When the Devil Dances

The first thing that Wendy noticed was the glow-paint. It was set to the flattest, whitest intensity. The room was almost painfully neat. Part of this was an intentional minimalism; there was very little of a personal nature at all. The walls were undecorated Galplas. The standard building material of the Galactic manufacturers of the Sub-Urb could be adjusted to reflect light in practically any tone or shade so naturally some bureacrat had decreed that there were only four that could be used: institutional green, institutional white, institutional blue and institutional salmon. These were institutional white and looked as if they’d just been extruded. Since this was an outer portion of Sector F that might, in fact, be the case. The combination of the light, the impersonal nature of the room and the lack of ornamentation gave the quarters a greasy, clinical feeling.

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 33^rd 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.