Piers Anthony - Rings of Ice

That surprised and dismayed Gus. Apparently it hadn’t occurred to him that Zena could have engaged in such activity that early. It was satisfying to have kept the secret from him, and proof that Thatch did not engage in locker-room talk. But if it had not been for the gasoline-raid fiasco, Gus would have been right.

They did have a little party, breaking out the last bottle of cheap wine in their supply. They sang songs of the old world, the world of four months ago. The night was warm and bright, for Mindel now brought light around the globe, as though to make up for what it subtracted from the daytime. And Zena felt a little better.

Canopy Mindel/Riss loomed dark and low, so thick that daylight had become dusk and even the haloes had faded. Zena harvested the last of the chive and checked the ground in case she had missed any of the small turnips. Soon, now, Mindel would let go, and all vestige of the little garden would be washed out forever.

She heard a hammering back at the camp. Alarmed, she hurried back; Thatch and Gordon were out in the bus on a final foraging mission, not home yet.

It was Gus, using the sledgehammer to pound in a row of stakes. Zena stopped short and stared. Gus—working on his own?

“Come on,” he yelled, seeing her. “Help me get these in.”

“But why?” she asked, setting down her burden.

“I saw strangers scouting us. They know Mindel’s going to let go soon. They want the bus.”

“So you’re building a palisade?”

“For defense. I figure they’ll strike as the rain starts. I only hope it holds off until we get the bus in and the wall finished.”

“I haven’t seen any strangers.”

“That’s because you were working, not watching. They’re there, all right—and they have guns.”

Zena felt a chill. Gus had been right too many times before. He was lazy, but he didn’t make many mistakes. That was how he earned his keep. If he took this threat seriously enough to do physical labor himself, she had better help!

But it took a great many stakes to make even a short wall, and Gus had not had time to prepare enough. Zena used the saw to lop off hard pine branches, and a hatchet to make points on the stakes already standing. It was awkward, fatiguing work.

Floy appeared with cat. “Hey, there’s men around here,” she said. “Dust Devil spotted them. I don’t know what they’re up to, but I don’t like it.”

“Then haul wood!” Gus said. “All our firewood has to be inside this stockade before the bus gets here.”

They were still hard at work when the bus arrived. “Didn’t like the look of Mindel,” Gordon said as they pulled up. “We’d better buckle up for the deluge.”

Foundling bounded out the door, a healthy and aggressive dog. His hackles rose as he sniffed the air. “He knows something,” Gordon said, “and it’s not the dragon in the sky he smells! Has anyone been snooping around here?”

“Yes,” Floy said. “Dust Devil saw—”

“I think we’d better gird for an attack,” Gordon said. “Nobody’s bothered us before, but many people know we’re here and the bus is a nice residence—particularly when it gets wet out. And someone may envy our women, too.”

“Everybody carry a weapon,” Gus said. “And stay inside the palisade. Don’t give them a clear shot.”

They had three firearms. Karen carried the pistol, while Gus and Thatch had the rifles. Zena and Gordon wore knives. Nervously they went about their preparations, completing the palisade and covering their firewood and other stores.

Nothing happened. Mindel hung on to its massive mists, and no attack came. Night advanced, darker than before; but the monstrous serpent writhed in the sky, bearing its own illumination. The guard was set, watching the eerie quiet. Zena slept nervously, one hand on her abdomen where the new life was forming, the other on the hilt of the knife.

In the morning Thatch made a small fire so that they could roast morsels of wild cow, conserving fuel for the bus’s range. The odors drifted all over the neighborhood, but no strangers came forth. Still Dust Devil stalked about, hissing at nothing, and Foundling growled.

“I’m about ready to go and get them,” Gordon muttered.

“That’s what they want!” Gus said. “We’ll stay right here.” Then he looked at Gordon, considering. “Maybe you’d better change.”

Gordon smiled grimly. “Yes. In case they come in peace.”

He converted to Gloria, as fetchingly female as ever. There was no sign of knife or hatpin, but Zena knew they were handy. She remembered how shocking Gordon’s first revelation of transsexuality had seemed—and thought of the contrast now. Gordon/Gloria had been accepted by this group for what he/she was, and that was important. Had this person ever before had such acceptance?

Could a female psyche actually have a male body? Dimly she remembered some clinical comment on the subject in a technical journal. Apparently it was possible. More likely the basis was psychological, but in any event, Gordon believed it. He might in time have undertaken surgery for feminization, had the rains not come.

Now he would have to be a man. Floy needed him as such.

The day continued, and Mindel held off, taunting them with its potential devastation.

“We’d better sleep in the daytime,” Gus decided. “Karen and I’ll watch now, and the rest of you—” he paused, looking at his hand. “Wet,” he said, surprised.

“It’s started,” Floy cried. “Mindel’s first drop!” She clapped her hands as well as she could.

“One drop doth not a deluge make,” Zena muttered. She did not enjoy the prospect of being cooped up in the bus for more months, short of food, and her baby coming.

But other drops were falling, making a patter across the dry ground.

Foundling growled, louder. “Oh-oh,” Gus said. “Battle stations!”

Thatch took his rifle and crawled under the canvas covering the wood. Gloria donned a rain cape and stood in the bus door. The others stayed inside the vehicle, peering out the windows.

A man strode up to the palisade gate, solid and unshaven. “Starting to rain,” he called. “Can I take shelter here?”

Zena tried to see him more clearly, but couldn’t. There were several colonies of people in the neighborhood, but the voice was not familiar.

Gloria pushed open the door. “Sorry, mister,” she said sweetly. “I don’t feel quite safe letting strangers in.”

The man paused, evidently taking her measure through the line of stakes. Gloria’s measure, to the uninitiated, was impressive. “Well, can you give me directions how to reach the town? I’m lost.”

“Of course,” Gloria called. “Follow the tracks down to the coast, and turn left. There’s a settlement about two miles along.”

“I can’t hear you,” the man said.

Gloria stepped down delicately and moved through the increasing rain to the gate. “Follow the tracks, there behind you, down to the—”

“And could you give me a little water? Or a cup to catch this rain in?”

Gloria trekked back to the bus, took a cup, and brought it to the man. She had to open the gate to pass it through without spilling.

The man crashed against the gate, knocking her back. A pistol appeared in his hand. “Okay, men,” he shouted.

Gloria’s arm circled his throat, her knife glinting dose. “Drop the gun,” she said.

Instead the man whirled, thinking to throw the weak woman aside. The blade slashed across his throat, and he fell soundlessly.

Gloria jumped to bar the gate, but another man was already coming through. Gloria’s shoulder hit him low, and he did a flip into the compound. Zena wanted to run out and help in the defense, but knew that would be suicidal. They did not know how many men the attacking party had.