that messed with your mind—it was sorcery. But I’m good with minds. Let us try to fix you?”
She looked at the banana in her hand, then peeled it, and took a bite. She chewed thoughtfully, then swallowed. “Pretty good. All right. Let’s go to my trailer.”
•
Bradley sent Marzi back to the car, so Sierra wouldn’t worry and come roaring through the trailer park, smashing into things. He accompanied Marla to her place, which was all ancient faux-wood paneling inside, and as Spartan as her usual living accommodations. She sat on the edge of the small bed in the back of the trailer and looked at him frankly. “Hey. Bradley, right? Let me ask you something: do I want to get my memory back? Or would I be happier if I never remembered?”
Bradley opened his mouth to answer, then paused, thinking the question over. The Marla he knew had never worried much at all about happiness; she’d worried about duty, and about ensuring the happiness of others—in the sense that people were happier when there weren’t monsters trying to eat them or steal their life energies, anyway. She’d taken satisfaction in doing important work. Possibly she would be happier, for some values of “happy,” if she stayed a waitress at a diner in the middle of nowhere instead... but assuming her essential self was unchanged, she would never be satisfied with that kind of life. Finally he said, “The Marla I knew would want to take back anything that was stolen stolen from her, including her memories. But I won’t lie to you: your life is going to get exponentially more complicated if I can help you remember. You won’t want to work at the diner anymore, I’m guessing.”
She nodded. “I’m sick of my hair smelling like bacon grease anyway. Let’s do it.”
He sat cross-legged on the floor, on the thin and scraggly no-color carpet. “Okay. Just lay back and relax.”
“Was I the relaxing type, in my old life?”
“Well, no. But it’s never too late to try new things.”
Marla lowered herself back on the bed, arms crossed over her chest, feet dangling off the end of the mattress. Bradley decided that was as mellow as she was likely to become, and closed his eyes, reaching out for her mind, projecting himself into her mental landscape. There was a bright, crystalline kernel of consciousness there, like a lattice of white light, surrounded by mist and thickened shadows.
“I’m going to help you sleep, now,” he said.
“You’re the psychic surgeon. Do what you do. You’ve already proven I can’t stop you anyway.”
He reached out with his conceptual hands and caressed her consciousness, soothing it, and heard her breath change, becoming slow and regular. Now she wouldn’t be as likely to unconsciously fight his psychic prodding. First, he blew away the mist and illuminated the shadows in her mind, revealing her constrained inner world. The courtyard that held her consciousness was small, and surrounded completely by towering walls, pocked and pitted, the color and texture of ancient bones. Knocking the walls down one at a time would be exhausting and piecemeal. They hadn’t been erected that way, surely, bit by bit, so maybe they could be taken down more efficiently, too. Perhaps there was a keystone, a load-bearing wall, one spot he could knock down to cause the rest of the walls to tumble in turn....
He let his psychic body rise over her inner landscape, hoping for an overview of the terrain, and gasped (or did the purely psychic equivalent). The walls surrounding her spark of consciousness weren’t walls at all, but dikes. The rest of her mind was submerged in dark water, a vast sea of oblivion, brackish and bleak. If he’d knocked down a single wall, the waters would have rushed into the protected courtyard, dousing Marla’s last spark of consciousness entirely. She would have become an emptiness, still breathing, but bereft of anything resembling a human mind. If he’d been less careful, Bradley could have
She looked at the banana in her hand, then peeled it, and took a bite. She chewed thoughtfully, then swallowed. “Pretty good. All right. Let’s go to my trailer.”
•
Bradley sent Marzi back to the car, so Sierra wouldn’t worry and come roaring through the trailer park, smashing into things. He accompanied Marla to her place, which was all ancient faux-wood paneling inside, and as Spartan as her usual living accommodations. She sat on the edge of the small bed in the back of the trailer and looked at him frankly. “Hey. Bradley, right? Let me ask you something: do I want to get my memory back? Or would I be happier if I never remembered?”
Bradley opened his mouth to answer, then paused, thinking the question over. The Marla he knew had never worried much at all about happiness; she’d worried about duty, and about ensuring the happiness of others—in the sense that people were happier when there weren’t monsters trying to eat them or steal their life energies, anyway. She’d taken satisfaction in doing important work. Possibly she would be happier, for some values of “happy,” if she stayed a waitress at a diner in the middle of nowhere instead... but assuming her essential self was unchanged, she would never be satisfied with that kind of life. Finally he said, “The Marla I knew would want to take back anything that was stolen stolen from her, including her memories. But I won’t lie to you: your life is going to get exponentially more complicated if I can help you remember. You won’t want to work at the diner anymore, I’m guessing.”
She nodded. “I’m sick of my hair smelling like bacon grease anyway. Let’s do it.”
He sat cross-legged on the floor, on the thin and scraggly no-color carpet. “Okay. Just lay back and relax.”
“Was I the relaxing type, in my old life?”
“Well, no. But it’s never too late to try new things.”
Marla lowered herself back on the bed, arms crossed over her chest, feet dangling off the end of the mattress. Bradley decided that was as mellow as she was likely to become, and closed his eyes, reaching out for her mind, projecting himself into her mental landscape. There was a bright, crystalline kernel of consciousness there, like a lattice of white light, surrounded by mist and thickened shadows.
“I’m going to help you sleep, now,” he said.
“You’re the psychic surgeon. Do what you do. You’ve already proven I can’t stop you anyway.”
He reached out with his conceptual hands and caressed her consciousness, soothing it, and heard her breath change, becoming slow and regular. Now she wouldn’t be as likely to unconsciously fight his psychic prodding. First, he blew away the mist and illuminated the shadows in her mind, revealing her constrained inner world. The courtyard that held her consciousness was small, and surrounded completely by towering walls, pocked and pitted, the color and texture of ancient bones. Knocking the walls down one at a time would be exhausting and piecemeal. They hadn’t been erected that way, surely, bit by bit, so maybe they could be taken down more efficiently, too. Perhaps there was a keystone, a load-bearing wall, one spot he could knock down to cause the rest of the walls to tumble in turn....
He let his psychic body rise over her inner landscape, hoping for an overview of the terrain, and gasped (or did the purely psychic equivalent). The walls surrounding her spark of consciousness weren’t walls at all, but dikes. The rest of her mind was submerged in dark water, a vast sea of oblivion, brackish and bleak. If he’d knocked down a single wall, the waters would have rushed into the protected courtyard, dousing Marla’s last spark of consciousness entirely. She would have become an emptiness, still breathing, but bereft of anything resembling a human mind. If he’d been less careful, Bradley could have
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