The second thing she noticed was the locker. The dull gray, unmarked polygon squatted in the far corner like some sort of mechanical troll. The material looked like regular Galplas, but it clearly was plasteel; the container was more proof against burglary than a steel safe. The Indowy manufacture was readily recognizable to any resident of a Sub-Urb—all the high security sections were sealed with the same stuff—and nothing but a high-watt plasma torch or a molecular grinder could cut it. There was a standard issue wall-locker in the room as well, so the plasteel safe was probably for security purposes.

With those exceptions, the room was otherwise standard for the Sub-Urb. By the memory-plastic door was an issue emergency locker, the only thing unusual about it being that it hadn't been vandalized. According to the seal and the inventory on the exterior, if she opened it up it should contain four emergency breath masks, a limited first aid kit and a pair of Nomex gloves. If it did, it would be the first complete set that Wendy had seen in four years. One wall sported a 27" flatscreen viewer and the carpet was basic polylon. All in all, it looked like an original issue personal living quarters. Or what they had looked like when Wendy had first been dropped in this underground hell.

The girl sitting on the room's single bed was wearing only a pair of running shorts and a midriff top. That was not terribly incongruous because she was very good looking. Her skin had the teenager fineness of a recent rejuvenation and her clearly unsupported breasts were high and firm. Strawberry-blond hair cascaded over her crossed arms and the white coverlet in a titian waterfall while sharp green eyes regarded her visitors with wary intelligence.

"Annie," said the doctor, "this is Wendy Cummings. She's going to help you with your recovery." The psychologist smiled cheerily. "We think it will help you at this stage in your development to get out a little more."

What Dr. Christine Richards did not say was that the post-op team was petrified. The latest round of cognitive tests had shown that, despite the speech impediment, Anne O. Elgars was fully recovered from her multi-year coma and experimental surgery. What they were not sure of was that it was, in fact, Anne Elgars.

"Hi, Anne," Wendy said, holding out her hand and giving a lopsided smile. "We're supposed to be 'compatible' as friends. We'll see. Sometimes psychologists can't tell their ass from their elbow."

The person who might or might not be Anne Elgars tilted her head to the side then returned the slight smile with a broad grin. "A . . . Ahm A . . . Annie tuh fr . . . en."

"Glad to hear it," said Wendy with a blinding smile in return. "I think we'll have lots to talk about. I understand you were in 33rd Division at Occoquan?"

"Well," said Dr. Richards. "I think I'll leave you two girls alone. Annie, if you would, I'd like you to help Wendy with tasks. Now that you're recovering it's important that every pair of hands help."

The expression slid from the redhead's face like rain. "Unnnnkay Derrrr . . ."

"Don't worry," said Wendy with a glance at the psychologist. "We'll be fine."

As the door closed on the doctor Wendy stuck her thumb behind her upper teeth and flicked it in the direction of the retreating specialist.

"I hate psychologists," she said making a moue of distaste. "Fucking shrinks."

Elgars' mouth worked for a moment then with an expression of frustration she held both of her hands palm upward.

"To qualify for front-line combat as a female you have to pass a psych eval," said the blonde, tying up her ponytail in frustration as she sat next to Elgars on the bed. "And it's a real Catch-22. They won't admit anyone who is 'unstable,' but a fighting personality is considered borderline unstable for a female."

Elgars' mouth worked again and she grunted a laugh. "Fum . . . fu. Umbitch!"

Wendy dimpled. "Yeah. They're all sons-of-bitches. I agree. But they can fuck themselves. So, you've got amnesia? And a speech impediment, obviously."

"Uhhh . . . yuhhhh," Elgars said with another flash of impatience.

"Don't worry about it," Wendy said with a smile. "We've got plenty of time to get the story. But can I ask one question?"

"Yuhhh."

"Is that a weapons locker? Because if it is I'm really pissed. They took all my shit away when I got to this damned hole. I go to the range at least once a week, but they won't even let me try out for the security force."

"Yuhhh," Elgars said with a quizzical expression. "A . . . Ah doooo." She stopped and her mouth worked. "Ah . . . don'n . . . know wha . . ."

"You don't know what any of it is?" Wendy asked. "You know the words, you just can't say them, right?"

"Yaaah."

"Okay." Wendy hopped off the bed and walked over to the featureless polygon. It was about two meters high, with six "facets" on the side and no apparent locks or doors. "How does it open?"

Elgars slid off the bed and swayed over to the locker. Her speech may have left much to be desired, but her movements were efficient and graceful.

Wendy regarded her carefully and smiled. "Have you been working out?"

"Phy . . . skal ther'py," Elgars answered, placing her hand on the face of the polygon. "A' so' o'r stu'."

The front of the cylinder opened to either side with a blast of gun-oil scent, and Wendy's jaw practically hit the floor. It wasn't a couple of personal items, it was a damn arsenal.

The left door was hung with dress uniforms. The officer's dress blues on top, with rank marks for a captain, were practically coated in awards and medals. At one point, besides being expert in rifle, pistol and submachine gun, Elgars had passed, in succession, the Army Advanced Marksmanship Program and Marine Corps Sniper School, the last of which was practically unheard of. She was a veteran of infantry combat, as denoted by her Combat Infantry Badge, and had apparently earned two Purple Hearts and a Silver Star along the way. But the capstone was the simple device on the right breast, a gold "600."

"Oh, shit," Wendy whispered. Besides the uniforms—the right door was hung with camouflage and Fleet Strike grays for some reason—there were a half dozen weapons in the locker. Taking place of prominence was something Wendy had only seen pictures of: a Barrett M-82A1 .50 caliber sniper rifle. It clearly had seen use, but before being put away had been factory serviced and sealed in PreserFilm. There also were two different submachine guns, with loaded clips dangling on harnesses, a couple of pistols, one a silenced Glock and the other something odd and bulky with a laser sight and silencer, and a "bullpup" style assault rifle. Hanging in the back was a combat harness with full loadout for a team sniper.

"How the hell did you get this in here?" Wendy asked. "The Sub-Urbs are zero-tolerance zones!"

"Uah . . . Ahmmm 'ct've . . . Aaaaactive . . ."

"You're active duty?" Wendy said with a laugh. "Sorry, but . . ."

"Ahmmmm Ssssixssss . . ."

"Six Hundred," the former resident of Fredericksburg said with a sober nod. "And even the dead of the Six Hundred are still listed as active duty."

Elgars smiled and nodded. "Buuuu . . . wha'sssss," she gestured into the locker.

"And you don't know what this stuff is, do you?" Wendy asked.

"Nuuuu."

Wendy regarded her levelly and green eyes met her blue.

"Okay, let's find something out. Do you have something that shows you can have this?"

Elgars gestured at the uniforms, but Wendy just shook her head.

"No, for the shit-head panic children in Security we'll need more than that. Any documentation specifically stating you're authorized? You got a gun card?"

Elgars reached in and extracted an envelope. Inside, on driver's license-sized card, was a simple note: