Changer’s Moon

1

“Liz.”

The dark woman leaned out the driver’s window of the old battered pickup. “Jule.”

“Anoike sent me, said you could give me a lift.”

Liz nodded. “Come round. I’ll get the door. Handle’s off outside.” She pulled her head back in and a moment later Julia heard the loud ka-thunk of the latch, the squeal and clank of the opening door.

With the help of Liz’s strong nervous hand, she was half-lifted, half-climbed up onto the seat. The cracked fausleather squeaked under her as she slid over, the stiff springs gave and bumped against her less than padded behind. She moved tentatively, seeking the least uncomfortable way of sitting; her knee bumped into something, knocked it into a slide toward Liz. Automatically she reached out and caught hold of it, realized that she held the hand-carved stock of Liz’s favorite rifle, close at hand, ready for use.

Liz saw her consternation, smiled, leaned back. “Our new employer says we’ll be jumping into hostile territory.”

“I slept through a lot.”

“Yup, sure did.”

Julia unwrapped the sandwiches, her stomach cramping with hunger. She forced herself to eat slowly, chew the bread and meat instead of gulping down large chunks. Cold greasy venison tough as bootleather, on stale bread. Metal-tainted water from the canteen. But it was the most wonderful meal she’d had in years, definitely the most satisfying. She ate with an intensity greater than that of the greediest of children and knew it and laughed at herself and only just managed to stop herself from licking the paper. She brushed the crumbs from her hands and thighs, crumpled the paper, looked around, frowning.

Liz grinned at her, her black eyes squinted into shallow curves. “Out the window, Jule.”

Julia looked at the wad of greasy paper. The thought of messing up a mountain with her leavings gave her a pain almost physical. She couldn’t do it.

“Toss it, stupid,” Liz snapped. “Garbage men coming by in the morning. Sanitizing these mountains down to stone.”

Julia flinched, screwed the paper into a tighter ball, then pitched it out. Liz was right, what did a few scraps of paper matter now? She looked out the window at the vague shapes of the trees, dark columns in the darkness, heard the lazy sibilance of the wind through the branches, listened for that moment to that sound alone, hearing nothing else, wanting to hear nothing else. After a moment she shivered. “Don’t they realize,” she whispered, “don’t they realize they might make a new Sahara here?”

Liz snorted, shocking Julia out of her trance. “Them?” She reached out, touched Julia’s arm with an uncharacteristically gentle hand. “It won’t all be gone,” she said. She parted Julia’s arm, drew back. “Prioc’s staying, him and sonic others. With some mortars and rockets.” She chuckled. “Making garbage out of the garbage men. Even you shouldn’t worry about that sort of litter, Jule.”

Julia passed a hand across her face. “Forty-plus years of conditioning, Liz.” She looked down at the rifle, shook her head.

“Gloom and doom. Give you a few good feeds and something to keep you busy, you’ll be humming along good as new.”

“Liz?” Julia raised a brow. “This isn’t like you.”

“What isn’t?”

“All this maternal… what? fussing.”

“Just a bit of boredom.” Liz fidgeted on the seat, tapped her fingers on the steering wheel. “I hate waiting.” She ran dark eyes over Julia, frowned. “You want to drive or ride shotgun?”

“Drive.”

Ombele’s voice boomed out over the clearing. “Get ready.”

“Jump coming,” Liz said. “Start the motor, be ready to roll when we’re through. Supposed to be daylight on the other side.”

A murmur and a sigh as if the mountain itself exhaled-those who were walking got to their feet and stood waiting. A yipping whoop-Angel sending a part of his band in two horns about the low end of the meadow. Rear guards. A ragged splutter, then a burring drone as the truck motors started up and settled to rough idling, waiting. A stuttering harsher roar from the motorcycles about the high end of the meadow. Foreguard. Jumping into hostile territory, Julia thought. Be ready. She put her hand on the knob of the shift lever and waited.

Liz sat with the rifle’s barrel resting on the shaking metal of the door, pointing out the open window at the sky, the butt on her thigh so she could swing it up and aim with a minimum of time and effort, yet avoid accidentally shooting someone if the jump proved rougher than she expected. She was wire-taut, glittering with the excitement that took hold of her, kept her alert and deadly during times of threat. Often enough before now Julia wondered what had happened to her to leave her like this, but she never asked. No one asked questions; whatever people wanted known about themselves they volunteered; there was no point in anything else. Liz chuckled suddenly. “The Kry,” she said. “That’s what Dom Hern called them.”

“What?”

“Desert tribes. The hostiles. Use firespears sometimes, he said. Dom Hern. Better hope we catch them squatting. Our load’s mostly fuel.”

“Yike.” Julia grimaced at the dirty, cracked windshield. “Anoike didn’t mention that little detail.”

“Want out?”

“If I was sane I would.” Julia sighed. “No.”

“Then wha’s the fuss?”.

“Right.” Julia laughed. “What’s the fuss? I was right the first time. I’m dead and this is dream.”

Liz’s chuckle mingled with hers, a macabre cheerfulness blending with, her tension. “And I’ve been crazy for years, Jule, so enjoy.”

Ombele’s basso roar sounded again. “Hang on. Jump starting.”

Like an oil smear birthing damp and gaudy rainbows out of rain and asphalt, a vast opalescent membrane appeared at the high end of the meadow and began sweeping toward them, eating everything it passed over. It touched the bumper, ate the engine. Julia sat stiffly, more terrified at that moment than she could remember ever having been even including when she had turned and seen the blackshirts waiting for her.

It passed through them, a cool breath, a leap from dark to light.

A brief chatter of automatic rifles, followed by quieter snaps from the hunting guns, the roar of motorcycles, the thud of hooves.

Lanky blue men, ragged and howling came running from house to house, burned-out shells of houses in this sea village backed up against crumbling chalk cliffs a dirty white in the cold brilliance of the winter sun. The Kry came swarming at them, spear-throwers filled and swept back. And they fell when the chattering began, as if some mighty scythe had swept across them. A single short spear came wobbling at them, but the distance was too great, the cast too much a desperation. She heard a whoop and saw Rudy Herrera, the youngest of Angel’s collection, ride at the spear, knock it out of the air with a barrel of his rifle, then kick his mount into caprioles while he shook his rifle and taunted the Kry.

Georgia yelled at him and he came back, his round dark face split into a gap-toothed grin. Gap-toothed because a Dommer had taken exception to his curses and struggles when he and his family were evicted from land they’d worked for three hundred years, the parliament having condemned and taken the land from them after paying the pitiful sum they called just compensation. There was supposed to be a dam built there so that water would drown that land, but somehow it was never built and somehow the land ended up in the hands of the local seigneur, all of it. Just one of those things that happen to people. Rudy with a tooth knocked out, parents in a workcamp somewhere. One of those things. Julia shifted into gear, ready to roll when the order came, wondering how that destructive rage in Angel and his band was going to be harnessed once the fighting was over. She thought a second. Maybe no problem at all. Will any of us be alive then?

“Southport,” Liz said.

“This place? You’re full of little nuggets today.”

“Whatever you’re full of, I wish you’d pull the plug.”

“Sorry. Hunger speaking, I suppose.”

“Sourbelly, uh-huh.” Liz smoothed her hand along the rifle’s stock, over and over as if she were petting a cat, while she gazed past Julia at what must once have been a prosperous, growing town. “Doesn’t look that different from Broncton or Madero, does it.”

“Form follows function,” Julia said, pursing her lips and lifting her chin; then she grinned. “No phone lines. No electricity here. No plumbing.”

“No flush toilets, no laid-on water, no hot baths without heating and hauling.” Liz ran a hand through her short hair.

“Well, we’ve had the better part of a year to get used to that.”

“Doesn’t mean I ever learned to like it.”

“Does mean we’ve got to get this bitty war over and let Trig get working with Norman on pipes and heaters, Ellie dreaming up some kind of generator; I suppose she brought along the parts of the one she and Thom built for us. And there’s the press, they must have brought that along.” She smiled blindly at the windshield, seeing nothing but a dream she hadn’t known was in her, feeling a lift in her blood at the thought. “Me, I’d like to be my own printer and to perdition with all censors.”

Liz said nothing, just continued to stroke the wood of the stock. After a moment’s silence, she leaned forward, peered through the bug-splattered glass. “Here come our allies.”

The jump had landed them on a flat, pebbly space before a three-story wall that sat like a dam across a narrow break in the cliffs. Near the center of the wall there was a wide gate, its twin leaves made of heavy polished timbers that looked as tough and impenetrable as the stone of the wall. The two sides of the gate swung open and half a dozen riders came out, crossed the narrow open space, stopped in front of Dom Hern and the healer. All of them were women. They wore short-sleeved leather tunics and loose, knee-length trousers of leather; they carried bows and all had swords clipped onto heavy pocketed belts. Their mounts were vaguely lacertine, with smooth nubbly skin, spongy growths along thin necks, large, lustrous intelligent eyes, powerful legs and clawed feet. Julia watched the horses that Hern and his companion rode and was startled to see both beasts placidly accepting the strange creatures coming up on them. She glanced at Liz and saw she’d noticed the same thing.

“The healer,” Liz said. “She’s got a thing with animals.”

“Magic.” Julia sighed. “Helps.”

“Yup. Curls my hair just thinking about it.”

“I suppose we could treat it as just another kind of technology. What I know about motors you could write on a stamp, but I never had trouble driving a car.”

“Right,” Liz said absently, her gaze still fixed on the women. “And sorcerers die like anyone else if you put bullets through their brains.”