Tad Williams - Sea of Silver Light

"Time and rest, Mr. Jonas, that's all you need. But please—let's not keep you here any longer. Some of my colleagues wanted to have a conversation with you, but I said, 'First we must show Mr. Jonas the depth of our commitment, demonstrate our sorrow and indignation over what was done to him.' You've suffered from a regrettable mistake, Mr. Jonas, but we are on your side. The Telemorphix Corporation is your friend. We will see that everything is put right."

Paul was still shaking his head and fingering the neurocannula at the base of his skull—a piece of expensive equipment he had no memory of acquiring—when he was wheeled into the private room, which did indeed bear a greater resemblance to a hotel suite than anything usually found in a hospital. Only the discreet bank of monitors beside the bed gave any hint of the place's true purpose. A pair of silent orderlies helped him up onto the mattress—Paul was astonished to discover that his legs almost worked, although he felt horribly weak—and then there was only Tanabe standing in the doorway, still smiling.

"Oh, one other thing. I imagine you're too tired to have a visitor?"

"Visitor?" He was exhausted, but frightened to close his eyes—terrified he might wake up in some even stranger situation. "No. I'm not too tired."

Tanabe's mask of good cheer slipped a little. "Ah. Very well. But your doctor and . . . and your visitor's lawyer . . . have agreed that it will only be a fifteen-minute visit. We don't want to risk your health." He regained his expression of unflappable optimism. "After all, you're an important man to all of us."

Paul could only stare, dumbfounded, as the door closed behind Tanabe. He heard someone say something in the hall—voices might have been raised, but the walls were thick and Paul's head felt thick, too. Then the door swung open and a woman he had never seen before walked in. She was about his own age, slender and well-dressed, but clearly ill-at-ease. The only thing he could not quite understand was why she was wearing dark glasses in a dimly lit room.

"Do you mind if I sit?" Her English was lightly accented—Italian? French?

"No." He shook his head, willing to let whatever else was to happen wash over him. Just drift, he thought. Until things make sense. Then it occurred to him that drifting hadn't been a very good strategy so far. He felt a stab of regret for poor, dead Ava, for his own negligent foolishness. "Who are you?"

She looked down for a long moment, then turned the dark lenses back toward him. "I did not think that would hurt, but it did. We are strangers, Paul. But we are friends, too. My name is Martine Desroubins."

He stared at her as she lowered herself into a chair beside his bed. "I've never seen you before—at least I don't think so." He frowned, still slow, still cloudy in his head. "Are you blind?"

"I was." She folded her hands on her lap. "I am still . . . not used to seeing. My eyes hurt from the light sometimes." She tipped her head a little to the side. "But I can see well enough. And it is very good to see you again, Paul."

"I still don't understand any of this. I was working for . . . for Felix Jongleur. In Louisiana. Then something terrible happened. A girl died. I think I've been unconscious since then."

"You have . . . and you have not." She shook her head. "I am confusing you again, of course. I am sorry, but it is a long story—a very long story. Before I begin, though, I need to tell you something important, since they may try to enforce their ridiculous fifteen minutes. Do not sign anything. No matter what the people from that corporation ask you to do, or promise you, give them nothing. Nothing!"

He nodded slowly. "That Tanabe fellow—he was nervous."

"As well he should be, since they helped steal two years of your life. Did he tell you they paid for this hospital room? That is a lie—your friends paid for it. No, that is unfair. You earned it—many times over."

"Two years? I'm not getting any less confused."

She smiled for the first time. It changed her face, transformed nice but nondescript into radiant. "No. I imagine not. Do you suppose we can get decent coffee delivered in this hospital? There is much to say."

"Shouldn't I be resting?" he asked, but gently, not wanting to offend her.

"This version of you has been asleep too long already. Hear what I have to say, at least a little, then decide," she said. "Oh, Paul, I am glad I came here. The others want to see you too, but they are so busy—there is still so much to do. But when you are healthy we will visit them all."

"I don't think I'll be able to travel terribly soon, at least not far."

She shook her head and smiled again. "Your friends are closer than you think."

"What friends? You keep saying that." He searched his still-fuzzy memory. "Do you mean Niles?"

The woman called Martine laughed. "I am certain this Niles is a fine person—but no. You have the most wonderful friends imaginable, friends who have suffered at your side and who have triumphed against all odds, in large part because of your heroism."

"Then why can't I remember them?"

"Because, Paul—dear, brave Paul—you haven't met them yet. But you will."