Free Rites of Passage by Eric Brown

years.
    “What’s that?” Kat said.
    Something was moving on the flank of the vehicle. As we watched, a big hatch hinged open and people climbed out. I counted five individuals, tiny at this distance. They paused in the shadow of the craft, staring across at us.
    Minutes passed. They made no move to approach.
    Edvard said, “Looks like they’re armed.” He paused. “What do we do?”
    Danny licked his lips. “They made the first move. Maybe we should match it.”
    “I’ll go out,” I said.
    “Not alone.” This was Kat, a hand on my arm.
    Danny nodded. “I’ll come with you.” To Edvard and Kat he said, “Keep us covered. If they do anything... fire first and ask questions later, okay?”
    Kat nodded and slipped the barrel of her rifle through the custom-made slits in the frame of the windscreen. Edvard crouched next to her.
    Danny and I left the cab and hurried through the lounge, grabbing sun hats on the way. Danny cracked the door and we stepped out into the blistering heat. I stopped dead in my tracks, drawing in a deep breath of superheated air, thankful for the shade afforded by my hat. This was the first time in months that I’d ventured from the truck in the full heat of day and I felt suddenly dizzy.
    I expected the ground to be like the desert, deep sand making each step an effort. Instead it was hard, baked dry. We paused by the truck, staring across at the five figures standing abreast.
    “Okay,” Danny said.
    We left the truck at a stroll, our rifles slung barrels down in the crooks of our arms. Ahead, there was movement in the group. One of the figures ducked back into the hatch and emerged with something. At first I assumed it was some kind of weapon; evidently so did Danny. He reached out a hand, staying my progress.
    As we watched, four of the figures erected a frame over the fifth. It was some kind of sun-shade. Only when it was fully erected, and the central figure suitably shaded, did the entourage move forward.
    “Christ,” I said. We were a hundred metres from the group now, and I saw that the central figure was a woman.
    She was tall, statuesque, like one of the models in the old magazines. She was bare legged and bare armed, wearing only shorts and a tight shirt which emphasised the swelling of her chest. As we drew within ten metres of the group, I saw that her face was long, severe, her mouth hard and her nose hooked. But I wasn’t looking at her face.
    Something turned over in my gut, the same heavy lust I experienced when looking at pictures of long-dead women.
    Danny said, “Do you speak English, French?”
    “I speak English,” the woman said in an accent I couldn’t place. She looked middle-eastern to my inexperienced eye.
    Her henchmen were a feeble mob. They looked starved, emaciated, and a couple were scabbed with ugly melanomas which covered their faces like masks.
    “We’re from the north,” Danny said.
    “Old Egypt.” The woman inclined her head. “My name is Samara.”
    “I’m Danny. This is Pierre.”
    I glanced at the hovercraft. I saw the barrel of a rifle directed at us from an open vent. I nudged Danny, who nodded minimally and said under his breath, “I’ve seen it.”
    The woman said, “Do you trade?”
    “That depends what you want.”
    Samara inclined her head again. “Do you have water?”
    Beside me, Danny seemed to relax. We were in a position of power in this stand-off. He said, “What do you have to trade?”
    The woman licked her lips. I found the gesture sensuous. I gazed at her shape, the curve of her torso from breast to hip.
    She said, “Solar arrays.”
    I sensed Danny’s interest. “In good working order?”
    “Of course. You can check them before the trade.”
    “How many are you talking about?”
    She pointed to a panel which overhung the flank of her craft. “Four, like that.”
    Danny calculated. “I can give you... four litres of water in return.”
    “Ten,” she said.
    “Six,” Danny said with admirable force,