The Given

by Colby R Rice

  Easy, Caleb. They just got pummeled for crying out loud. Cautiously, he re-holstered his gun.

  "Police," he announced, showing his badge. "Someone from here reported a raid. I'm here to investigate it."

  A flicker of confusion rippled through the crowd as they looked at one another. Finally, one man, dark and towering, stepped forward. The man was holding a candle, but it did nothing to soften his somber chiseled face.

  "Not sure how, officer," the man rumbled. "Koa cut off our electricity. Maybe someone ran to the next Lot and called it in… but no one here could have. Either way, we're glad they did."

  A small smile spread across the man's face, and Caleb recognized it as respect, even if slight. He felt a tiny bit of tension fall away.

  "Caleb. Detective Caleb Rai. Are any of the soldiers still in the vicinity?"

  The man shook his head. "We scared them off after giving them a good beating. It'll be a while before they come back to mess with Lot 3."

  The crowd around him whooted, and cheering, they lifted their rolling pins and baseball bats into the air. Caleb couldn't help but grin.

  Well I'll be damned.

  "That's impressive. If you don't mind, I'd like to ask a few questions and get some witness reports so we can start tracking these bastards down."

  More murmurs of surprise in the crowd. Some even laughed. Uproariously. Caleb raised an eyebrow.

  "Sorry," the man apologized. "We don't see too many APs around here, so this is a first for many of us. I'm Merconius Anon. You must be a greenhorn." The man, Merconius, smirked. "That's the only reason you'd come down here. But we'd be glad to help you anyway we can."

  Caleb opened his mouth to respond, but then his eyes caught sight of the girl standing next to Merconius. She stuck close by him, and she looked like all kinds of hell, more so than anyone else in the crowd. A black-eye, bruised cheeks, scratches… and her clothes were singed. Many of the injuries looked like they'd come from somewhere else, not a fist fight with Koa.

  She was staring at him, dazed and yet all too alert. Caleb felt a pang of familiarity hit him. He'd seen her before… and more than once.

  "Hey. Did Koa do that to you?" He took a careful step forward and paused when she tensed.

  Merconius stepped in front of her protectively, and Caleb could see him expand in real-time. Aside from skin-tone, there wasn't much of a resemblance between him and the kid. Either way, the girl had to be his.

  "Sorry, detective," Merconius said. "You're only talking to me." He then turned to the girl. "Go inside, Z. I'll talk to Officer Rai here."

  The girl did as her father told, but as she walked back into their hut, she gazed at Caleb, even as the flame on her father's candle died out.

  It was the Azure from the Converge. The nice one who waited in lines. Zeika watched him and Baba talk. Baba's body language was firm, but not intimidating like usual. Any other Azure he would have run off the Lot, but not this one. The AP stood tall, a hooded trench coat draping from a broad body. In the sparse light, she could see only slivers of him. His hands were in his pockets, the hood of his coat hanging low over his brow. On each shoulder of the coat an insignia: the Monas Hieroglyphica on the left, a red and black flag on the right. He seemed to know she was watching him, and never breaking the flow of conversation, he turned to the window and looked at her.

  "You forgot to show fear."

  Her mother's soft voice tore her away from their window, and Zeika turned around.

  "Sorry, Mama."

  Mama nodded, and with shaking fingers, she unconsciously touched the cross hanging from her neck. She had clearly just finished praying with Manja. Zeika raised an eyebrow, almost in amusement, once again wondering how Mama the Catholic and Baba the Muslim ever made it work between them. Then again, if they could handle the end of the world, then hell, religion should be a cakewalk.

  "Did you change the bullets back?" Mama asked.

  "Yeah."

  "All of them?"

  "Yes." She glared at her. "Come on, I've been doing this for ten years already. I know how to control it—"

  "Hey, shut up," Baba interrupted, frowning. He had just walked back in, and he was closing the door behind him.

  Zeika spared a glance to the window. The detective was gone. Probably to interview other Civilians.

  "Your mother's right," Baba continued, his voice low. "It doesn't matter how good you are or how long you've been practicing. Discretion is of the utmost importance. Are we clear?"

  Zeika sighed and looked away.

  In two strides, Baba was in front of her, and he grabbed her hand, turning it palm up as he lifted it to the dim lighting. He frowned at the fading red line sketched across her palm. Her mother looked at it too and furrowed her brow, her fear hardening into something else.

  Zeika's throat tightened. It was the scar she had lacerated into her hand just days ago, while she was having it out with Roni in the Diner.

  "You know how to control it, huh?" Mama threw up her hands. "Goddamnit, Ezekiel!"

  "I'm sorry—"

  "You're going to get yourself found out and killed!" Mama snarled.

  "I was being bullied by this crazy customer. I got angry and—"

  "You're going to get all of us killed!"

  "It was just the apron hem," Zeika cooed, raising her hands. "Just the hem. I got angry, it hardened, turned, whatever… then I— turned it back to fabric again, okay? It all happened in my fist. No one saw it."

  "You sure?" Baba looked at her warily.

  "Positive."

  Mama sat down in the couch, spent. Baba took a deep breath in. Then out.

  "Okay," he said. "As far as those idiots know, their guns just jammed. And that's all we want them to think. So be more careful next time."

  "Okay."

  "You did good today, Z. Next time though, just shut up and let them take whatever they want. Don't fight them again."

  "I know, but I had to, Baba. They were going to take Manja's medicine. And us too. For the war."

  A long pause hung in the air as Baba looked at her and then at Mama, a struggle in his face. "The detective told me that nine lots in the Fifth were hit all at the same time," he said finally. "Ours got lucky because of Zeika. But the others—" He shook his head.

  Zeika's heart began to pound. Nine lots. Nine.

  "They chose tonight on purpose. They know that the Protecteds are weak, that the police would be disoriented by the bombing in the Seventh. It's started. The siege."

  Zeika drew herself up. "What'll we do?"

  "We're moving to the Guild of Almaut. We still have a room there, right?"

  She nodded.

  "Okay, after we're settled, I want you to empty the inventory at the Forge. Flip everything. All for cash. No more trades."

  "What? Why?"

  "If Koa is infiltrating the Protecteds, then they'll be looking for stores of supplies. The Forge will be prime on the list; we have good loyal customers, but loyalty flees at the muzzle of a gun. I'm giving us a week maximum— and then we get the hell out of Demesne Five."

  Her mother stood up. "And go where, Merco? The outer Civic Demesnes are torn apart."

  "We'll figure something out. We always do. But we're not staying here to wait for things to get worse. We'll pack, go to the Guild tonight. I'll be in and out of Demesne Six the next few days, scouting for a new place and working where I can. I expect you all to hold down the fort in the meantime. One week, Zeika. Clear out what you can, and then we're gone."

  "Okay."

  Baba pulled something out from within his robes and handed it to her. "Take it. It's the only thing I don't want you selling."

  As he held it out to her, Zeika shook her head, denying it. "You said yourself that we just sell them. We don't use them."

  "I'll be away for days, maybe even weeks at a time, and you are going to be responsible for them. Do you understand me? Whatever happens, I'm going to hold you responsible. Now, do you want to be responsible with noth
ing to defend yourself? Or do you want to be responsible with this?"

  Zeika frowned and crossed her arms. "I'd rather use my powers to disarm than to use a gun to kill."

  "You can't, Zeika, you know that. You aren't a registered Alchemist. Even if you were, people are going to want to know where you got your powers. They are going to want to see records of your Vassalage, your tutelage, your progress— and when we can't produce those records, what do you think will happen?"

  Zeika's lips parted, the answer they all knew refusing to come out. Baba grabbed her hand and put the gun in it, not letting her go until her fingers curled around its heavy body. She looked at him, fearful.

  Mama shook her head. "I'm worried, Merco."

  "If we're going to worry about anything, we should be worrying about this." He reached into his pocket and then opened his palm. Laying in it were two tickets filled to the brim with kunja.

  Mama's lips parted, and her eyes softened with shame. She turned her head down.

  "I didn't tell him, Mama, I swear," Zeika whispered.

  "Ezekiel," Baba murmured, still looking at Mama. "Go check on your sister, please."

  Zeika nodded, and without looking at her mother, she went in the back.

  "Now," she heard Baba say. "Is there something you want to tell me?"

  Zeika lowered her head as she pulled the door closed against Baba and Mama's voices. She peeled off her hood and cowl, being careful to keep Baba's gun hidden in the folds of her clothes. She threw on some light pajamas, and in the corner, she could outline Manja laying on their side of the room, on the thick ragged pile of blankets and pillows they used for a bed. Manja's eyes were swollen from crying, and as Zeika flopped down onto the mattress with her, she rolled to face the wall.

  "Hey kiddo."

  The little girl curled herself into a ball, and Zeika slipped her hands under her body, cradling her in her arms. Manja started to sniffle.

  "You wanna help me fix my face?"

  Manja pouted and shook her head.

  "Aw, but I need my little nurse, or else I'll look like Quasimodo. Is that what you want?" Zeika made a lopsided face as proof, and Manja giggled, though she tried to hide it behind her hands. After a moment, she rolled out of Zeika's lap and tottered to the bathroom. She came back with the first aid kit and a wet cloth.

  "Nurse Iemanja is here, okay?" She sniffled.

  "My hero!"

  Zeika laid down on her side, and Manja dabbed her burst lip with the cloth. It stung, but not nearly as much as the rest of her body, which felt drained and battered from the events of the past five hours. She hadn't realized how exhausted she was, and now sleep was calling her. Still, she refused to close her eyes until Manja did.

  Manja finished, and she laid down, wrapping her little arm around Zeika's stomach. For a long while, they lay there in silence, Zeika fidgeting as pain crawled over her body.

  "It's not fair," Manja finally whispered, smiling. "You got to use your powers today."

  Zeika managed a smile. "Jealous?"

  "Yeah. And you kicked the Kokos' butts. I saw you."

  Zeika raised an eyebrow. How would she have seen that anyway? She'd been running and lost in the crowd, hadn't she?

  "It's Koa," she corrected. "And butt-kicking's not as fun as it looks, kid."

  "Yes it is." Manja lifted her hand from Zeika's stomach, and without touching it, she raised the metal tin can that sat at their heads. Excited, she rolled over onto her belly and cradled her cheeks in her palms, watching the can dance on its own. "Tons of fun."

  Zeika didn't even bother to look. Instead, she folded her arms behind her head. "You know you're not supposed to be doing that. Baba says we have to control ourselves."

  Smack. The can came down on Zeika's forehead.

  "Ouch, you little brat!"

  Manja giggled and tried to bring the can down again, but as it fell, Zeika forced her powers out. With a whisper, the can unraveled into a silk sash and fell down around Zeika's face. Manja took it and threw it across the room. Zeika sent her powers out again, and they both watched the drizzling silk turn into a metallic noodle before it hit the ground. Manja twiggled her fingers, flattening the noodle and bending it back into a can shape before settling it back near their heads. Then, they went through the cycle again.

  Zeika barely had to focus on the game; her powers came so easily to her now that she often played with Manja this way while doing other things. And tonight, her thoughts were on the next week. She hadn't seen the Forge for days now, and with the Converge getting locked down extra tight, deliveries and exchanges would be nearly impossible to make. She'd have to sneak across borders, or take in lots of orders and negotiations at the Forge itself, something she never liked doing. She didn't like business getting too close to their second home…

  Don't have a choice. No job and no savings, remember, Z?

  She sighed, knowing the truth and feeling too empty, sore, and powerless to be angry about it. Once again, Koa had screwed the Civic Order without a jimmy hat and forgot to pay child support. The Protecteds were no longer safe, and if Zeika's family didn't move soon, they'd have to worry about keeping a roof over their heads and bullets out of their asses. And then there was that Koan captain… he seemed pretty pissed that she had ruined his surprise party. He might come back, maybe even gunning for her.

  "Zeeky? What did Baba give you before? That thing in your robes."

  Zeika shifted, and the left side of her face smiled. Manja was such a snoop! "Candy."

  "Liar. I saw it."

  "Then why are you asking, kid?" Zeika turned to her, watching the girl's sapphire eyes dance in the dark. "And why are you spying on grown folks' business?"

  "Cause I love you bunches," Manja whispered. She turned over and snuggled into Zeika's neck.

  "We love you too."

  The can clattered to the floor as Manja's consciousness let it go. Soon, her coos of slumber floated in the dark.

  "Just one week, baby," Zeika whispered. "Then we're gone."

  Baba was right. They had to go at it, all or nothing, and then get out the hell out of here. No matter what the cost.

  Hours after the debrief, Xakiah stood on the northern borders of the Fifth, mulling over the investigative tip he'd just received. Veronica Webb, the owner of the now-destroyed Lakeside Diner, had been at home when the bombing had happened. So had about ten other regular customers, and they needed to be interviewed. Rai's coordinates would send him north-east, into the posh heart of the Seventh Demesne.

  Xakiah curled his lip and turned, trekking south.

  The little Prince was tenacious, and smart, no doubt about that. Still. No one, especially not some spoiled Vassal-less pup, was going to send KX Cotch to fetch anything. He needed to be free— to run his demesne the way it should be run and to finish his own investigations.

  He'd collected quite a bit of interesting information from the hunted, and there was still more to cull from the other hangers-on. Tongues often loosened beneath torture, and he'd use the infidels' admissions of guilt to crack the case of the Lakeside bombing when he saw fit. Rai and the other civvie-sniffing APs could investigate the bombing on their own steam, but they could count him out. The police headquarters in the Fifth was as leaky as a house shingled with shit, especially with Captain Palmer at its helm. Xakiah couldn't bring such sensitive information back to a Civilian precinct, not until the Order saw fit. Of course, though, he wouldn't hide any of his findings from Vassal Moss. They shared everything.

  Rustles far below him pricked his ears. Alert, he ducked down behind a tree as he listened. The sounds got closer, and he slipped through the underbrush, looping around to the far right. He chose a tree, trying to ignore the slight tremors of excitement in his limbs. The sounds were coming from people, or perhaps even better—

  Messhe.

  He smiled as he climbed up the trunk. He already had a Messhen shipment to traffic for Muirgin, but he loved picking up spares. The beautiful, delicate creat
ures always came as lovely surprises, to be used for their high energy content or his pleasure, if he was in the mood.

  He crouched low in a high branch, concealed by the twisting mossy fingers of wood around him, and he put his vision scope to his eyes. He grunted in disappointment.

  Not a single energy-laden nymph to be found. They were just regular humans, and even worse, Civilian refugees. There were about thirty stragglers, and they stumbled forward in a staggered line across the land, all of them about to cross into the Fifth Demesne.

  He scoffed. They would only add to the number of heads he'd eventually have to catch and break, as many refugees from the Outer Demesnes became robbers and thieves... and sometimes Koan rebels. The Guild of Almaut was completely to blame. Its "bring me your poor, tired, and hungry" bullshit only left the Protecteds open to an influx of evil that constantly needed to be cleansed from the land. His land.

  One man in the worming line hunched over beneath his robes, a fleshy knot in the crowd. But even as the man shuffled on, once in a while he would jerk, violently, as though yanked by an invisible puppet master. Then, he would settle back down, rolling back into his slow, crooked hobble.

  It looked like the throes of an onset seizure— one that Xakiah had seen before. He leaned forward and focused the scope, trying to get a better look under the seizing man's hood.

  "Gah!"

  A sudden gust of wind blasted gritty debris into his vision, caking the scope and grinding against his eyes, and when he finally blinked away the dust, the man in the crowd had disappeared.

  He frowned and looked east toward the wind. The gusts were unwarranted. He checked the directions of the winds every day so that he could plan his approach to his targets, dodge the senses of Koan bloodhounds. But this eastern wind hadn't been in the weather report. They were supposed to be blowing from the southwest today, at 12 miles per hour. This wind, though, curled in from the east at five times the speed. It came in at random bursts, angry blusters that didn't feel like Nature's will at all.

  Beneath him, the line of refugees fell over. Everyone hung onto the person in front of or next to him to keep from blowing away. The trees groaned and the grasses hissed as they bent to the winds' wills. His own tree leaned a bit, but he kept his balance, turned on the swaying branch, and looked through his scope.