astral energy pop, just above Jane's temple. And then she was lost in another memory. This time, her voice was softer, more womanly. She spoke in rapid, fluent French.
I don't speak French, and couldn't understand what Jane was saying. But she seemed to be addressing someone: a Monsieur Pasteur. As she had before, she trailed off in mid-sentence.
Sandra moved the magical energy to a new location.
This memory seemed to begin in mid-flow.
"... a vaccination program, sponsored by the UCAS government. You would be foolish to turn it down." Jane spoke in a somewhat condescending tone of voice. "The national health department is worried about a potential outbreak of new strains of VITAS, particularly in isolated villages like Eskwader—places the earlier vaccination programs overlooked. The vaccinations will be administered free of charge . .."
I tried to catch Sandra's eye. "That would be a memory from the 21st century," I whispered. "The UCAS didn't exist before 2030."
Sandra's stem look hushed me. I was disturbing her concentration. But I could sense that we were onto something important. Jane had worked for the UCAS government at one point in her life. But then why was she SINless? She should have been on a database somewhere.
"Trigger that memory again," I urged Sandra.
She did, and when Jane started talking about VITAS I cut in, asking her name.
She twitched, as if irritated. Then she snapped an answer at me: "Mareth'riel Salvail."
"Try it again!" I said.
Sandra did, but this time Jane simply repeated the conversation she'd recited earlier, ignoring my attempts to interrupt her and not responding to any of my questions.
I didn't care. We had a name. "Try another area," I told Sandra.
Another touch, another memory...
Jane suddenly made a face, then spat onto the carpet. "Atrocious!" she bellowed. "Dr. Simmons, your Squaw Vine Compound is foul-tasting in the extreme. I have no doubt as to its efficacy, as attested to by yourself. But good God, man. Something must be done about the taste, or it shall prove more of a purgative than a tonic!"
And another memory...
Jane's hands became busy, as if she were putting something in place and holding it there. This time, she was silent and needed prompting to speak.
"What are you doing?" Sandra asked.
"What's it bloody well look like?" Jane snapped in a broad Australian accent. "I'm applying a hot pack to this patient's leg."
Her hands continued working on her invisible patient.
"Why?"
"Listen," she said. "I'm bleedin' tired of yer criticism. You've got it all wrong. You don't want to immobilize the limb of a polio patient. What's needed is a strict regimen of physical therapy and... and ..."
The fire and passion drained visibly from her face.
Sandra had been listening thoughtfully, all this time. At last she asked Jane a direct question, using her elven name. "You're a doctor, aren't you, Mareth'riel?"
Jane looked in Sandra's direction, but her eyes were unfocused, as if she were looking into the distance. And in a way, she was—but that distance was measured in years. Her expression changed.
"I am an alienist, to be precise," she said in a clipped Boston accent. "And quite a celebrated one, I might add. I challenged a number of the barbarous management practices that had preceded our more enlightened age, including the use of Dr. Rush's restraining chair, used in the management of violent lunatics. I found that there was no need to restrain them if—"
This time the memory cut off abruptly. Jane screamed, then fell over on her side. In another instant, she was reliving the same trauma that she'd experienced in the Lone Star scanning lab. Her hands tore at her face, as if trying to pull something from her head. "Not the mask!" she screamed. "Not—" Her words became distorted, as if she was trying to speak with something in her mouth. She held her hands in front of her, as if they were held by containment manacles. Then her entire body went rigid. Her face set
I don't speak French, and couldn't understand what Jane was saying. But she seemed to be addressing someone: a Monsieur Pasteur. As she had before, she trailed off in mid-sentence.
Sandra moved the magical energy to a new location.
This memory seemed to begin in mid-flow.
"... a vaccination program, sponsored by the UCAS government. You would be foolish to turn it down." Jane spoke in a somewhat condescending tone of voice. "The national health department is worried about a potential outbreak of new strains of VITAS, particularly in isolated villages like Eskwader—places the earlier vaccination programs overlooked. The vaccinations will be administered free of charge . .."
I tried to catch Sandra's eye. "That would be a memory from the 21st century," I whispered. "The UCAS didn't exist before 2030."
Sandra's stem look hushed me. I was disturbing her concentration. But I could sense that we were onto something important. Jane had worked for the UCAS government at one point in her life. But then why was she SINless? She should have been on a database somewhere.
"Trigger that memory again," I urged Sandra.
She did, and when Jane started talking about VITAS I cut in, asking her name.
She twitched, as if irritated. Then she snapped an answer at me: "Mareth'riel Salvail."
"Try it again!" I said.
Sandra did, but this time Jane simply repeated the conversation she'd recited earlier, ignoring my attempts to interrupt her and not responding to any of my questions.
I didn't care. We had a name. "Try another area," I told Sandra.
Another touch, another memory...
Jane suddenly made a face, then spat onto the carpet. "Atrocious!" she bellowed. "Dr. Simmons, your Squaw Vine Compound is foul-tasting in the extreme. I have no doubt as to its efficacy, as attested to by yourself. But good God, man. Something must be done about the taste, or it shall prove more of a purgative than a tonic!"
And another memory...
Jane's hands became busy, as if she were putting something in place and holding it there. This time, she was silent and needed prompting to speak.
"What are you doing?" Sandra asked.
"What's it bloody well look like?" Jane snapped in a broad Australian accent. "I'm applying a hot pack to this patient's leg."
Her hands continued working on her invisible patient.
"Why?"
"Listen," she said. "I'm bleedin' tired of yer criticism. You've got it all wrong. You don't want to immobilize the limb of a polio patient. What's needed is a strict regimen of physical therapy and... and ..."
The fire and passion drained visibly from her face.
Sandra had been listening thoughtfully, all this time. At last she asked Jane a direct question, using her elven name. "You're a doctor, aren't you, Mareth'riel?"
Jane looked in Sandra's direction, but her eyes were unfocused, as if she were looking into the distance. And in a way, she was—but that distance was measured in years. Her expression changed.
"I am an alienist, to be precise," she said in a clipped Boston accent. "And quite a celebrated one, I might add. I challenged a number of the barbarous management practices that had preceded our more enlightened age, including the use of Dr. Rush's restraining chair, used in the management of violent lunatics. I found that there was no need to restrain them if—"
This time the memory cut off abruptly. Jane screamed, then fell over on her side. In another instant, she was reliving the same trauma that she'd experienced in the Lone Star scanning lab. Her hands tore at her face, as if trying to pull something from her head. "Not the mask!" she screamed. "Not—" Her words became distorted, as if she was trying to speak with something in her mouth. She held her hands in front of her, as if they were held by containment manacles. Then her entire body went rigid. Her face set
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