by John Ringo
"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 on
e 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. . . ."
CHAPTER 9
The tumult and the shouting dies;
The captains and the kings depart:
Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice,
An humble and a contrite heart.
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget—lest we forget!
—Rudyard Kipling
"Recessional" (1897)
Near Cayuga, NY, United States, Sol III
1723 EDT Sunday September 13, 2009 ad
Mike sat in the sunshine on Fort Hill looking down over the interleaving ridges and marshes running north and south from Lake Cayuga to Lake Ontario that comprised the Montezuma Defense Zone.
The terrain had been perfect for the human defenders; with all the roa
ds and bridges cut, the Posleen assaulting out of fallen Syracuse had been cold meat in the first days of the war. Whether slogging through the numerous marshes or rushing the slab-sided hills they had fallen by the hundreds of thousands. And human losses, while high, had been a bare fraction; it was believed that the Battle of Messner Hill had achieved over one thousand Posleen deaths for every human defender.
Therefore, the decision to retreat barely a month into the war had been a critical blow. It had been on the plains between Clyde and Rochester that the Ten Thousand was born and the ACS died. It was in the politically driven decision to defend every hamlet, to counterattack every hilltop, that six divisions of veteran soldiers had been turned into food for the alien invaders. In the process, over three thousand M-1 tanks and two thousand irreplaceable suits had been lost. It was on the Ontario Plain that the war was nearly lost.
But now it was all returned. The Posleen, once broken in the brick-dust ruins of Rochester U, had run. And the ACS and the Ten Thousand hammered them for it. The Ten Thousand needed no encouragement; from the lowest buck private to their commander, every single soldier believed in "keepin' up the skeer." And any time a Posleen force turned at bay they would call on the supporting artillery and ACS.
That last, however, had cost the ACS battalion dear. Every suit was precious and they had lost better than two dozen troopers or suits in the pursuit. Supposedly a few new ones were on the way. But when they arrived would be problematical.
Looking down over the sparkling marshes, though, Mike had to believe it was worth it. The Ontario Plain was the weakest point in the Eastern U.S. With it back in human hands not only was there defense in depth—unlike at the beginning of the war the plain was now being covered with line after line of trench works—but the strongest points were held by veteran soldiers that knew the Posleen, however fierce, were not invincible. Posleen could die and their crested heads made great decorations over a mantelpiece.