Eviane, the stern one, the protecting one, and didn’t see her. Her hand stole nervously into the hand of the stranger, and he held it warmly.

They smiled at each other for a time, shared the sun and the warm, hissing surf. “Michelle,” he said, “you’re a very good girl. I’ve heard that from everyone. You’re a wonderful girl.”

Michelle liked hearing that. Her heart opened to the stranger.

“Can you remember all of the times you knew that you were good, had done something good, were told that you were good?”

She nodded her head.

“Good. Remember those times.” He paused, and a deep wave of warmth and positive feelings swept her. He nodded. “That’s right. Now. Do you know that sometimes good people can be tricked into doing bad things?”

The beach suddenly wavered. The water crashing against the sand became icy, and something rose thrashing from the foam.

“Look at me!” he commanded. “Look at me.”

She did as he said, breathing steadily, slowly. The thing in the surf began to dissolve.

“Good. Good.”

She liked the feel of his arms around her, and pressed close. Their heartbeats seemed to merge.

“Sometimes, good people can be tricked into doing bad things, by bad people. They try to hurt little girls. And then the little girls need their mommies. They need Eviane. And Eviane is here to help you whenever you need her. But right now I need to talk to Michelle.”

She trembled, and clung to him, and examined his words. He held her without judging. His arms were strong, and his voice soft. And he promised that Mommy could come back.

Frightened, but relaxing into trust, she pulled back and gazed into his face.

“Yes,” she said. “I know.”

“Will Michelle help me?”

“Yes, Michelle will help you.”

“Good. Thank you.” The big man with the rough face smiled and touched her nose softly. “I want you to tell Eviane that she is going back to her friends. Magic will take her back. Her friends need her. They will find her in the land of the dead, and then everything will be as it was. She will remember nothing once her friends find her.”

Michelle nodded, without comprehending.

“But listen,” he added, urgently. “All the time that Eviane is with her friends, fighting and helping them, Michelle will hide behind her mommy and watch. Michelle will learn. And when Michelle learns what she came here to learn, she will find a way to let us know. In her own way, in her own time. But she will let us know. Will you help us?”

“Mommy doesn’t have to go away?”

“No,” and the big man’s arms were warm around her. “Mommy doesn’t have to go away.” He stopped, and added, “But neither does Michelle.”

Griffin watched as a heavy-lidded Michelle Sturgeon was led from the executive Total Environment room. He wiped his brow with a moist, shaking hand. He hadn’t realized what a drain it would be playing out that role.

Vail opened the door and peered at Griffin with amusement.

“That was rather well done, Alex. Maybe you went into the wrong career?”

“I just figured that Dream Park has something that none of the doctors have.”

“What was that?”

“We have what she wants: a shot at the son of a bitch who screwed her up. I’d say we can ride that rascal all the way home.”

A video window opened in the wall, and Alex watched Michelle Sturgeon enter the frame. Numbly, without protest or eagerness, Michelle slipped back into the isolation tank for additional work.

“Say another two hours prep and she should be ready. Alex, have you looked into the Game? Do you know what a tornrait is?”

“A ghost. A helpful ghost. Why?”

“We’re going to give Michelle-excuse me, we can give Eviane an excuse for remembering the future.” Vail glanced at his watch. “You know, I could be making more money in private practice, Alex, but goddamn, where would I find cases like this?”

“Write it up,” Alex sighed. He sniffed at his collar. The Epsom salts were still moist upon it. Mixed in it was another fragrance. The scent of a delicate young woman, cruelly used; and something else, something feral.

Max’s Thunderbird was wounded. Its left wing fluttered weakly against the driving wind. The great eagle strove to pace itself: two strong beats, and then a rest. Gain altitude, and then pause into a gentle downward glide.

They flew through a clear layer between two cloud decks. The upper haze layer let the sun through as a brighter disk. It was thirty degrees above the horizon of the lower cloud deck, though the time must have been about noon.

They flew above a knobby white landscape, so dense that Max could see no trace of an earth below. Suddenly, and for the first time, he felt the primal fear of falling, that cling-to-Mommy, hairless-ape-in-the-treetops fear. His Thunderbird’s beak was open, and he could hear the ragged whistling of its breath even above the wind.

Trianna put her lips to his ear and whispered, “Look,” and pointed down.

Curiously, as his air sickness increased, hers had begun to fade. A mile below them there was a break in the clouds. They could find outlines of a mountain range, vast and foreboding, all jagged peaks sheathed in impenetrable ice.

The Thunderbird began to glide down, making its slow and gentle descent. A mist of blood streamed from the wounded right wing.

The Thunderbird was fighting for its life, for their lives. Max felt gratitude and admiration for the creatures, repaying their debt in so heroic a fashion. The only problem was that he could see no place to land. The mountain was all cliffs, all bare rock faces at varying angles.