Ride the Moon: An Anthology (7 page)

She waved goodbye to the men and picked up her sleepy daughter. Before entering the building, she looked up into the night sky. Tonight the moon was a slender sliver. God's fingernail, her mother used to say.

Today it had brought her another two allies to help her reach her dream and shored her up when she'd begun to doubt.

I'll see you someday, Julia thought.

She never doubted again.

She didn't doubt even when Allan returned later that night with a black eye and torn shirt, telling her how the store had been overrun in the riot then set ablaze. They lost their livelihood that night and moved out of Allan's apartment back into Julia's small flat. As Allan looked for work, any work, Julia took in neighbourhood children and started explaining computers, rockets, trajectories and the difficulties and necessity of getting to the moon.

They called her the Moon Lady.

Work on the project continued.

By the time Amelia was fifteen, the first spells began to affect Julia. Just a minor shortness of breath, she told everyone but Allan insisted she see a doctor. After saying they couldn't afford it, Allan spoke to Tom, who contacted a friend of his brother-in-law who worked in a doctor's office. They slipped Julia in on a cancelled appointment and the doctor waived her fee.

Weakening of the aortal walls causing a loss of blood pressure and less oxygen getting into her system was the diagnosis.

Julia would never walk on the moon.

But she didn't doubt.

Her project would reach the moon, even if she couldn't, she told Amelia as the girl cried over the news.

“Hush now,” Julia said, kissing her daughter's tear-stained cheek. “You'll walk for me. Better get those science grades up.”

By the time Amelia graduated university, Julia walked with a cane and could only stand for a few minutes at a time, but she stood and gave her daughter a standing ovation as Amelia claimed the dean's award for excellence in science.

Julia Threswald died three weeks later. She did not reach the moon in her lifetime.

“Stop shoving. You, Billy, in the back. Settle down.” Mrs. Fisher gave the class her special glare. Even with the helmet, it worked. The children quieted down.

“Everyone have their helmets fastened? Good. We'll be stepping outside now. Make sure you hold onto the main line even with your waist line fastened to it. I don't want any wandering.”

“Mrs. Fisher!” Stacey held up her arm, stretching the white space suit.

“What is it now, Stacey?”

“Why is it outside? Why didn't they put it inside with everything else?”

“We'll talk about that outside. Everyone ready? Let's go.”

The inner airlock door sealed. Air hissed out, causing the children to chatter with excitement. Mrs. Fisher faced the outer door, stifling the smile on her face. No need for them to see her own excitement. Teachers were supposed to be calm and stable.

The outer door opened and she stepped out onto the moon's empty surface. Here at the far edge of the main station, the settlement maintained the area as close to a natural state as possible. In her helmet, she could hear the children talking all the way as she led them along the dark surface. Dust hung in the meagre atmosphere and small rocks bounded away as the children shuffled along.

After ten minutes, the squat rectangle came into view. Made of grey metallic material, it almost blended into the surface except for the words etched in white. As they drew closer, the children's chatter died off.

Mrs. Fisher reached the rectangle first. Using her gloved hand, she brushed the thin layer of dust from the clear surface of the window cut into the rectangle.

“Is it really her?” Billy spoke with a hushed voice.

“Yes, it is,” Mrs. Fisher said. She straightened and faced the group of twenty children standing in a semi-circle around her.

“These are the ashes of Julia Threswald, the woman whose dreams brought us to the moon. Without her determination, we would never have made it this far. She died before she reached the moon but now she rests here forever. And I am proud to be her granddaughter. Yes, what is it now, Stacey?”

Mrs. Fisher watched as the little girl straightened her shoulders. Even with the hormone shots, Stacey still lagged behind the others in her growth.

“Mrs. Fisher, I...I...”

“Yes, Stacey?”

“I want to go to the stars,” the girl blurted.

Around her, the children erupted in laughter. Mrs. Fisher watched Stacey's face redden inside her helmet, saw how her shoulders drooped.

“Stop it,” Mrs. Fisher said. Her voice carried over the laughter. It stopped except for a few snickers. Another of her glares finished those.

With a sliding step, she moved to stand in front of the girl. She bent down to the girl's eye level, still the shortest in the class.

“Stacey,” she said. “I know you'll go to the stars, or my name isn't Julia Threswald Fisher. And when you go, may I come along?”

The girl's slender shoulders straightened.

“Oh yes, Mrs. Fisher, I'd love for you to come along.”

Mrs. Fisher smiled even as she felt tears prickling in her eyes.

“Then let's go, shall we?”

“It's just that the moon was supposed to be white. The bottle is white, the perfume is white, and even this suit I'm wearing is white. Nobody told me the factories in Blightcross were going to turn the damned thing orange.”

Zerj Faulon adjusted his cravat and glared at the water just below the yacht, where the moon shimmered on the waves. A roar swept across the ocean—another flying boat crawling towards the sky, drawing a line of black smoke across the horizon.

Kheman shrugged, made a face, and once again showed that being the boss' chum was the only way to get away with rolling one's eyes at him. “It's more red than orange. Anyway, enough with the perfectionism, friend. These actresses and politicians are already half-cut anyway! They're not going to care about your subtleties.”

Perhaps. It should be enough to capitalize on the current astrology fad spreading among the élites. Couple that with the new interest in luxury goods filling the gap left by the death of magic and a catastrophic world war, and moving Faulon Syndic from a military-industrial giant into the shaky realm of cosmetics could very well work.

Kheman nudged him. “Relax. Security's in place.”

Fuel refinery smog be damned—time to unveil the most sought-after luxury item ever dreamt. “Ladies and gentlemen,” Zerj said. The murmur dwindled to clinking glasses and the hum of the yacht's engines. Even these people had to marvel at Zerj's brand new oil-powered ship—most of them had only been able to refit their old steam ships.

Remember those diction lessons ... don't remind them of where you came from
... “We read astrological reports to gain the upper hand on our emotions. And more importantly, to understand, and even influence, the emotions of others. What astral body is responsible for this?” A pause. “Yes, the moon. Now, with the aid of the most advanced magic and technical achievements in the cosmetics industry, I bring to you the most desirable fragrance ever created—one imbued with that very property of moonlight.”

He paused for effect, and the ladies gasped as planned. Most of the men crossed their arms, or rolled their eyes.

“While I can't tell you exactly how I've done it, I can tell you that the moon's power over emotions is in this perfume. It will, in effect, enable the wearer profound control over a love interest's emotions.” His heart skipped at the thought of his massive stockpile of the stuff. When the death of the last magic user spelled the death of magic for good, it would be completely unique.

You're just a gambler, not a businessman. Ruled by whims and fancies
...

He checked his crystal-accurate pocket watch, as much for the tide indicator as the time—in just seconds, the moonlight would hit a prism specially designed for this event. He grasped the perfume bottle.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I give you ...” Another look at the time. The faintest sparkle burst in the periphery of his vision. “... the only perfume infused with the spirit of the moon itself.”

A bolt of orange light struck the pedestal at Zerj's hands. He lifted the lid. “I call it, Aurojére, the word used by—”

Silence. Slack jaws, wide eyes. He froze at the sight. A ray of moonlight whipped across the room.

Zerj glanced at the pedestal. Then he dropped the lid, where it clattered and rolled across the floor, the only sound in the room, besides a slight ticking noise. A ticking noise emanating from the bundle of wires and tubes sitting where the bottle ought to have been.

“Oh shit.”

At that, the crowd erupted.

First instinct: grab and throw it. He stopped himself, hands hovering near the contraption. “Everyone remain calm.”

Kheman elbowed through the crowd.

“Don't touch it,” he said. “One of the mages says it's got a motion charm on it. Let's evacuate. We might lose this yacht, but—”

“Look at the clock. It would take too long to get everyone into lifeboats.” Zerj glanced out the starboard window. “That munitions shipment we filled for that dictator here is within blast distance.”

“Zerj, we're—”

Zerj ripped away the cravat's knot. “I need you to keep these people in order.” He paused. “Your people saw nothing?”

Kheman shrugged. “Nothing. So—”

“So the thief is still aboard. Got it.”

With that, he cantered out of the ballroom, Kheman at his heels.

“Where are you going?”

“There's no way the person who did this could swim back to shore. They have to still be here.”

“Are you crazy? They could be long gone.”

Zerj reached into his coat and found the pearl handle of his hand-cannon. He skipped three stairs in each bound towards the upper deck.

“I'm going after this person. Go make sure the outside walkways are all covered. If this ship must explode, I want that thief and all this perfume to go with it.”

“Zerj?”

“Do it!”

“Right away.”

Zerj bolted through the halls. Gripped the hand-cannon tighter. He skidded to a stop at the ship's bridge. He could get the captain to warn the harbour, at least. Just as he raised his fist to the glass, he recoiled at the sight of crewmen lying in puddles of blood.

Shit.

So now what?

Signal them himself? As if he could remember how.

“Mr. Faulon, Sir?”

A ghost-faced young man sprinted to him.

“It's the ship, it's been sabotaged. I tried ... I tried everything. It's heading towards the harbour.”

“The controls aren't working?”

“No!”

“Did you try the wireless?”

“I'm no wireless operator, Sir. I just—”

“It's worth a try. Go on, then, hurry.”

He could have figured out how to work the wireless. It wasn't physics or even knot-tying. But there was a boil in his gut that said
find that bastard and cut out his tongue. After he disarms the bomb, of course.

A metallic bang sounded from the deck above. Kheman's security people? A quick look into the water—not even a fishing boat in sight.

How did this thief mean to escape?

Zerj rounded the bow, hesitated.

He caught a flash of movement—a figure gripped the railing. A cloak whipped in the breeze. The ship pitched and tossed Zerj against the gunwale.

“Stop.” He lowered his hand-cannon.

The intruder faced him. One of the ship's lanterns swivelled, flashed across the intruder's face—a white mask, pure as bones bleached in the desert sun.

“Who sent you?”

The intruder remained silent.

Zerj swallowed hard. “Kheman? I found the thief!”

Silence. The intruder unsheathed a sword, whose blade burst into flame upon touching the air. Zerj fired. The intruder flew back, slammed against the railing. Zerj stowed the weapon and hurried to the body, nostrils burning from the hand-cannon smoke.

At least it had looked like a corpse—it jumped to its feet and threw Zerj to the deck. The two grappled, but Zerj's hands slipped. Frictionless armour?

“At least tell me which one of those bastards thought he was good enough to steal my god-damned perfume!”

But instead of slicing him, the intruder tossed him to the deck, hopped onto the railing, faced the ocean below.

Big mistake, friend
. Zerj flashed a sardonic grin. “Give back the perfume, and disarm the bomb, and maybe we can work something out.”

The intruder glanced back at him.

“Where are you going to go? There's no boat within leagues of this yacht, besides my own arms freighter over there. You can't swim to shore. Not with these currents!” He came closer. Soon he approached striking distance, but the intruder remained calm. “I'm a fair man, whatever your employer has told you.”

The intruder stood. Balanced on the railing with the steadiness of a sparrow. And with a deliberation that mocked Zerj, buttoned a satchel at his hip.

“Don't!”

The intruder leaped from the railing. Without hesitation, Zerj tossed his coat to the deck and jumped. He sailed towards the water, directly behind his target. The only hope lingering behind the heart-thudding and buzzing limbs was one thought: unless this person was insane, they had to have some kind of way out of the water.

He braced for the inevitable splash, but a single breath before the two hit, the water became a flash of blue, then ...

...hard ground. Heavy air—not like factory smoke, but weighed by humidity. Neither of these things Zerj had anticipated when he'd taken that dive from the yacht, yet here he was.

He leaned against a boulder. That damned headache, like he'd drank too much ... the blur, the way the light stabbed his eyes. Only now did he see that the boulder wasn't a rock, but part of a statue the size of his company building.