"Good cosslain," Cholosta'an said, rubbing the superior normal on the back. The half oolt had returned from its first "patrol" on its own and from all appearances had made all the turns perfectly.
Many of the cosslain, the higher intelligence normals that were almost high moron level, could not have remembered all the turns in the complex patrol pattern they had been assigned. But the one good thing about his oolt was the cosslain, and this one sometimes seemed almost intelligent enough to handle God King duties. He couldn't talk, but his hand gestures were occasionally almost eloquent.
"Did you see anything of note?" Cholosta'an asked, signaling the half oolt to begin their daily feeding.
The cosslain gestured in the negative as he pulled a ration pack out of his harness. The food resembled a small mineral block and was just about as hard, but it gave the oolt'os something to do with their time.
"You'll go back out in a few hours," Cholosta'an continued, pulling out a slightly more palatable ration pack. It wasn't much better than oolt'os food, though, and he longed for a victory to give him the funds to afford better. "If you see any sign of the humans you are to fire off a magazine to bring the nearest Kessentai, you know that?"
The cosslain gestured in the affirmative, his triangular teeth grinding through the rations sounding like a rockcrusher.
"Good," Cholosta'an said. All the oolt'os seemed healthy and reasonably well fed so there wasn't much else to do.
"You do a good job," said Orostan.
Cholosta'an stifled his start and turned around slowly. The oolt'ondai had come up so softly that the younger Kessentai never even heard him. "Pardon me, Oolt'ondai?"
"You care well for your oolt'os. Many Kessentai, especially young ones, don't pay any attention to their care. It is good to see."
"They can't very well care for themselves," Cholosta'an said, wondering why the oolt'ondai was paying any attention to him.
"Let me ask you something," the oolt'ondai said, gesturing for the younger Kessentai to precede him. The newly dug cavern rang to the sound of devourers and the cries of the oolt'os manning them. It was only one of dozens that the hard-driving Tulo'stenaloor had ordered. It was his intention, apparently, to put the entire host underground, out of sight of the observers in the sky and out of danger from the human artillery. With more and more young and hungry Kessentai arriving every day, it was a matter of continuous construction.
The oolt'ondai fluffed his crest as he made his way through the thousands of waiting oolt. The bodies of the oolt'os, and the occasional Kessentai, stretched for acres in every direction. The smell was an interesting admixture of home and fear. The smell was of pack, but the continuous battle for survival and status in the pens never quite left Posleen subconscious. The oolt'os would wait stoically until called upon, but if something wasn't done with all the Kessentai, such as having them manage patrols, they would begin to bicker, gamble and fight. A firefight in the cavern, once started, would butcher the majority of the force.
"Look around you. How many of these Kessentai do you think are doing more about their oolt'os than assuming they are fed?"
"Very few," Cholosta'an admitted. "I see many oolts who appear to be underfed and with poor equipment. I'm sure the Kessentai have many problems as I do, but I also doubt that the reason their oolt look so terrible is that they can't afford to trade for resupply."
"Agreed and agreed," Orostan said with a hiss of humor. "The host cannot make good every piece of junk shotgun and broken strap this flock of poorlings has brought with it. But we have more than sufficient thresh'c'oolt for the host. But it is not my duty, not my 'job' as the humans would put it, to care for every oolt'os in the host. So, why am I ensuring that your oolt is cared for? And, by extension, why are you under my . . . guidance?"
"I . . ." The young Kessentai paused. He realized that no one had ever told him that he should care for his oolt. It just seemed . . . natural. It would be through his oolt that he could, perhaps, take new lands and acquire possessions to make his life better. Without his oolt, functioning well, he would be nothing but a Kenstain. "I do not know."
"The reason you are working for me is the appearance of your oolt," Orostan said. "When I was told to go choose from among the new forces I chose on the basis of how the oolt looked, not how it was armed as some of my equals did. Your armament is, frankly, crap. But it is well cared for."
"It was all I could afford," Cholosta'an admitted. The shotguns that the oolt'os carried were the simplest, and therefore, cheapest systems available. And even at their small cost, the debt he had incurred was ruinous.
"Perhaps," Orostan admitted. "But a light railgun costs less than twice as much as a shotgun. And it is far more than twice as effective. Why not have half the number of oolt'os and railguns? Or, better, a third and a mixture of railguns and missile launchers. If you had that you would have a far smaller force to look at, but it would be much more effective."
Cholosta'an thought about it for a moment. It was a new concept; the assumption was that more was better. And he knew why. "The . . . the Net assigns spoils on the basis of how much you have contributed to the Taking. To . . . to get the best spoils, the best lands and the functioning manufacturing facilities, requires that you have more oolt'os, a larger and more powerful oolt." He paused. "I think."
"The net assigns spoils on the basis of effect," Orostan said definitively. "If you had half your number of oolt'os and railguns you would have a greater effect, everything else being equal, than your current balance. At some point in the future I may ask you to release half your oolt'os; will you?"
"If..." The young Kessentai paused again. "If you think it best."
"I do," the oolt'ondai said meditatively. "We'll sell off the guns—I know a Kenstain that specializes in that sort of thing and we'll get a good transfer on them—and re-equip the remainder more heavily. The released oolt'os will go to the Kenstains who are working on the encampments and will be . . . 'supporting' us when we move forward." He hissed grimly. "Better that than the alternatives."
"What is the 'alternative'?" Cholosta'an wondered. "Thresh, one would presume."
Orostan hissed in laughter. "There are worse things than becoming thresh. We have to have something to clear these human 'minefields.' "
The younger Kessentai looked around at the thousands of Posleen normals in this single cavern. "Oh."
"Waves of disposable oolt'os for the minefields, oolt Po'osol for the walls, the tenaral to pin them in place and destroy their hated artillery and then, my young Kessentai, we feast."
The rest of the shoot had been without incident as Elgars demonstrated a tremendous proficiency with each of the weapons in the bag. She could strip down an MP-5, Glock .45, Steyr assault rifle and an Advanced Infantry Weapon, prepare any of them for firing and fire each expertly. But she didn't know any of the names.
All of her shots were in the "sniper's triangle" area of the upper body and head. Her reloads were fast, smooth and perfect and she always reloaded immediately after all targets had been engaged. That last was a clear indication of background in special combat techniques. But she did not recognize the term.
Now they carefully made their way back to her room. It was apparent that Elgars now recognized the roundabout path for what it was; an attempt to avoid security. She seemed mildly amused about it.
"S'okay fer me to c-c-carry?" she asked, hefting the bag of weapons.
"Technically, yes," Wendy answered, checking a cross corridor before she stepped into it. "Technically, you can't move around without weapons. But security is so anal-retentive about guns they freak whenever anybody is carrying."
"No gu' here?" Elgars asked, shifting the bag uneasily.
"Oh, there are guns aplenty," Wendy answered with a snort. "Well, not aplenty. But there are guns, pistols mostly. Hell, there's plenty of crime here if you don't know where to go and what to avoid. And people break into the cubes all the time, what they call armed invasions. You can get any kind of gun you want if you know who to see."
"So, why no . . . ?" Elgars stopped frustrated by her inability to speak clearly.
"Well, 'less guns, less crime,' right?" Wendy said bitterly. "It's part of the contract on the Sub-Urbs; they are zero weapons zones. When you get inprocessed, they take away all your weapons and hold them at the armory, which is up by the main personnel entrance. If you leave, you can reclaim them."
"So, leave," Elgars said slowly and carefully.
"Haven't you been following the news?" Wendy asked bitterly. "With all the rock-drops the Posleen have been doing it's the beginning of a new ice-age up there. It's a record low practically every day; you can't move for the snow and ice from September to May. And there aren't any jobs on the surface; the economy is shot. Then there's feral Posleen."
"F'r'l?" Elgars asked.
"The Posties breed like rabbits," Wendy said. "And if they're not around a camp, they drop their eggs at random. Most of them are fertile and they grow like crazy. Since there's been landings all over, there have been eggs scattered almost across the entire U.S. Most of the feral ones can survive in the wild quite well, but they flock to humans for food. They're as omnivorous as bears and have absolutely no fear of humans; they tend to attack any person that they run into. So it's like having rabid Bengal tigers popping up all over."
Wendy shook her head sadly. "It's bad down here, but it's hell up there."
Elgars looked at her sideways. The way that Wendy had said that didn't ring quite true. After a moment she frowned and nodded uncertainly. "Joi' s'cur'ty?"
Wendy shook her head angrily at that, striding along the corridor. "I don't have the 'proper psychological profile,'" she snarled. "It seems that I'm 'uncomfortable with my aggressive tendencies' and 'present an unstable aggression profile.' It's the same excuse that was used for why I couldn't join ground forces. Catch-22. If you're a woman and you think you'd make a good soldier, you must be unstable. Same for security."
"S'crazy," Elgars said. "No women 'n s'cur'ty?"
"Oh, there are women," Wendy answered with a snort. "They wouldn't have a security department if there weren't; all the males that aren't Four-F are in the Ground Forces or buried. But the women in security are 'comfortable with their aggressive tendencies.' "
"Huh?" Elgars said as they came to another cross corridor. "Whuh that m'n?"
"Well, what do we have here?" a voice asked from the side as an alarm began to beep. "If it isn't Wendy Wee. And who's your friend? And why don't you keep your hands where I can see them. And put the bag on the ground and step away from it."
Wendy moved her hands away from her side as the three guards spread out. All three were wearing blue vaguely military looking uniforms, bulky body-armor and ballistic helmets. Two were carrying pulser guns, short barreled weapons vaguely resembling shotguns that threw out small, electrically charge darts. The darts transmitted a high-voltage shock that would shut down the human, or Posleen, nervous system. The leader, a stocky female, had a charge-pistol dangling from her hand. The GalTech weapon projected a line of heavy-gas that acted as a charge carrier for a massive electrical field. The weapon was short ranged, but it was capable of penetrating all but the most advanced armor.
"Hello, Spencer," Wendy said with a thin smile. "My 'friend' is Captain Elgars. And she is authorized, as you know, to carry whatever she wants."
"I could give a shit what you say, Cummings," said the leader. "I've got you dead to rights smuggling guns." Spencer turned to Elgars and gestured at the bag with her charge-pistol. "Put down the bag and step away from it or you're going to get a taste of my little friend."
Wendy glanced over at Elgars and blanched. The captain was still as a statue, but it was not, by any stretch of the imagination, a stillness of fear. The redhead was staring at the guard like a basilisk and it was clear that she was on the ragged edge of violence.
"Annie, put down the bag and show the nice guard your ID, slowly," Wendy said.
"Shut up, Cummings," snarled the guard sergeant stepping up to Elgars and tapping her on the chest with the pistol. "Are you going to put down that bag or are you going to drop it 'cause you're twitching on the floor?"
Elgars slowly looked down at the pistol then held the bag out to the side and dropped it. As it fell she reached up and twisted the pistol out of the sergeant's hand. A short flurry of hand motions had the weapon in nine pieces which she scattered across the corridor. The captain reached down as the guard started to draw her truncheon and seized Spencer's wrist in a bone crushing grip.
The guard sergeant froze, caught by pit-bull-like grip and the lambent green fire of the captain's eyes; the two other guards didn't have a clear shot since their team-leader's body was in the way. Elgars slowly reached into her hip pocket and extracted her ID pack. She flicked it open a handspan away from the struggling guard's eyes and cocked an eyebrow. "Now, are y'all gonna put them sticks away, or am I gonna stick 'em up yo' ass?" she said in a soft, honey-smooth southern voice.
"Let go of my wrist," Spencer ground out, wrenching at the viselike grip.
"Tha's 'Let go of mah wrist, ma'am', " Elgars whispered, leaning into the guard sergeant so that she could whisper in her ear. "And if you don't quit struggling Ah'm going to feed you yo' arm, one inch at a tahm."
"Let go of my wrist, ma'am," the guard ground out. As the pressure from Elgars' grip increased instead, she ground out a: "Please."
Elgars relented and Spencer finally wrenched her arm away. She shook her wrist, trying to get some circulation back in her hand, and it was clear that she would prefer to just leave the confrontation. But her pistol was scattered all over the ground. She looked up at the captain, who over-topped her by at least an inch.
Wendy smiled brightly and stepped behind Elgars to pick up the bag. "We'll just be going now," she said, grabbing Elgars' arm. "Right, Captain?"
Elgars leaned forward and looked carefully at the guard's nametag. "Yes," she said softly. "O' course. Ah'm sure we'll be seein' quaht a bit of each othah, won't we, Sarn't . . . Spencer is it?"
"Of . . . of course, ma'am," Spencer answered. "Sorry about the misunderstanding."
"This is one of the cafeterias," Wendy said turning off of a main corridor into a large antechamber. There was a series of roped off "mouse mazes" leading to four open blast doors. Beyond the blast doors was a long, low room with a fairly standard cafeteria line down the middle. There was a stack of trays, cups, a beverage dispensing unit with a limited selection, utensils and sundries and a short section of food. The food consisted of rather bland dishes, weighted heavily towards starches.
Wendy took a tray and moved down the line accepting a helping of corn and a small piece of badly overcooked pork from the unsmiling servers. Elgars followed, carefully mimicking her choices.
At the end of the line Wendy turned to a small box mounted near eye height. The screen lit up and identified her correctly then scanned her plate. It noted that she had received their midday ration and indicated a large calorie balance.
Wendy gestured at that. "Unless you're a real pig, you can make it on less than the calories that you're allotted every day. You can transfer a percentage of it to somebody else's account and you get increases for community service. It's the main medium of trade in the Urb."
Elgars stepped up to the box which repeated the performance noting an even larger ration balance.
Wendy raised an eyebrow quizzically and looked at the details at the bottom of the readout. "Oh, that makes sense," she said with a nod. "You're on active duty ration levels; which basically means a double ration."
"Why's that?" Elgars asked as they headed for the door.
"Active duty is assumed to be doing physical labor," Wendy pointed out. "Anyone that does day in and day out physical labor has a higher ration level; it's based on 2600 calories per day so that individuals can have some to trade. But if you're in the infantry, say, you're usually expending that much every day. So they double the ration level." She shook her head. "That's not real well known, but once you've been in this hole for a while you learn stuff."
They passed through a second set of open blast doors and into the eating area beyond, where Elgars stopped to look around.
The ceiling was about twenty meters high with glow-paint along the upper portions of the walls and onto the ceiling that gave a fairly pleasant indirect lighting. The walls, with one exception, were floor to ceiling murals, this one being a southwestern motif. The exception was a wall that was clearly stone, but unlike most of the other stone walls that Elgars had seen, this was a pattern of red on red with yellows shot through. It was pretty and clearly fit with the overall motif, but something about it waked an unpleasant memory. Elgars shivered and looked away.
The room was filled with tables and had six marked exit doors on the far side from the entry. In addition, on the parallel walls were large blast doors marked "Authorized Emergency Personnel Only."
"The cafeterias double as emergency shelters," Wendy said, gesturing at the doors. "There's nothing in them which is a fire hazard, just the tables and some drink dispensers that are pressurized in another room. In the event of a fire in the sector, people are directed to the cafeterias. The blast doors close and internal ventilation goes on; the ventilators are on the other side of those doors.
"There are eight in each of the housing sectors, two in Sector A, two in Sector F and one in each of the others. The ration level varies day by day and what's here is what you get; there's not much variety. There are a few 'restaurants' scattered around, but they're not much better and they all get the same food. There's a couple of 'bars' for that matter. Not that there's anything much to drink, either."
Elgars nodded and gestured with her head towards the rock wall. She still didn't like the look of it, but she wanted to know how the designer had gotten the pattern into it and what it was made out of.
"That's actually sandstone," Wendy said, guessing her question. "Each of the cafeterias are a different motif. For this one, the designers had some sandstone rubble shipped in and they vitrified it. That's what that melted rock is. It's been broken down by Galactic diggers—which shatter the rock by ionizing some of the molecules in it—then put in forms and melted."
As they sat down Elgars sniffed the offering then carefully cut the pork into tiny bites and slowly ate each one. Wendy was done eating before the captain was done cutting.
"Your voice changed again," Wendy commented, dabbing at her lips with a cloth napkin. "Back there dealing with security."
"I' ha'?" Elgars asked. She carefully cut out a bit of fat and flipped it off her plate. "How?"
"You keep sliding in and out of a southern accent," Wendy noted. "And when you're speaking with that accent, you don't have a speech impediment. Where are you from?"
"Nuh J'sey," Elgars answered.
"So, where's the southern accent come from?"
"Ah dunno, honeychile," Elgars answered with a thin smile. "An' Ah wish you'd drop it."
Wendy's eyes went wide and a shiver went down her spine. "Did you do that on purpose?"
"Whuh?"
"Never mind."
They ate in silence for a period while Elgars looked around with interest and Wendy carefully considered her new acquaintance.
"Do you remember what a southern accent 'sounds' like?" Wendy asked carefully.
Elgars turned from her examination of their surroundings and nodded. "Yuh."
"Have you thought . . . would you want to try talking with one?" Wendy asked. "It sort of seems like . . . you want to be talking with one. It's the only time you're clear."
Elgars narrowed her eyes at the younger girl and clamped her jaw. But after a sulfurous moment she took a breath. "You mean lahk this?" she said. Her eyes widened at the smooth syllables. "Shee-it, thet's we-eird as hay-ll!"
"That's a bit thicker than you were," Wendy said with a smile. "But it's clear."
"What the hayll is happenin' to me?" Elgars said, the accent smoothing out and the voice softening. She set down her knife and grabbed her hair with both hands. "Am Ah goin' nuts?"
"I don't think so," Wendy said, quietly. "I know people who are nuts, you're just eccentric. I think the shrinks were driving you nuts, though. I don't know who is coming out of that head, but I don't think it is the person who went into the coma. For whatever reason. They kept telling you that you had to be what they reconstructed that person to be. And I don't think they were right."
"So, who am Ah?" Elgars asked, her eyes narrowing. "You're sayin' Ah'm not Anne Elgars? But they did a DNA check and that's the face Ah'm wearin'. Who am Ah then?"
"I dunno," Wendy said, setting her own implements down and regarding the redhead levelly. "We all wear masks, right? Maybe you're who Anne Elgars really wanted to be; her favorite mask. Or maybe you're who Anne Elgars really was and the Anne Elgars that everybody thought they knew was the mask."
Elgars regarded her in turn then pushed away her tray. "Okay. How the hell do Ah find out?"
"Unfortunately, I think the answer is talk to the psychs," Wendy said. She shook her head at Elgars' expression. "I know, I don't like 'em either. But there are some good ones; we'll just have to get you a new one." She glanced up at the clock on the wall of the cafeteria and her face worked. "Changing the subject, one of the things we haven't discussed is work. As in what I have to go to. I think you're suppose to help with it; at least that is what I think the psychs meant. God knows we could use a few more hands."
"What is it?"
"Ah, well," Wendy said carefully. "Maybe we should go look it over, see if you like it. If you don't, I'm sure we can find something you'll enjoy."
"So," Elgars said with a throaty chuckle, "s'nc you can' be in s'curity or t' Arrrm'uh, whuh do you do?"
The door must have been heavily soundproofed because when it opened the sound of shrieking children filled the hallway.
The interior of the creche was, as far as Elgars could tell, a kaleidoscope that had experienced a hurricane. There was one small group of children—most of them seemed to be five or so to her admittedly inexpert eye—that was not involved in movement. They were grouped around a girl who was not much older, perhaps seven or eight, who was reading a story. And there was one little boy sitting in the far corner working on a jigsaw puzzle. Other than that the remaining ten or so children were running around, more or less in circles, shrieking at the top of their lungs.
It was the most unpleasant sound Elgars had ever heard. She had a momentary desire to pounce on one of them and eviscerate it just to get it to Shut Up.
"There are fourteen here during the day," Wendy said loudly, looking at Elgars somewhat nervously. "Eight of them are here all the time, Shari's three and five other who are orphans."
A medium height blond woman carrying a baby made a careful path through the circle of playing children. She could have been anywhere between thirty and fifty with a pleasant face that had probably once been exceedingly pretty. The years had clearly been hard, though, and what looks were left hovered between rough and beautiful, like a tree that had been battered by a century of winds. Despite that she seemed to be almost completely imperturbable as if she had seen the world at its worst and until something to equal it came along it was a good day.
"Hi, Wendy," she said in a husky contralto that bespoke years of cigarettes. "Who's your friend?"
"Shari, this is Anne Elgars. Captain Elgars, technically, but she's on convalescent status," Wendy said in one rush. "Captain, this is Shari Reilly. She runs this creche."
"Pleased to meet you, Captain," Shari said, holding out her free hand, which happened to be the left.
"Pl'sed," Elgars croaked.
"One of the reasons Captain Elgars is on convalescent status is that she's still in speech therapy," Wendy explained. "And the psych suggested that she sort of 'follow me around' for a while to get her bearings; she lost most of her memory at the Monument."
"You were at the Monument?" Shari said neutrally.
"S' the' tell muh," Sandy responded. One of the kids maneuvered out of the swarm, trying to escape a pursuer in what Elgars had finally determined was a sort of free-form game of tag. The little girl, about six or seven, came swooping around the group by the door, shrieking like a banshee.
"You handle this very well," Shari said with a faint smile. "Most people would have flinched at Shakeela."
Wendy cocked her head to the side and nodded. "That's true. But I've never seen you flinch at all."
As the tension from the sound built up, Elgars felt herself getting more and more still as if a blanket was coming up to protect her senses. She still could hear, even faint noises, but as long as she stayed in this place, not drifting but not really feeling connected to the world around her, she was fine. Unfortunately she found she also couldn't talk. Which precluded staying "safe."
"I don' fl'nch," she finally answered. "Don' know why."
Shari nodded after a few seconds when it was apparent no more was forthcoming. "Wendy, I've got to go change the twins. Little Billy had an accident and that set Crystal off. Could you hold Amber?" She held out the infant.
"Why don't I start cooking lunch instead?" she asked. "I think that Annie can probably handle it."
"Okay," Shari said with only a moment's hesitation. "Do you know how to hold a baby?" she asked.
"No," Elgars answered, eyeing the little mite doubtfully.
"Just put it up on your shoulder like this," Shari said, tucking the baby's head under her neck. "And support it from underneath like this," she continued, lifting Elgars' left arm to hold it up. "The most important thing is to not let the head flop. Okay?"
"No h'd fl'p," Elgars repeated, patting the baby lightly on the back with her free hand. She had seen Shari doing it and it somehow seemed right. Not particularly important, sort of like tapping your fingernails on a table or flipping a knife in the air. Just something to do with the hands.
"There you go," Wendy said, headed for the door at the back. "You're a natural."
"I'll be back in just a second," Shari said, grabbing one of the running children and carrying it over to the changing station. "Won't be a moment."
Elgars just nodded as she continued to tap the baby. With no one talking to her she was free to experiment with the feeling she had had. It was not just a stillness, but a sort of unfocused awareness of her surroundings. Although it seemed to reduce the effect of the children's voices she could still hear them clearly. And she found herself noticing little details. It was a moment of transcendent stillness and perfection that she had rarely enjoyed. And all because she found herself wanting to rip the little bastards' throats out.
At which point the little twerp she was holding threw up half its lunch.
"I work there six days a week, six hours per day," Wendy said as they made their way back to Elgars' quarters. "Since you're supposed to follow me around . . . I think you're supposed to work there too. It will fulfill your community service obligation anyway." She looked over at Elgars, who had had that strange stoniness to her countenance ever since Amber had burped. They probably should have explained about the towel.
"So, uh, what do you think?"
Elgars thought about it. She had become familiarized with making large quantities of something called "grits" which seemed to be the staple food for children. She had also learned how to change diapers. She'd tried reading a book, but that hadn't worked out too well.
"I di'n't l'ke it," Elgars said and worked her mouth trying for more clarity. "I's not as ba' as sur-ge-ry with no drugs. Close but not as bad."
"Oh, it's not that bad," Wendy said with a laugh. "It is a tad noisy, I'll admit that."
Elgars just nodded. She supposed it was one of those things that you had to put up with. Like vaginal exams and pain threshold tests.
"That's sort of my day," Wendy continued, looking at Elgars worriedly. "Except extraction drills. Like I said, I'm a reserve fire/rescue. That's Monday, Wednesday and Friday. Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday I go to the range. And one hour in the gym every day except Sunday."
Elgars just nodded. It was different than the hospital, but that was good. The hospital mixed unpleasant sameness with occasional bouts of pain. This at least was consistent.
"Are you okay?" Wendy asked.
"Don' know," Elgars admitted. "Want to kill something."
"From the kids?" Wendy said nervously.
"Maybe. M'stly wanna kill whoever decided I needed to be 'fixed.' Or ge' ou' where I can do some'ing."
"Your speech is already improving," Wendy pointed out. "Maybe the psychs will let you go soon." They had arrived at Elgars' quarters and she shook her head. "Maybe you should write to your commanding officer and ask him to intervene. Even though you're on hospital status you're still on his books. He's got to want to get you back. Or get you off the books. And he can't do that without the shrinks getting off the fence."
"How d' I d' that?" Elgars asked with a frown.
"There are public e-mail terminals," Wendy said. "Let me guess, they didn't tell you you have e-mail access, right?"
"No," Annie said. "Where?"
"Do you have an address for your commander?" Wendy wondered. "If not, I bet I know who could forward it. . . ."