The Valley-Westside War

“Of course it is,” the trader answered, deadpan.

He was lying. Even Dan could see it. But Chuck only laughed. He slapped Mendoza on the back. “You've played pretty fair with us. I'm not going to try and squeeze you for whatever you're holding out.”

“Gee, thanks.” Mendoza somehow managed to sound sincere and sarcastic at the same time.

“I'll even post a guard outside to keep you from getting it twice,” the sergeant went on. “ Dan, you take that slot. Anybody else tries to do a number here, send 'em to me.”

“All right, Sergeant,” Dan said. “But what if it's an officer?”

“Send officers to Lieutenant Hank,” Chuck said. “I'll let him know where it's at with this place.”

“Okay.” Dan nodded. He had his orders. He would follow them. And maybe-who could say?- Liz would come out while he was standing watch. That could be interesting, too.

The shooting was over. They'd got robbed by some of the politest thieves Liz had ever not enjoyed meeting. The Valley soldiers didn't even try to pretend they weren't looting. They took what they wanted and acted as if the Mendozas ought to be grateful they didn't do worse. The devil of it was, Liz knew how many different ways they could have done worse if they'd wanted to.

“They didn't hurt us,” Dad said for about the dozenth time. “Thing are just things. We're all right. That's the only thing that matters.”

Would he have said that if he truly depended on making his living from what the Valley soldiers stole? Liz wouldn't have bet a dollar on it, let alone a Benjamin. Playing the role of merchant lent him a certain detachment a real trader wouldn't have had.

Mom winked at Liz. “I think the kid outside on guard duty likes you.”

“Oh, boy. That's all I need,” Liz said. They trained you not to get involved with people from the alternates where you worked. Being people themselves, men and women from Crosstime Traffic sometimes ignored their training. From everything Liz had heard, those affairs almost always ended badly.

She wouldn't have wanted anything to do with even a Westsider. The best of them were dirty and ignorant, racist and sexist and homophobic-by home-timeline standards, anyhow. Those were the standards she had, and she stuck to them.

And the invaders were bound to be worse. The Westsiders saw them as country cousins, people who weren't very bright. Besides, they were invaders. Wouldn't a proper Westsider feel like a traitor for having anything to do with them?

Liz got her answer to that the first time she went to the market. She saw several Westside girls walking and talking with the occupiers. They hadn't wasted any time figuring out which side their bread was buttered on. Older Westside women sniffed at them, but not too loud. Liz was reminded of old black-and-white pictures of German soldiers with Parisian girls during World War II.

She wondered what would happen if Cal and the Westsiders farther south drove the Valley men out of Westwood Village again. How much trouble would these girls be in? Plenty, unless she missed her guess.

Sergeant Chuck had been right-that cash box wasn't the only money the Mendozas had. The Valley soldiers hadn't found the safe, for instance. Even if they had cleaned things out, Dad could get more with the transposition chamber under the house. No wonder he hadn't worried too much about getting robbed. But if somebody took your life, it was gone forever.

With some old coins and some new ones, Liz bought coffee- imported up from Mexico-and some green onions. The onions were local. She carried the purchases back to her house.

The soldier named Dan was doing sentry duty outside. He nodded as she came up. “Hello,” he said.

'“Hello,” she answered. When somebody with a bow and arrows talked to you, you couldn't very well pretend he wasn't there.

“How are you?” Dan asked.

“I'm all right.” Liz wanted to push past him and go on in, but didn't have the nerve. Bad things could happen if he decided she was rude. So she asked, “How are you?” too.

The kid soldier's face lit up. “I'm fine,” he said. “Is it always cool like this here?”

“A lot of the time,” Liz said. Westwood could be ten degrees Celsius cooler than the valley in the summertime. Nobody in America used Celsius in this alternate, though. Some thermometers from Old Time survived, but they were all in Fahrenheit degrees. Liz thought they were dumb. Why 180 degrees between boiling and freezing? Why was freezing thirty-two degrees and not zero? Because Fahrenheit was a weird man-that was the only answer that occurred to her.

“Is it colder in the winter, too?” Dan asked.

“I don't think so. It doesn't snow or anything,” Liz said.

“I saw it snow once,” Dan said. “I was just a little kid. It was like the snowflakes were dancing in the air. It was so pretty. But boy, it was cold!”

Liz couldn't remember the last time it had got cold enough to snow on the Westside. She wondered if her parents could. That wasn't obvious, either. If you lived up in the Valley, you faced weather extremes both ways.

Nodding as politely as she could, Liz went into the house. She felt Dan 's eyes on her as she closed the door. How much of a nuisance would he be? Or, on the other hand, how hot and bothered about nothing was she getting? If you shot every guy who looked at a girl and tried to talk to her, the world would get empty mighty fast. She understood that.

But Dan wasn't just a guy back at high school. He was a soldier in a conquering army. If he got angry at her, he could do things a guy at high school never dreamt of. After a moment, Liz shook her head. High-school guys probably did dream of things like that. But they could only dream. Dan didn't have to. He had King Zev 's army behind him, after all.

King Zev! Liz didn't know whether to laugh or cry. He ruled a kingdom that wouldn't even be a county supervisor's district back in the home timeline. (Not that the Westside was, or had been, any bigger.) He was the most petty of petty tyrants- except maybe for whatever was left of the Westside City Council. But his men were here, which was what counted now.

She brought the coffee and the onions into the kitchen. “Thanks,” her mother said when she set them down. “Any trouble?”

“Trouble? No, not really,” Liz answered.

Mom shot her a sharp look. “Something, though. What's up, Liz? Is that Dan outside the door again?”

“Uh-huh. He's not really trouble. Not trouble trouble, anyhow.”

“I sure hope not,” Mom said. “Do you want to stay inside the rest of the time we're here? If bad things happen while you're away from the house, your father and I can't do much about them till it's too late.”

Liz shook her head. “I don't want to do that. I'm here to learn how to take care of myself in the alternates, right? Hiding like a turtle in its shell is no way to go.”

“We try not to get stuck in the middle of wars. It doesn't always work, but we do try,” her mother said. “If the choice is between staying in and getting raped or murdered, you stay in.”

“ Dan 's not like that-or I don't think so, anyway,” Liz said. “He's just… interested, you know what I mean? And I'm so not interested in him. He's a local, and he's not even a cute local.” She made a face.

“Cute isn't always the only thing that matters,” her mother pointed out. “Is he smart? Is he nice?”

“He's nice enough, I guess,” Liz said. “Smart? I don't know. We haven't talked about anything much more complicated than the weather.” That was literally true. She glanced over at Mom. “Do you think I ought to act friendlier to him? Protective coloration, like some of the girls in the market

square?'

“Not il you really can't stand him. And I didn't mean throw yourself at him or anything. There are lots and lots of good reasons why Crosstime Traffic doesn't want us to get involved with the locals.”