Ghosts of Koa, The First Book of Ezekiel (12 page)

"Only because
I
wasn't working the trade. Who the hell do you have bartering on behalf of the Guild nowadays, some rookie?"

"It's not my fault that
someone
around here decided to go rogue," he shot back, his gaze piercing hers. "You and Merco were the best negotiators we had."

"Yeah, well, when Koa's gone and the Cabal dislodges itself from your ass, you can give us a call." Zeika reached into her pocket. She flipped fifteen dark-blue bills over in her fingers, separating them from the Civilian green as she counted them and laid them in Ken's palm.

"You gonna bake it all up right here?" He asked, handing the burlap bag to her.

"Nah," she muttered. "I'll do that at the forge. It's safer, and it'll keep your nose clean. You're already under watch by the Cabal. No need to smack the balls of a nervous dog, ya know?"

The smile on Ken's face widened, bringing a warmth to the room rivaled only by that of Zeika's father. The two almost looked alike even. "You always had a nice way with words, Zeika," he said. "Merco's done well. How is he, by the way? And your Ma."

"Baba's fine. He'll be back from the salt mines in a few days, I think. He's putting in double time. Mama's having a hard time keeping herself occupied because of it, but aside from that, she's... her usual self."

Ken nodded. "That's good, Z. Real good to hear." Then he looked down. Then to the side. Then back at her.
 

Zeika cocked her head, noticing the change in his demeanor. His smile had become taut with uncertainty, and he had started rubbing the back of his head. It was a nervous tick, one that Zeika rarely saw. He had something to tell her, and it wasn't good.

"Z... about your mom," he started. "I, uh... I saw her booking a flight the other day..."

Zeika shifted her gaze, the truth burning hot in her mind as Ken spoke of it: kunja. The specter. The white flight. She remembered the streaks under her mother's nose. Addicts called those marks "the wings". They were tell-tale signs of kunja use.

"I'm not trying to stir up trouble or get into your business," Ken cut in again, quickly. "I just thought I'd let you know that before you put any cash in her hand, you know?"

When Zeika looked back at him, she was forcing a smile. "Thanks. I really appreciate it. You telling me, I mean."

"It ain't a moral mark against her or anything. I'm not judging. You know that. Staying clean is hard when shit's so bad all the time. Just thought I'd let you know. And if you ever wanted to re-admit her, you know we'll take good care of her. Get her clean again."

She swallowed the lump in her throat and nodded. "Thanks. I'll look into it."

Ken had barely been able to offer the apology in his eyes before she turned away. "I'll see you in a bit," she threw over her shoulder. "Keep an eye on the little one for me?"

"Always."

Bag in hand and ballet slippers over her shoulder, Zeika walked deeper into the heart of the Guild. She hated turning her back on Ken like that, but she didn't have much choice. He wanted so badly to help her, to help them, by rescuing her mother from herself. But only Zeika knew the truth: until the war in the beyond ended, her mother couldn't be saved. She didn't
want
to be saved.
 

As much as she didn't want to think about it, she couldn't help replaying the near-future events that were destined to happen, like a bad episode on its third run. She would have to turn the hut upside down to find the "tickets", phials of kunja that Mama would have hidden all over the house. Then, Mama would have to be checked into the Guild. She'd be institutionalized five floors up with all the other airman baseheads, in the Angels Nine ward. For a third time, Zeika would have to file a worker's leave for her mother, which would come with a dock in pay. She and Baba would have to put in double hours to make up the difference; Baba at wherever he was contracted, and Zeika at the Diner and at the Forge.

Assuming that Mort could swing that anyway.
 

Which he probably couldn't. And if Mort couldn't afford to give her extra hours, then she'd have to do week-long stints at the Forge. She'd have to pull Manja out of daycare and school her at the Forge while she worked. The girl would cry that she missed Mama, and when they both finally came home after days of being gone, they'd find wads of money in their garden safe, but they'd also find Baba gone, eternally breaking his back in the three Protecteds to keep their family afloat. For a third time, for nearly an entire year, Zeika and Manja would be alone.
 

She bit down and shut her eyes at the vision. It was crappy, but it had to be done. She'd investigate when they got home.
 

As she walked towards the elevator lobby, murmurs and bubbles of conversation flittered up from all directions, rolling around the deep wells of the Guild. Crowds bulged in the hallways, spilled over stairwells, dozens of dirty boots leaving masks of grime on the tiles. The elevators were busy, so she picked her way through the thick worm of bodies that clogged the northern stairs. As she did, her heart sank-- Azure guilds weren't like this, reduced to kennels for the flotsam of war.

"Excuse me... I'm sorry..."
 

Zeika carefully wove her way down, sliding by duffel bags, trunks, hunched bodies. From luggage tags and traveling robes, she recognized the fifteen insignias of the Civic Order: sun-lions of Demesne Eleven, the bull-rocks of Demesne Three, water-doves of Demesne One, the fire-dragons of Demesne Eight, and others. An Eden of the dejected.
 

Behind them all, waiting dutifully at the bottom of the stairs, were the wolf-moons of Zeika's own Demesne Five, here to get their daily rations. It was a silent policy amongst the Demesne Fivers and their Guild... refugees always got first dibs.

She winced as she walked by her own brethren, remembering the days that she had to wait on lines like these, sometimes for hours, just to get rations for her family. Until Baba had started the Forge, that is.
 

She passed down the hallway of the third floor, looking for a staircase that wasn't so crowded. A heavy cloud of warmth, streaked with reddened embers, set on her shoulders as she walked further down. Something smelled heavenly. Smiling, she peeked into one of the hot rooms.

The gritty sandy smell of hummus, pita, and bubbling chicken-and-bean stews puffed up from all of the stoves; fatty hunks of pork and chicken sizzled and sweated spice as their spits rotated over roaring fires.
 
Pear-shaped hermetic vases and beakers, which had once been vessels for liquid metals and tinctures, were now containers for the earth-tone ochres of baharat, cardamom, olive oils, cumin, and other spices. Every now and again, a colorful potpourri of flavor would sprinkle from one or more of the beakers into any one of the simmering pots on the stoves.
 

Zeika swished her tongue around her cheek, longing for the scorpion sting of the caraway, but she pried herself away and kept moving. She found a clear stairwell at the far end of the hall and skittered down.

Her feet finally hit the old cherry wood of the second floor, where the lights had been torn from their outlets long ago. Iron candle sconces stood tall, or they twisted and looped through the air, cradling dozens of tea lights. A dusky citrus glow draped over the second level as Demesne Fivers took colorful wands of twisted wax and wick, lighting every candle.

The hands of the Guild had brought Spring inside for the evening, twisting brilliant flakes of lily and jasmine around the mahogany railings. The petals gleamed under the candlelight like flecks of stained gold, seeming to change color as the flames flickered. Scents of the wild mingled with the candles' cinnamon and vanilla effusions.
 

Zeika kept moving, descending down to the first floor, where she stopped short. The foyer was filled with Demesne Fivers and refugees from the beyond. Julie was right about the influx. There had to be at least 200 non-members in the Guild right now.

I'll go on duty after I'm done.

There was so much to be done: registering the refugees for services, getting them settled, reuniting them with their families, and more. An extra volunteer would be helpful, and Manja would need a few hours for her knee to heal up anyway.

Later, though.

She turned down an adjacent hallway, a crooked pinky of a corridor that branched far off from the others, and headed towards the gyms. Flyers were stamped all along the walls and ceiling.

Zeika wrinkled her nose in disgust at the sight of the councilmen's names. Why they had been put in charge of enforcing the Articles39 in the Protecteds was beyond her. In her sixteen years of being a ghost of war, she'd only seen Burke once, over a year ago. He and the Azure police had come to "alter" her family's business model-- permanently-- on behalf of the Civic Order. Since then, she had called him a few times to file complaints against APs, only to get a voicemail box that was always strategically full. So much for equal representation. Then, there was Sal Morgan, another supposed 'champion of children's rights'... while he eye-humped them in their mother's houses.

She bit her tongue and kept moving.

The squeaking of sneakers, the padded thumps of basketballs, and gym weight clanks echoed in the hallway as she passed by the first couple of gyms. When she got to the last gym, she peeked in and smiled.
 

Floor mats stacked up almost ten feet high in the corner. The left half of the space had been transformed into a dance studio, equipped with a line of mirrors, a barre, and a wooden floor, old, smooth, and clean. The wall directly in front of her sported an array of sparring equipment, complete with a wooden, rope-wrapped Mook Jong for practicing offensive Majkata. Twenty feet to the right, there was a gymnastics setup, with a couple of balance beams, high bars, parallettes, incline mats... everything she needed.
 

She dropped her bag and slipped out of her boots as she walked in, and for a minute, she closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. Memories filled her up, and from among them, she picked the warmest, and she meditated. Peace filled her, replacing the pains of the day with a new consciousness, a focus necessary to get the most out of her limited time. She wrapped her hands and feet in gauze, her deep focused breaths allowing her muscles to relax. Then she turned on the old sound system, closed the door, and began her routine.
 

She stretched. Calves, quads. Breathe. Glutes, abs. Reach. Shoulders, neck. Roll.
 

She warmed up. Sit-ups, 100 of them. Push-ups, 100 more. Squats and pull ups. She imagined Baba behind her, barking at her the way he used to when she was young.
You're not going to stop until you feel like you're about to
die
, is that clear?
He had screamed this at her one day when she had tried to be lazy.
 

A heavy sweat drove out the dirt and bacon grease and cheap tips, everything that smelled of Azure and Koa; it all condensed out, chasing each other down her body in trails.

She inhaled nearly half the water in her bottle before she shook out her arms and legs and dragged herself over to the next station, where the Mook Jong stood fixed into the wall. She stepped in, and with a long breath out, she eased into a low square stance and lifted her hands. Her body burned, but Baba was still behind her, breathing down her neck.
 

She drove her knuckles and palms into the ropes and wooden heart of the dummy as hard as she could. She slammed the blows home over and over, the sharp staccato
cracks
of padded flesh meeting cherry wood underscoring the tempo of her music.

Hit it harder, Ezekiel. Wood doesn't hit back, but
they
will.
These bastards out here won't stop unless you're dead. Dead and
worse
, since you're a woman. Now, HARDER.
 

For years, Zeika drove out the faceless demons in the wood, the ones that wanted to hurt her and their family, even though she could never see them. But Baba seemed to see them... and he feared them.
 

Bruises lifted the skin on her hands and then swelled over her knees, elbows, and heels as the core of the wood pushed back against her every strike. The awkward inanimate creature rattled on its stand, but she kept wailing on it, rope burns stinging her skin all the way up to her elbows as she smoothly moved around the Mook Jong, striking with everything she had.