Changer's Moon

by Clayton, Jo;

  Yet more aggravation. The landlords raise the rents to pay for a sort of sentry box they’ve built into the side of the foyer, equipped with bulletproof glass, a speaker system and controls for the automatic bolts on the inner and outer foyer doors and the steel grill outside. An armed guard sits in the box day and night, no strangers are allowed in without prior notice. The landlords also save money by doing no repairs no matter how much the tenants complain. And as the chaos increases in Julia’s flesh, the disruption increases in society around her. There are food riots and job riots. In the suburbs, vigilante groups are beginning to patrol the streets armed with rifles and shotguns. There are a number of accidents, spooked patrols shoot some night-shifters going home, but are merely told to be more careful. Police are jumpy, shoot to kill at the slightest provocation, even imagined provocation. At first there is some outcry against this, but the protesters are drowned in a roar of outrage from those in power. The powerless everywhere begin to organize to protect themselves since no one else seems willing to. No one can stand alone in the world that is coming into being here.

  Except Julia. Stubbornly alone she plods through the increasingly resistant bureaucracy. More and more of the people she has worked with are being fired or laid off or are walking away from impossible conditions; funding is decreasing rapidly as the fist of power squeezes tighter about the powerless. It is becoming a question of whether she can break through the last of the barriers before the forces eating at the system devour it completely. She is growing more and more afraid, but bolsters herself by ignoring everything but the present moment. The economy is staggering. More and more are out of work, thrown out of homes, apartments, housing projects, more and more live in the streets until they are driven from the city. Tension builds by day, by night. Prices for food are shooting upward as supply systems begin to break down. Underground markets dealing in food and medicines begin to appear. Hijacking of produce and meat trucks becomes commonplace, organized by the people running the illegal markets, by bands of the homeless and unemployed desperate to feed their families. The UD overgovernment organizes convoys protected by the national guard. It is clumsy and inefficient but food fills the shelves again. Prices go up some more. The first minister of Domain Pacifica declares martial law. The constitution is suspended for the duration of the emergency. The homeless, the jobless, the rebellious are arrested and sent to labor camps. The city begins to quiet, the streets empty at night, night shifters are rarer and generally go home in groups. Knots of angry folk begin to form in the mountains, people driven from the city by the labor laws, local vigilantes or GLAM enforcers—bands of men generally in their twenties and fanatically loyal to GLAM principles. Because these men wear black semi-uniforms on their outings, they’re given the name blackshirts by those likely to be their victims.

  Julia gets her novel manuscript back without comment; the next day a letter comes requesting the return of the advance. She immediately withdraws the last of her money from her savings account, leaves just enough in her checking account to cover current bills, writes the publishers that she is taking their request under advisement, wishing she could tell them they could whistle for their money. She sighs over the royalties they’d withhold, but with the courts in their present mood, there isn’t much she can do but be glad for once that these are reduced to a trickle, since most of the books are vanishing from stores and libraries into the fires of the righteous. She cannot understand what is so offensive about her books. There’s a bit of sex, but nothing really raunchy—it wasn’t necessary—some misery, for after all she is writing mostly about the poor, about the odd characters she’d grown up with. She likes her people, even the most flawed and evil of them, writing of them with sympathy and understanding of the forces that shaped them. She grows depressed when she thinks about them vanishing in black smoke, can only hope that moderation and intelligence will make themselves felt before the country tears apart.

  She sleeps badly; things are closing in about her. She has enough money to keep her going another few months if prices don’t rise too drastically, or the city itself doesn’t shut down. By then she should be in a hospital somewhere. She has stopped watching the news or reading newspapers, notices events only when they impact directly on her life.…

  Until the day she comes home worn out, sick, beginning finally to admit she could fail, dispiritedly wondering if she could somehow pry the money out of Hrald.

  She pressed the bellbutton, stood with weary impatience while the guard looked her over. She was too tired to feel any more anger at the obstacle between her and the bath she wanted so much, even though the water would be cold and she’d have to heat pots of it on the stove, feeling absurdly like the pioneer women who helped settle this region more than five centuries before. When she was still writing, she rather enjoyed the process, working on her novel while the water heated, the tub was filled, pot by slow pot. How good it was going to feel, sliding into water almost too hot to bear, hot soapy water spreading over her body, a last pot set aside to wash her hair. The locks buzzed and she pushed inside.

  As she trudged up the stairs to the fourth floor, she ignored the irritating echoes, the ugly smears on the walls, the dead smell in the air. These were once the firestairs, meant for emergency use only. The metal steps were worn and dangerously slippery especially during the hot rains of summer when the walls oozed moisture and drips fell six floors, bouncing off the steps and spattering on the heads of those that had to use them. She plodded up and around, cursing the landlords who wouldn’t fix her heater though the law said they were responsible for it. And she couldn’t bring in an outside repairman without permission and she couldn’t get permission because they wouldn’t answer her calls or her letters, leaving her more than half convinced they wanted her out of there. If she wanted hot water, she could move.

  Halfway up she stopped, laughed, seeing as silly the gloom she was indulging, knowing she’d almost regret getting the heater fixed. Once she was inside her apartment, she’d relax into the pleasures of anticipation. The making of her bath was one of the many small rituals she found herself adopting lately, rituals that gave a kind of surety and continuity to her life as things around her degenerated into chaos. She straightened her shoulders, chuckled when a single warm drop of water bounced off her nose, then started up again. It wasn’t that late, not even two yet. Three of the people she had to see left word they’d be out of town until the end of the week. She glanced at her watch, nodded. She could start looking through her manuscripts and her notebooks, seeing if there was something that could be salvaged, something she could get to her foreign publishers that might bring her in a little money. She knew what those messages meant; one of them was from an old acquaintance who liked her well enough to be uncomfortable about giving her a bad answer; she suspected he’d seized the opportunity to send a nonverbal message he knew she’d understand. She stepped onto the fourth floor landing, shoved at the press-bar with her hip, nudged the door open and started down the hall.

  She dealt automatically with the three locks, pushed the door open, kicked her shoes off, dropped her purse on a small table and swung around.

  And stopped, her heart thudding.

  Five men stood at the far end of the room watching her.

  Young men. Not boys. Mid to late twenties. Short clipped hair. Clean shaven. Black shirts. Button-down collars. Neat black ties. Tailored black trousers. Black boots, trouser cuffs falling with clean precision exactly at the instep. Black leather gloves, supple as second skins. They looked like dress-up spy dolls, vaguely plastic, with less expression than any doll.

  “Who are you?” She was pleased her voice was steady though the question was stupid, she knew well enough what they were, who didn’t matter.

  “Julia Dukstra?”

  Anger began to outshine fear. “Get the hell out of here,” she said. “You have no right. This is my home.” She scowled, remembering the locks she’d had to open, silently cursed the landlords—who else coul
d get them past the guard and hand them whatever keys they wanted? She started for the phone. “I don’t care who you are, get out of here. I’m calling the police.” One of the plastic dolls stepped in front of the phone. She wheeled, started for the door. A second blackshirt got there before her. She swung back around to face the one who’d spoken. “What is this?”

  “Julia Dukstra?” he repeated. He had a high, light tenor that rose to a squeak at times. He didn’t wait for her to answer but went into what was obviously a set speech. “There are those who corrupt the morals of all who touch them; there are those who spread filth and corruption everywhere, who mean to destroy goodness and innocence in women and children, who advocate adultery and unnatural acts, who incite the poor to rebellion instead of blessing God for letting them be born into the United Domains where hard work and steady faith will reward them with all they need or want. There are those who are intent on destroying this nation which is the greatest on God’s green earth. These purveyors of filth must be warned and if they persist in their treachery they must be punished.…” He went on speaking with the spontaneity of a tape recorder. I bet he says that to all us purveyors of filth, she thought and wanted to giggle. They were so solemn, so ridiculous.… Good god, what a tin ear he’s got, him or whoever wrote that spiel.

  But as the man went on, the stench of violence grew thicker and heavier in the room, as if this pack of wolves smelled her growing terror and grew excited by the smell.

  “… must be disciplined, taught to fear the wrath of the Lord, the anger of the righteous man. Your filth will no longer be permitted to pollute the minds of the young and the weak in spirit. Temptation will be removed from them.” He stepped aside and pointed.

  One of her bedsheets was spread out in the corner of the room, the mint green one with the teastain at one end. On it was heaped most of her books, the ones she’d written, the others she bought for reference and pleasure, books she’d kept because they meant something to her. Beside the tumbled towers of the books, all her manuscripts, the old ones, her copies, the novel and story just returned, both copies, her notebooks. Fifteen years work. They were going to wipe it out. They were going to take all that away. Her books, her manuscripts, her bedsheet. Take them away and burn them. “No,” she said. “No.” She started for the pile.

  The blackshirt caught hold of her arm, jerked her around. Without stopping to think, she slapped him, hard.

  He slapped her back, swung her around and threw her at the blackshirt beside him.

  Who punched her in the stomach, slapped her, laughed in her face and threw her to the next man.

  Violence was a conflagration in the room. Around and around, slapping her, punching her, not too hard, not hard enough to spoil her, around the circle then around again. They began tearing her clothes off, calling her all the names men had dreamed up to get back at women who made them feel weak and uncertain, the vomit of fear and hate and rage. She tried to break away, got to the bathroom, couldn’t get the door shut in time, tried to get into the hall, but they pulled her away; she kicked at them, hit out, clawed at them, sobbing with the futility of it and the anger at herself for letting them see her cry, struggling on and on, righting them with every ounce of strength in her, even after they got her on the floor, twisting and writhing, biting and stuggling until one of them cursed and kicked her in the head.

  When she opened her eyes, they were gone—leaving the door open behind them, a last expression of their contempt. She stood up, moaned as her head throbbed; she touched the knot and wondered if she had a concussion. At least she wasn’t seeing double. She stared at the door for what seemed an eternity, the locks intact, their promise of security a lie now, must have always been a lie. She wanted to die. Filthy, soiled, never clean again, oh god. Then rage swept through her, she ground her teeth together, swayed back and forth, then stopped that as she felt the grind of bone against bone, a stabbing pain that shut off her breathing. Broken rib. At least one. Slowly, carefully, she got to her feet. The room swam in front of her. She crashed back onto her knees, moaned with pain, fought off the dizziness. She crawled to a chair and used it to pull herself back onto her feet, stood holding the chair’s back until the room was steady about her. Moving like a sick old woman, she scuffed to the door, pushed it shut and fumbled the chain into place, then stood with her back pressed against the door, looking vaguely about the room. I can’t stay here, she thought. Not alone. Not tonight.

  The books were gone, the manuscripts. “Choke on the smoke,” she said and pushed away from the door. She shuffled to the bathroom, stood looking at the tub. A hot bath. No chance of that now. She would not have strength enough to haul the pot from the stove. Clutching at a tap handle, bending with exaggerated care, she fumbled the plug in place. A cold bath was better than nothing, she had to scrub away the leavings of those wolves. She started the water running, stood there listening to the soothing splash and tried to think. She looked at her watch. Three. Out over an hour. She stripped the watch off and laid it on the sink, looked into the tub. There were several inches of water in it. She stepped over the side, clutched at the tap handles and lowered herself slowly into the water, the cold sending a shock up through her. She sat quietly for a while, watching a red mist move out into the water from between her legs. One thing about cold water, it wouldn’t make her bleed more than she already had. She pumped some soap from a soap bottle and began scrubbing at herself, her final admission to herself that she wasn’t going to the police. In the best of worlds it would be difficult talking about what had happened and this was far from the best of worlds. Besides, stories were common enough among the folk she’d been with recently about how the police always turned a blind eye to what the blackshirts did. I’ve been drifting in a dream too long, she thought, too involved in my own troubles. Suddenly dizzy, she pressed her head back over the rim of the large old tub. After a minute she realized she was crying, salt tears sliding off her cheeks into hair. Irritated, she pulled herself up again, splashed water onto her face, then used the towel rack to lever herself onto her feet.

  Dizzy again with the effort it took to get out of the tub, she began drying herself, dabbing very cautiously at her body with the clean bathtowel she’d hung there that morning. It would have been easier on her if she hadn’t fought so hard, but she wasn’t sorry she’d refused to give in. It seemed to her if she gave up in any way, if she stopped trying, she would die. Which was funny in its macabre way because she was dying, or would be dying if she didn’t somehow finance the operation. She looked at the towel. Still bleeding. Shit. She slipped the watch back onto her wrist, went into the kitchen, found a clean dishtowel, then into the bedroom where she found a pair of safety pins. She pinned the folded towel into her underpants. Holding onto the back of a chair, she stepped into the pants, grunting as the movements shifted the cracked rib and pulled at sore muscles. She had to stop several times because of the pain, but she wouldn’t give up. You can always find a way to do what you have to do, she told herself. You only get lax and lazy when there’s someone around to do for you.

  Moving with patient care, she got dressed, flat sandals, a skirt and blouse because a woman in pants was unnecessary provocation these days. She stood holding onto the chair back for a short while, gathering her strength, then went into the living room, her mouth set in a grim line, her eyes half closed. She reached for the phone, intending to call Jim, let him know she was coming and why, pulled her hand back, knowing with sudden dreadful certainty that she was marked now, typhoid Mary for all her friends and anyone who might help her. The phone might not be tapped or bugged or whatever they were calling it these days, but she was in no mood for taking chances. Money, she thought, I’ll need money. For a panic-filled moment she wondered if they’d found her stash, but they hadn’t been looking for money and they hadn’t torn the place apart. She went slowly into the bedroom, a wry smile for her shambling progress, tortoise, old, old tortoise, slow and steady wins the race. We’ll beat you yet, y
ou shitbags. That was a favorite word of the old woman she’d sat next to one whole afternoon a couple weeks ago. Good word for them, expressive. She stretched up, grunting with pain, unscrewed the end of the curtain rod, thrust her fingers inside. And went limp with relief as she touched the rolled up bills. She took enough to pay for a cab, tried not to think about how fast the stash was dwindling.