by Colby R Rice
The door to the cold room opened, and Caleb ducked smoothly behind one of the stacks, tucking Quinn's files under his arm with Zeika's. Voices and shoes entered the room, both agitated in sound and step.
"Drop it, Councilman." The voice was strained, annoyed, and familiarly accented. It was Luke, and Caleb could hear the wavering growl in his voice. "I already denied you once. Don't make me do it again."
"This request isn't academic. I need more manpower."
At the sound of the second voice, Caleb clenched his teeth, and he had to stop himself from reaching for his gun. Morgan.
"More manpower. Are you mad? You have more muscle than you know what to do with. Muscle that you can't even control. What's happening out there is barbaric!"
"If barbarism is what worries you, then you'd help me to enforce the repeals, not stand in my way with your petty bureaucracies."
"You're a pencil pusher, Morgan. A tax man. Not a man of the law."
Caleb heard Luke walk further into the cold room. He was here for something work-related, most likely, and Sal had probably followed him down from the office. Either way, despite the fact that the two obviously weren't fans of each other, neither of them would be too happy to see him. So Caleb crouched motionless against the cold steel case, barely breathing and listening hard.
"I am whatever the Order needs me to be, Councilor," Morgan said. "Much like the rest of us. When I am called into duty, I respond."
"Much too forcefully. These 'vigils' you've been holding are unconstitutional--"
"Almost as unconstitutional as having a police officer suspected of murder still roaming the world as a free man. Or should I tell the press that this has slipped the notice of Guild 40's top internal investigator?"
"Let me worry about Caleb Rai."
Luke was in the aisle of the R stacks, right next to Caleb's row. He was leafing through the files, looking for something. Caleb felt a dull thud reverberate through him as Morgan leaned against stack Q. Caleb slowly moved for his weapon.
"I misunderstand your skepticism on the matter," Morgan said. "His guilt is clear. If a man can slaughter his own brother for the throne of his House, what makes you think that murdering a teenaged girl is somehow out of his range of fare?"
"His range of fare. Peh. As though the girl wasn't on your menu. It's no small secret that Caleb stole that bone off your plate, so don't speak to me about duty and justice."
Morgan scoffed. "So you aspire to be both uncooperative and offensive. As if I would ever--"
"Cut the shit, Morgan! This goes beyond Civilian exoticism, even for you! What in bloody hell do you want with this Demesne?!"
Caleb paused, his ears perking up at the sudden snarl. He'd never thought Luke capable of getting angry, but he'd clearly misjudged him.
"I want justice. And I will make anyone pay who stands in the way of it," Morgan said.
"Then do it without me. If you want more manpower that badly, then you'll have to stand before the council tonight and convince them to give you your toy soldiers. I'll have no part of this." Luke snatched a file from the R stacks and then walked back towards the door, Morgan on his heels. Caleb breathed.
"Perhaps another time, McKeller. I'm traveling tonight. Give the Ethics Council my regards."
"Yeah. Right, my regards--"
The door slammed closed behind them, shutting Luke's last words out. Caleb leaned back against the stacks, his body relaxing, his mind whirling with new thoughts.
Travel plans, huh?
Guildmaster Taitt could wait a little while longer. Too many questions had stacked up with too few answers. Did Morgan know Zeika was a Civic Alchemist? Or was he just a power-drunk Azure with an unworldly obsession? It was time to get the hay right from the horse's mouth. If Morgan had plans tonight, Caleb was definitely going to crash the party.
The soft kiss of tissue on tissue was the only sound in the room. Zeika had paced. And paced. And paced. She'd gone through the fridge. Sat on the floor. Leaned against the wall. Stared at the headlines on her life. Manja had remained quiet, mostly. She'd asked Zeika what she was thinking a few times, but after the fifth time of not getting an answer, she'd given up. Yet the girl had continued to watch her, nervous as a puppy.
That's when Zeika had found Franz' colorful bath tissue, in the corner by his rag bed. The tissues were dyed in carnival colors: pink, blue, green, orange, yellow. She'd sat down with them at Franz' work table and had begun to knead. It was a very acute, very precise process. The careful tearing of each square of tissue. The folding. The creasing. Her fingers and palms pressed hard into the tabletop as she then rolled forward and backward. She'd kneaded until each tissue became a perfect needle. Four inches long, half a centimeter thick, each end whet to a point. Then she'd tested it, forcing her power through the fabric, turning it to steel and back again.
Every needle helped her disentangle a thought. She hadn't realized her mind had been holding so many. Mama got rolled out 24 times. Baba, 16 times. Caleb, 18 times. No matter who or what got worked out beneath her fingers, though, each needle had one thought in common: kill Franz and take the hovel, or don't. Needle number one had said to do it. Needle number two had said otherwise.
She came to a final decision at needle 112, and she put her head into her hands.
"I thought you said you didn't dine naked with the devil."
Words she had spoken over a month ago at the Guild, after the Ninkashi attack. The voice that said them now sounded so mature that she thought someone had slipped into the room with them. When she whipped around, though, she saw Manja. The little girl was standing there, glaring at her.
Zeika couldn't hold her sister's gaze. "You heard that?"
"Yes."
"Why'd you pretend to be asleep?"
"Mama said pretending keeps you alive." Manja pinched a finger and looked away. "The Koko people are bad. They hurt you, and me, and Mama. They took our stuff. Why are you helping them?"
"Manja." Zeika walked over to her and knelt, grabbing her shoulders. "We need shelter, food. Your medicine is running out. I have to help them, or we will never see Mama again."
"The last time we trusted someone he burnt us."
"He didn't have a choice--"
"Everyone has a choice!" Manja whimpered. "And me too. I choose-- I'm not going with you! I want to find Mama and Baba! The right way!"
Zeika snatched her by her lapel, her grip tightening. "No. You are coming with me," she snarled. "We're staying together, whether you want to or not."
Manja's hand was the last thing she expected to feel on her cheek, but the little girl hit her, and while the blow was light, the pain was worse than any Zeika had ever felt. She let go of her and staggered back, the slap like fire on her skin.
"You're gonna do bad things," Manja said, sobbing. "This is haram. This is not what God's children do."
Zeika set her jaw. "We are not children of God."
The brick wall was rolling back and melting, this time right next to the table where Zeika had been working. She and Manja quickly broke company. The little one pretended to rummage through her teddybear pack, and Zeika whipped around to face the table of colorful needles. After a second, Franz slipped into the hovel sideways, toting his concealed shotgun and a bag of vegetables and roots. The brick door closed up behind him.
"Still here I see," he grumbled, eyeing her work as he brushed past. "Origami?"
"Something like that." Zeika stared at the needles, feeling shame. She couldn't bring herself to face him.
"Fantastic. You can sell them on the road." He gangled towards his mini-fridge. "Better get going soon before curfew comes 'round. You're gonna need to find shelter."
"Franz," she whispered, her shoulders sagging. Her fingers rested on the table, only inches from her neat pile of needles. "I'll do it."
She could hear him pause behind her. His bag crackled as he lowered it to the floor, the sound of it like a silent snicker.
She could feel his slow smile on her back. "Do what, exactly?" He asked.
She looked at Manja, pained. The little girl refused to look back at her, but Zeika could see the unmistakeable darkness that had eclipsed her face. The bruise on Zeika's cheekbone felt worse than ever. Tears filled her eyes as she forced her gaze away from her sister.
"The three tasks. The initiation," she murmured, her voice trembling. "I'll do it." As every word left her, it pulled her soul out with them. She could feel it, the unraveling in her chest.
"You're mumblin', queenie. Speak up now, loud and proud."
Zeika wiped her eyes and turned to face him. She lifted her chin, staring at him with a hard, cold gaze. "I said I will do it. I will complete the three tasks. I will join Koa. And I will kill Sal Morgan."
Time was running out. Zeika scurried down the streets, in and out of the alleys, near her old Lot. She moved and watched, letting the shadows take her when they could, making sure to stay clear of patrolling officers. Franz had given her an extra five hours and a mark on her right wrist, and that was the extent of his compassion. She needed to find another blessing. She needed to find one of "them". She kept her hood low and the scarf high around her face as she slipped into another nearby ally. Finally, she saw one, swaying drunkenly.
Jackpot.
A k-head... and he was buying his kunja from a dealer. A sure score.
She leaned into the shadows and watched. Both men stood in the middle of the alley, talking low. Then they exchanged a hug, and she saw it: the money and a light-blue card slip into the coat pocket. The tickets-- three of them-- sliding down the back of the buyer's collar. Then, after a few hearty words, they parted ways. The dealer was now fifty or sixty dollars richer, all in the span of thirty seconds.
After the eager k-head stumbled out of the alley, Zeika put her hands in her robe pockets and ambled over to the dealer, making sure to keep the doe-like curiosity in her face. He hadn't noticed her yet, but as she drew closer to him, she began to notice some things. Recognize some things, actually. The swaggering lean, the chewed-up cheeks, the glossy, nautical hairstyle--
"Oh no," she whispered.
It was Wavy Davy... and she'd already gotten his attention. He was staring at her from down the way, squinting.
Shit.
She lowered her head, hiding beneath her hood, and as quietly as she could, she turned around, praying he wouldn't recognize her--
"Well, I'll be a plucked and fucked roast duck at a potluck!" Davy said loudly, his voice bouncing around the alley. "Look who it is, back from the dead! All the world's up in arms about my favorite girl, and she comes to see me of all people!"
OhgoodGodamnit...
Shooting this asshole would be way too loud and messy, but she could slip away with the best of them. She finished her turn and began to walk off, quickly, before anyone else heard him.
"I wouldn't do that, girly," Davy called after her. "Not unless you want some other folk knowin' about your lil resurrection."
She froze, hands in pockets.
"Why don't you come on over here and talk to ole Davy for a minute?" He continued. "You know, old friends catchin' up, and all that."
It wasn't a request. Zeika hissed, and swallowing down her rage, she whipped back around and walked towards him, her head still lowered.
"That's my girl! Come and talk to ole Wavy. We have so many things to discuss!"
She slowed down, realizing he was exactly right. They did have things to discuss. Whistle blower or not, Davy was still a k-dealer, which meant he was connected to Koa somehow. He could still give her the blessing she needed. She just had to squeeze in the right places... and the Beretta in her robes was a juicer if she'd ever seen one.
At the thought, her gait changed and so did her face, both softening into something more feminine she hadn't tapped into since Johnny had disappeared. She removed her hood and lifted her chin, cocktail-party style. Her hard strut melted into a silky, rolling gait. Her coal-like stare and stone face dissolved into a coy smile and an innocent, flitting gaze. The vulnerability she'd always hidden as weakness, now her greatest strength. Davy noticed and smiled wide.
Yep. Keep thinking you're in control, asshole.
"That's more like it!" He rubbed his hands together and grinned at her as she approached. "Whatcha doin' around here, girly? Heard about that fire... real sad. You must need some place to go."
She smiled and shrugged. "It was all just a misunderstanding. Guess you were right about those Azure guys." And she looked off, as though ashamed of some abhorrent thing she'd done.
"Aw, honey."
He lifted her chin as though to soothe her. She still looked away, her eyes glistening with "tears". Oh brother.
"S'ok," he cooed, eating her act up. "I told you them Azure boys wouldn't treat you right, but we all gotta learn our own way. You tell me what you need, and like I said before, I'll take care of you without a peep. At a price, of course."
"Well..." she began, slowly, and looked down, playing with her fingers. "I don't need a place to stay, but... I was kinda hopin' you'd have something for, uh, altitude adjustment, you know?"
He blinked, mildly surprised but no less pleased. Then the pleasure deepened, transforming into the nasty leer she'd already known was coming. He bit his bottom lip, pulling his leather pants up by the crotch. "I got you. But what, pray tell, are you going to do for me?"
She paused, trying to decide which sweet nothing to drop. After a minute, she smiled tightly. Suggestively. "Anything you want."
"Hm. I like the sound of that. How about a down payment first? You know, you show me somethin', I show you somethin'..."
"Right here in the alley?" She blinked, her eyes wide.
"No time like the present, baby. Live a little, you know?" And she could see his hand already moving to his belt buckle. Ugh.
"Okay, well at least tell me what tickets you're selling first. You know I'm a business woman, first and foremost. Remember?" She winked at him.
He smiled, nodding. "Yeah, that's sensible! I've always liked that about you. Well, I've got locals and internationals. Internationals'll get you sailing smooth, sweetheart, like no other. I got Brazilians, Frenchies--"
"No. Local, please?"
"Any particular direction?"
"Yeah," Zeika moved in her robes and brought out the Beretta, the sweetness dying on her face. "South, asshole."
Davy looked down at the gun and then looked back at her, a mix of emotions flooding his face. Betrayal. Then anger. "I see you've stepped up your quick draw. Real cute," he growled. "And just when we were getting on so well--"
She rolled her eyes and jammed the muzzle into his navel. He raised his hands on reflex.
"Christ, girly! You want a free flight, all you have to do is ask! We can do this real civilized like!"
"Kunja pushers are the farthest thing from civil. I don't want your poison. I want information."
"Or else what? I ain't no rat, sweetie."
"You talk to me, or you talk to this." She nudged him again with the muzzle. "And it's a fucking chatterbox. Got me?"
"All right, all right already, yeesh!"
"Listen good. I'm a recruit. I need a blessing, and I need a lead."
"You'd better go find a priest, sweetheart, because this is the last place you'll find something like that. My church is closed."
"Yeah. Well." She pulled back the hammer, sliding the gun down to his crotch. "About that."
Davy sneered and looked off. "Do you know who I am? Really? You know who I work for?"
She considered him for a moment, remembering the note wedged in with the money he'd just made. "You're right. Let's find out. Empty your pockets."
The grin on his face dissipated. He fidgeted, glancing at the gun, his jacket, everything but her. "Pockets? Why? Whatchu need? Come on, I got nothin', kid. Well, nothing but usual stuff, and usual stuff ain't that interes-- "
"Empty
them." She urged the Beretta into him. "Now."
He'd gone pale, but with trembling fingers, he did as he was told, spilling out a k-head's treasure trove from his pockets. Kunja phials of all different colors, some crumpled rolling papers, a pipe, and a wallet fattened with what Zeika assumed was a lot of money. She took it. But something from the find was missing.
"All right, Jimmy Jackass. Back pockets too."
Davy whined like a beat dog but obeyed. And there it was, the bright 4x4-inch card that had caught her eyes from down the alley. The note... and there was an insignia on the back. Be damned. It wasn't Koan. Nor was it one of the fifteen sigils of the Civic Order. It was the Monas Hieroglyphica, emblazoned on pretty robin's-egg-blue stationary.
She smiled. "Unless this is a love letter, I'd say you're screwed. What do you think?"
"Th-that's not mine. I don't even know what it says or who it's going to!" Davy's words practically free-fell out his mouth. "The k-head must have dropped it on me or something!"
"Really! Well let's find out together, shall we?" She opened the letter and pinned it to his chest with her thumb. Her grip on the gun at his pants was steady, and so was her gaze as she kept one eye on him and the other on the words. She skimmed it and then grinned. Initiation was going to go faster than she thought.
"Baby, please. Come on, I ain't do nothin' to you!"
She ignored him, pocketed the letter, and then opened his wallet. It was stuffed with crisp bills, of both the green and the dark blue variety. Seemed like there was no loyalty amongst terrorists, after all.
"Oh boy. Big pimpin', huh, David?"
"Look, girly, I swear--"
"Do your suppliers know you're making these kinds of deals? Runnin' Azure errands on Koan company time?"
"Hey," he stuttered. "We ain't gotta make a big deal out of this, you know? This is business, all right? It's how I put bread on my kids' table."
"By betraying a ruthless terrorist organization-- your brothers-- and by being a messenger boy for the blues. That'd better be some bread. I wonder how my recruiter'd feel about it."
