by Colby R Rice
Anthony and Zeika exchanged smirks. Crude as it was, Zeika was grateful for his sympathies. She still remembered last spring, when Azure and Civic government officials had brought their trucks to Baba's gun shop. They had waved cancelled contracts and eviction notices in their faces, and cleaned them out. They'd frozen and seized their assets too, leaving them penniless with the garbage excuse that money gained from "trading with insurgents" was ill-gotten, and subject to civil forfeiture. They'd also forced them to hand over their customer lists, and then they cleaned them out too.
It had all happened under the Alchemic Order's scorched earth policy: Act 948, the siege of arms. To keep weapons from falling into the hands of Koa, no Civilian could make or bear arms without a special license signed by both Orders. Not a single license had been signed since the siege.
Sal Morgan had given the command in the Fifth, but Councilman Micah Burke had done the dirty work. He had served her and Baba the warrant himself, complete with a steaming side dish of apologies, on the house. "I'm so sorry." Hollow words coming from a long time friend. And yet he had still just hung there like a limp cock as he watched the APs gut their shop and their livelihood. After that, she and Baba had both gone underground. Baba to the mines, and she— well— back to what she knew best.
Zeika touched the Azure Glock. It was pretty, at least. If Anthony ignored the frayed magazine and blocky grip, he might be able to forget that it was a junker: a high-priced, low-efficiency scat gat that was bound to jam and have loads of other problems.
"They do try their best, though, don't they?" She said, laughing. "I did what I could with it."
"That you did, girl, but no matter how long you toss chicken shit, it'll never turn into a chicken salad, now will it? Nothing fires like an Anon cannon. Every marksman alive knows it, Azure and Civilian alike." Anthony winked at her. "Real craftsmen you and your Daddy were."
She shrugged. "It was mostly Baba—"
"If you expect me to believe that, you take me for a bigger fool than I have patience for. Hush up."
A bashful smile was breaking onto Zeika's face when Gladys came out the kitchen, carrying three plates, one in each hand and one on her head. "Dinner! All weapons of death off the table, please!"
"Oh Mrs. Gladys, this looks so yummy!" Manja announced, taking a plate from the woman. "Thank you!" She dug in.
"Smells delicious." Zeika smiled warmly as she also took a plate from the woman. It was piled high with shredded pork shoulder, sweet plantains, rice and beans, and even a bit of lettuce. Food like this didn't come cheap or easy. She'd know... it came from her Forge.
"Do you have your plastics?" Gladys whisked back into the kitchen, where the glasses began to clink again.
As if on cue, Manja hopped up from her meal and went over to rummage through Zeika's backpack to get out their plastic storage dish. Gladys took it into the kitchen. Zeika began to eat, trying her best to savor the succulent shreds of meat even as she forced herself to eat quickly. Much as she wanted to, she couldn't get too comfortable. There were many more deliveries to make and even more things to do when she and the little one returned home. So she balanced her books as she ate, creating an exchange ticket for Anthony's new order.
He wanted more vegetables and also some 75-watt light bulbs, some screws, and some green nail polish for Gladys. Below his order, he listed things he was willing to trade. Socks, some old silverware, a pair of spectacles, a couple of old baseball caps, three pills of Viagra…
Zeika shook her head. It was amazing how much you got to know a person by collecting their old junk. Now she knew why Gladys was so damned energetic all the time.
She went down Anthony's list, checking off things she'd take from him. She definitely needed more socks. Viagra was in high demand, and silverware was always a good trade staple. She marked the items and also added a requirement of ten dollars petty cash. Tools and hardware would cost more than some sex pills and old nylons. She handed Anthony the exchange ticket.
"Fair?"
Anthony looked over the list and nodded. "Very. A little too good to be true. Are you sure you don't want more money?"
She finished off the last of her meal. "I'm sure."
He looked like he wanted to argue with her, but she shot him a silencing look. The Cartegenas barely had enough cash to cover themselves for the week, much less enough to pay her more money. Their situation was thin.
Zeika snatched the exchange slip back from him and stuffed it in her pocket, ending the conversation.
"At least let me give you this tidbit of information that might be good for your business—"
She was already shaking her head. "Sorry. I don't deal to Koa."
He smiled, admitting defeat. "Current events, then?"
"I'm listening."
"I've heard rumors that there was a raid last night, at Lot 12 at the borders of Demesne Six."
Zeika froze. "Raid?"
"We don't know who moved first, but shots went off," Anthony continued. "Very few of the Civilians survived. Those who did fled the compound."
Zeika set her jaw as the information tore into her calm. First the explosion. And now a raid. In a Protected Demesne. She looked at Manja, and with two fingers, she motioned at her. Just like that, Manja understood, and taking her food and stuffed bear, she ran into the back. When the girl was out of ear shot, Zeika turned back to Anthony.
"Who ran the raid?" She asked. "Azures? Koa?"
"No. Civilians."
"How do you know that?"
"It had to have been. Azures know better than to attack a lot in a Protected Demesne; that's political suicide. And Koa... they're a lot of things, but they're still for the people. It was an in-house job. Civilians. I'm pretty sure of it."
"You're 'pretty' sure of it?"
For a moment, she and Anthony locked gazes defiantly. He didn't know who had orchestrated the raid; she could tell from his face. He probably wasn't even sure the raid had actually happened. But he seemed intent on believing what he wanted. Geezers were like that.
Not in the mood for a debate, Zeika changed the subject. "And the bobbleheads?"
"Come on, what do you think? Politicians over there are keeping the situation as quiet as possible."
"CPs?"
Anthony raised his brow, and she knew the answer before he even opened his mouth. The 'CPs' or Civic Police— their policemen— were few and far between nowadays now that the Azures had begun to occupy the Protecteds. But to her memory, there were still a few of them scattered throughout some of the precincts.
"Give it up, Z," Anthony said firmly. "Their phones ring, but no one's picking up, if you get what I mean. I think maybe a couple of them have been through the lot, but there just aren't enough of them to clean things up. The only people who have been through there are a couple families of the victims, trying to retrieve the bodies. And those are few and far between."
Zeika pursed her lips. She wanted to ask more about the survivors, but it seemed that Anthony had more to say.
"It's a gruesome idea to mention to you, but I know you need supplies for your work. Now that Lot 12 is abandoned, you may want to see if anyone left anything behind. Silverware, metal, guns. If the APs haven't cleaned it out already, of course. Once word of the raid gets out to the Protecteds, orders will be high. People will want to stockpile. You'll be a busy girl." He motioned with his chin to the goods on the table.
She nodded. Two breaches of a Protected Demesne in just 48 hours. That no one was raising a stink about this was disturbing. Maybe people were too afraid to believe that their peace had finally been disturbed. Even Anthony seemed to want to believe that the raid was led by a bunch of Civilian punks, and not by Koa. After all, acknowledging the raid meant acknowledging that the war had finally come to their homes. The three Protecteds were poor but still safe as far as safe went in times of war, only because Koa and the Azure military had promised not to ever set foot here. But maybe times were desperate. Maybe Koa was desperate. Maybe
the attacks in the Sixth were just the beginning—
BABA!
She leapt up as her mind screeched to a halt. Baba was a free agent worker of the Protecteds, and his most recent contract had put him in Demesne Six. What if he had been caught in the raid?
Anthony furrowed his brow. "What's wrong, girl? You look like the Devil before a cross!"
Gladys whisked back in, setting down glasses of water, but Zeika was already buttoning up her traveling robes, trying to keep the shaking out of her hands.
"I'm really sorry to be in such a rush, Mr. and Mrs. Cartegena. I just remembered something I have to do." She forced a weak smile, trying to flatten the tremors in her voice. "I think the little one and I will continue our route. But as always, thank you so much for your hospitality."
"Oh of course, darling. Thank you so much for stopping by!"
Zeika and Anthony exchanged one last grave look before she called to her sister. Manja ran out from the back, gripping her teddy bear in a chokehold. Zeika packed up the Cartegena's exchange package, two containers of Gladys' food, and finally, Manja. The little girl bade the couple a cheerful goodbye, and then they both ventured back out into the rain.
Xakiah felt nothing as the oven thermometer tinged gently, alerting him that it was now preheated to 500 degrees Fahrenheit. He grabbed the handle and jerked the oven door open. As the dry heat wafted over his skin, the man cowering at his heels whimpered.
"Oh God, please, please don't do this. I'm not a bad person. I'm really not. Please!"
Xakiah looked down at the man he'd bound at the wrists and ankles. He pulled the five-fingered oven mitt over his hand.
"Goddamnit man, I didn't know how old she was!" The man's desperation went high. "I didn't know any of the circumstances! I didn't know anything! They just told me to pick up someone, anyone—please you've got to believe me! I don't deserve to die like this!"
Xakiah looked at him and couldn't help the sudden smile of amusement on his face. The junkie was practically working himself into a froth. He hadn't had a hit of kunja in days, that much was clear. K-heads were always easy to find. Their faces always looked like they had just tongue-fucked a bowl of flour. But they were even easier to squeeze… especially when they hadn't had a fix in a long time.
"My dealer asked me to bring her, okay? He said he'd trade her for a ticket— five tickets!"
Xakiah raised his brows. This is what he had been waiting for.
"A Koan dealer?"
"No. A Jericho. Local. They deal out flights around here, okay? No Koa, no how."
Xakiah's interest flickered. He hadn't picked up info on a Jericho in a while, but they were some slippery bastards. Traitorous militia nut jobs that hired themselves out to Koa and anyone else on a freelance basis. They trained as doctors, scientists, surgeons— combining their craft with all sorts of alchemical science. Jerichos were usually rogue Civic Alchemists, who slinked around as the last vestiges of their fallen nation… or they were rogue Azure Alchemists who had escaped imprisonment, who needed a way to survive.
"Where is the Jericho?" Xakiah asked. "And don't hold out for the authorities, Haddick. If they get here before I'm done, I'll just kill them too. They are only APs, after all."
"I don't know! Really, I don't!"
"Right," Xakiah said coldly.
Without another word, he picked Haddick up and threw him face first onto the scalding oven door. The screams split the air as his skin cooked on the iron surface. Ignoring the k-head's shrieks, Xakiah stepped on his head and pressed his cheek down onto the burning metal. Haddick howled even louder.
"I'm only going to ask you one more time," he said calmly, "Where is the Jericho?"
"Man, please! I'll do anything―" Haddick's words eked out between squeals. "Oh, Jesus, please! It burns!"
"Oh yeah? Then let's pull you up."
Rubbery ribbons of skin and flesh had welded onto the oven door, and now peeled away from Haddick's face as Xakiah yanked his head by the hair, his cheek sticking to the iron like melted plastic.
"AARRHH!!" Haddick screamed.
"Feel like singing?" Xakiah's cool voice cut into the shrieks.
Haddick's courage suddenly faltered beneath scorching agony. "He's under St. Ahlan Street! In the old sewer lines!" He bawled. "That's where he'll be tonight! Fuck!"
Satisfied, Xakiah released his head, letting him fall back against the stove door. "Much appreciated," he muttered, and he reached into his back pocket to pull out the folds of dark blue cloth.
The junkie turned, one raw and ragged cheek gleaming up through trickles of blood.
"W-what are you doing?"
Xakiah smiled and unfurled the flag.
"Please… I already told you, I was just following orders!"
Xakiah grabbed the cowering man, wrapping the blue material around his head.
"No! Plea—mm!"
The k-head's cries muted under the fabric. Xakiah pulled tightly, mummifying the man's face until on the last wrap, the silver of the Monas Hieroglyphica lay flat against his forehead. He gripped the extra folds of the flag in a tight fist, suspending the man's head. Then, he lifted his gun and aimed.
"Wait! No! NOO!"
Haddick's body went lifeless, and brains and blood splattered over the hot iron. Xakiah released the fabric, letting the junkie's body drop. It fell forward onto its shattered face, bowing on the insignia of the Alchemic Order.
A slight sizzle and a strange tangy aroma rose into the air as flesh began to fry… then burn. Haddick should have considered himself fortunate. The one before him had gotten it worse. The Jericho wouldn't be so lucky.
Xakiah whisked out of Haddick's apartment, heading towards St. Ahlan. He was eager to make the Jericho's acquaintance.
Finally home, Zeika and Manja walked into the fragrance of pressed olives, garlic, and freshly baked pita. The tit-tat of a kettle against iron straight-keyed the warm darkness of their hut, coming from the bean-and-egg soup that simmered on the stove. Greens and yams roasted in the oven, and a cornbread pudding rose in a cast-iron skillet. Mama was home, and strangely enough, she had cooked. There was more food than usual, though. Zeika decided it was better not to wonder where it came from.
"You've been gone for almost three days… were you really that angry with me?" A voice said from the chair in the corner.
Zeika turned to see her mother sitting, sewing a patch onto a pair of Manja's jeans. She turned to Manja. "Go wash up, okay?"
The little girl nodded and ran into the back, eager to eat, and as soon as she disappeared, Zeika turned back to her mother. As she took Mama in, her eyes softened, and her worry about Baba somehow diminished. Mama's fingers were calloused, probably from her day in the sewing factory, and her arms and face were gaunt. If she had any doubts about Mama being hooked on kunja again, her misgivings were blasted away by the bloodshot eyes that peered out at her.
"Your father's fine," Mama continued. "He wasn't caught in the raid, but they're sending workers back home until that gets resolved. I know you came back here for him. Not for me."
She stood up, wobbling on her feet, and Zeika felt something inside her break. Her eyes filled with tears, and she crossed the room, locking her arms around her mother.
"I'm sorry for those things I said to you before," she whispered. "I was angry, but you didn't deserve that. I will always come back for you."
She felt her mother's hand on her head, warm, as warm as the tears that plopped onto Zeika's cheek as her mother cried. When they finally stepped back from one another, Mama kissed her on the forehead.
"Mama, can we talk about this?" Zeika lifted a small glass tube, no bigger than an inch long, up for her to see. A fine white powder filled it, creating a small blizzard as her movements unsettled the grains.
Her eyes wide, Mama reflexively jammed her hand in her pocket where the phial had been just seconds before. Zeika had picked it when she hugged her.
"Mama, I know it's hard. This life is hard. But we need you.
Do you understand? You can't check out on us. Now please, tell me where the rest of them are."
Keys rattled their way into the lock of the front door, and Mama's eyes bounced between it and Zeika. Zeika slipped the phial into her pocket. Baba needed to know, but not like this.
"I'll tell him myself," Mama said. "Okay?"
Zeika nodded tightly, just as the door opened. The rare smell of seashore wafted into the house, and she turned, smiling with relief as her father walked in. Baba was a salt miner. Today he was anyway. On any other day, he might have been a construction worker in Demesne Seven or a lumber jack in the upper Sixth, where the trees still grew tall and thick. Didn't matter; nowadays, he was whatever the Civic Order needed him to be to get paid.
Baba filled the doorway with his broad shoulders, which stuck out wide like two boulders, framing the smooth, bald head in between. He was a serious man generally, with lake-still eyes, a square jaw, and a graying goatee. But as he stepped into the door of his home and saw his family huddling, the hard lines of his work day dissolved into a wide smile, lighting up the room.
"DADDY!" With wet hands, Manja ran out of the back, and he scooped her up, hoisting her onto his shoulder.
"Kayf al-haal, habiibaati?"—How are my darlings?— He cooed, smiling warmly as he kissed both Manja and Zeika on their cheeks. " Hi, honey." He kissed Mama on the lips as she took his coat and a raggedy lunch box out of his grasp and disappeared with them into the back.
"Baba, guess what I did at school today? I read three books and played house and I—"
"Hey! What's this?" Baba scolded. "Bil Arabiyya."—"In Arabic".
Zeika chuckled. Manja had forgotten the golden rule. As a refugee from Demesne 21 in the far East, Baba still held onto the Semitic tongue of his country— or countries, as they once were. From countless stories, Zeika had understood Demesne 21 to include countries of legend: Egypt, Northern Sudan, Yemen, Oman, and bits of Saudi Arabia. The rich nightshade of his skin and his emphasis on Arabic had marked Baba's origins as Northern Sudanese, though the Great Collapse had since made such distinctions useless.
