"You're right." She took his hand again. Something within her that had been pinched and confined since she had stepped out of the tank at last began to open—to unfurl its wings inside her heart. "Yes. Oh, yes. That is definitely something."
The streetlights were coming on, but across the park the children played on as night fell, oblivious.
Afterword
Even the sounds of the battle had almost vanished now, the pounding roar of the German heavy guns reduced to bass notes that throbbed but no longer had the power to inspire terror. He was swimming up through something, caught and carried toward a light like a dawning sky, and as he rose he could hear her voice again, the dream-voice that had spoken to him for so long.
"Paul! Don't leave us!"
But there was something different about it now—something different about everything. He had heard her so many times, felt her, almost, a presence with wings, with pleading eyes, but now in the confusion and the growing light he saw her whole. She floated before him, her arms spread. Her wings, he realized, were a network of cracks that radiated light. Her face was sad, infinitely sad, but somehow not quite real, like an icon that had been painted and repainted until the original face was almost gone.
"Don't leave, Paul," she begged. For the first time there was something more than sadness in her words—a demanding note, a hopeless, harsh command.
He tried to answer her but found he could not speak. He finally recognized her. It all came flooding back—the tower, the lies, the terrible last moments. And her name came back, too.
"Ava!" But as he said it, as he finally found his voice, she was gone. And then he woke up.
For the first moments he thought he was still trapped in endless nightmare, but had simply shuffled into a different foul dream, the chaos of battle and the surreality of the giant's castle now to be replaced by some horrible vision of death—white walls, faceless white phantoms. Then one of the doctors pulled away his surgical mask and straightened. His face was an ordinary one, a stranger's face.
"He's back."
The others stood up too, shuffled back, then there was a new surgical-smocked figure on the stage, leaning over him, a smiling man with Asian features.
"Welcome back, Mr. Jones," he said. "My name is Owen Tanabe."
Paul could only stare at him, overwhelmed. He let his eyes slide around the wide white room, the banks of machinery. He had not the slightest idea where he was.
"You're undoubtedly a bit disoriented," Tanabe said. "That's all right—you may rest as long as you like. We've provided you with a first-class room—the one this hospital saves for visiting dignitaries." He laughed softly. Paul could tell the man was nervous. "But you are not merely visiting, Mr. Jonas. You're back!"
"Where . . . where am I?"
"In Portland, Oregon, Mr. Jonas. At Gateway Hospital. Where you are the guest of the Telemorphix Corporation."
Things were filtering up, scatters of memory, but they only made him more confused. "Telemorphix. . . ? Oregon? Not Louisiana? Not the . . . the J Corporation?"
"Ah." Tanabe nodded solemnly. "I see that you're beginning to remember. It's a terrible thing, Mr. Jonas, a terrible thing. A very grave mistake . . . an error made not by us but by the J Corporation, I must hasten to point out. But we have rectified it. We hope . . . we hope you will remember that."
Paul could only shake his head. "I don't understand."
"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.