"Ba . . . ?" Elgars asked.
"Yeah," Wendy said quietly. "Worse than F'Burg really. The Posleen got into the Urb and after that there just wasn't anything to do. There's really only one way in and out. The defenders put up a good fight, or so we hear. There . . . weren't any survivors."
"Urgh . . ."
"Yeah," Wendy said. "That's why whenever the news mentions fighting around Rabun Gap we sort of tense up. If the Posleen come through there's not much we're going to be able to do."
Elgars just nodded and kept looking around. Like Wendy, most of the people were poorly dressed. The exception were one or two teenage females who were wearing flashy shorts and midriff tops. The clothing was clearly new, but the style was . . . different from the rest of the inhabitants.
Wendy noted her glances and frowned. "Corps whores," she whispered.
"Whuh?"
Wendy shrugged again. "Everybody finds their niche here. Some of them turn into drones, some of them decide to have some fun running the corridors and acting like they're bad. Others . . . find a party. The soldiers up top are restricted from coming down here; there were just . . . too many problems when they had unrestricted access." She frowned and it was apparent that there was a wealth of stories in that simple sentence. "So after a while the head of security and the corps commander reached an agreement and now the soldiers don't come down here. That doesn't mean we're restricted from leaving. So some of the girls, women too . . . ply a very old trade on the surface."
"I do' . . . n'er'stan'," Elgars tried to enunciate.
Wendy looked at her with an arched eyebrow. "You don't know what I'm talking about, do you?"
"Nu."
Wendy sighed and hitched the bag higher. "They trade sex for money, Captain. And goods. Like better clothes and food than you can get down here. And electronics gear: that's almost nonexistent these days."
Elgars looked around at the high plastic walls and the unending corridors. She thought about being stuck in here for years and shook her head. "So?"
Wendy looked at her again and shook her head. "Never mind. It would take too long to explain why people find that bad."
The captain nodded as they turned into a door marked "S&A Securities." There was a small alcove on the far side and another door which was locked.
Wendy pressed a buzzer and looked up at a security camera. "Lemme in, David, I bring a visitor."
"You're carrying, honey. I'm surprised you made it." The deep voice came from a speaker almost directly overhead as the door buzzed.
"I just walked around all the detectors," Wendy said as she entered the sparse room beyond. "And it was a good thing I was."
There were steel weapons lockers with mesh fronts along the left hand side of the room. The shape of rifles and submachine guns could be seen faintly though the mesh. Opposite the door was a low desk; as Wendy and Elgars entered the room a dark, burly man pushed a wheelchair out and came around to the front.
"You have problems?" the man asked.
"Nothing we couldn't handle," Wendy said with a shrug, still bleeding off adrenaline.
"Who's your visitor?" the man said, watching her with eyes that knew darned well that it hadn't been something minor.
"David Harmon, meet Captain Anne O. Elgars," Wendy said with a smile. "Captain Elgars took a little damage a while back and she's not quite up to form." Wendy frowned. "Actually, she's got amnesia, so she doesn't have a clue about weapons. But she used to. We need to see what she remembers."
"Remembers?" Harmon said with a frown. "My legs don't remember running. How are her hands going to remember shooting?"
"The doctor said she's remembering most of her motor skills; she can write and eat and all that stuff. And . . . well . . . I think the Blades would safely say that she recalls some basic fighting skills. I thought we could try at least."
"You ever been on a range?" Harmon asked Anne. "Blades?" he queried Wendy.
"Crazy Lucy and Big Boy," Wendy said, jerking her chin at Elgars. "She spent most of her time toying with them."
"I do-o . . ." Elgars said with a frown. "I do-o-o 'member . . . W'a'n't toy'ng."
"The captain's still recovering," Wendy said quietly. "She's . . ."
"Got a serious speech impediment," Harmon said. "Yeah, well ain't none of us whole in this fucking place," he continued with a snort and a gesture at his legs.
He unzipped the ballistic bag and started extracting hardware. "MP-5SPD. Nice. Silencer package. Did you used to do point, Captain?"
"Du-du-dunno," Elgars answered. "Do' 'member."
"She also had a Barrett in the locker," Wendy added.
"That doesn't make sense," Harmon said with a frown. He pulled out the next piece and frowned. "Desert Eagle .44. This is not the weapon of a sniper. At least, not one from a regular unit. Were you in special forces or something?"
"No," Elgars said and frowned. "At least, I d-d-don't thin'. P-p-papers s-s-say Th-th-Thirt'-Third. Then uh S-s-six hunnert." She frowned again and snarled, bearing even, white teeth. "S'all wrong."
Harmon looked over at Wendy with a lifted eyebrow. "You didn't mention that."
"She's on 'detached duty,' " Wendy said with a shrug. "Hospital detachment. I don't know if they're going to put her back through training or what. But it makes sense for her to re-learn the basics."
"Uh huh," the weapons instructor grunted. "Makes as much sense as anything else that has happened to me in the last six years."
He cleared the chamber on both weapons and rolled over to a locker. "Get her a set of earmuffs and I'll set up the range."
* * *
Harmon extended the Glock to the captain and watched her hands carefully. "The weapon is not loaded, but you never take a person's word for that. Keep it pointed downrange and keep your finger off the trigger."
Elgars took the pistol with a puzzled expression and rotated it from side to side. The indoor range had been set up with man-sized targets placed at various distances between five and thirty meters. She glanced in the chamber and cocked her head to one side like a bird then picked up one of the magazines. "S'fam-uh . . . famil'ar. Kin ah lock an' load?"
"Go ahead," said Harmon watching carefully.
Elgars swept the unloaded weapon back and forth keeping it pointed downrange. "Th'somethin' wrong," she said, turning to look at the instructor. Following her body the pistol swung to the left and down. Directly at the wheelchair-bound range-master.
"Up!" Harmon said sharply, blocking the swing of the pistol up and out. "Keep it pointed up and downrange! Go ahead and pick up the magazine and seat it, then lock and load. This time, though, keep it pointed downrange, okay?"
"S'rry," Elgars said with a frown. "S'all wron'. S'righ' an' wron' a' same time." She picked up the magazine with a puzzled expression, but there was no fumbling as it was seated and she jacked back the slide.
"Uh, 'The firing line is clear'?" Wendy said with a grin.
" 'Re'y on uh lef'?" Elgars muttered with a frown.
Harmon smiled. "Ready on the left? The left is ready. Ready on the right? The right is ready. Firing line is clear. Open fire."
Before the former police officer's chin could hit his chest all five targets had taken two shots in the upper chest and one in the middle of the face. The sound was thunder, a series of blasts like a low speed machine gun, then the magazine dropped to the ground and the weapon was reloaded. He had never seen her hand move to pick up the spare; the weapon seemed to reload itself by magic.
"Bloody hell," Harmon muttered while Wendy just stood there with her mouth open.
"Was that okay, sar'nt?" Elgars asked in a shy little voice.