Ghosts of Koa, The First Book of Ezekiel

by Colby R Rice

  In the center of it all, a group of about ten barefoot kids all moved in unison. They were following the motions of the head daycare teacher, Denise, a rock in womanly flesh.

  Julie dropped her arm and straightened, as though she'd just remembered something. "Got news," she whispered. "Didn't want to hit you with it when you first stepped in, but I'm not sure now's the best time either--"

  "Shoot."

  "We just got a call from some parents. We've extended daycare hours. Town meeting."

  Zeika felt her skin prickle, and she broke her gaze from the group of kids, looking to Julie for confirmation. Jules nodded, her expression serious. The explosion, along with the gnawing dread that had come with it, crept back into Zeika's mind. "Meeting about what?"

  "The influx of refugees into the Protecteds." Jules sighed. "We can't house them fast enough. That, and the explosion. Apparently, the target was an Azure summit, and Koa hit the bullseye. Real bloody. And it happened within ten meters of Demesne Six's border. On the inside."

  As the words sank in, Zeika felt her lips part. "But, how? The borders--"

  "It could have been a mistake," Julie reasoned with a shrug. "I mean, it's easy for a rookie Koan to fudge the demesne boundaries by accident..."

  Zeika looked at her, helpless. The world really was just going from ass to toilet.

  "Try not to worry about it," Julie said, trying to be upbeat. She put a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "Just keep it in mind."

  "Yeah," Zeika muttered, embittered by the words. "I'm just not sure how much more I can keep in mind."

  "Form one!" Denise's command barreled across the room, drawing their attention.

  "HAI!" The group of kids stepped forward with their right feet and crouched. As they did, they lifted one arm over their heads and circled the other arm down as though drawing an imaginary air circle. Their right legs were extended, each child balancing on his or her toes like dancers.

  "Like swans, children! Keep those toes straight! Arms up and loose, hands and fingers like butterflies!" Denise instructed. She walked around, fixing each child's form as necessary.

  "Swans and butterflies are girly!" One boy complained as Denise came around to him.

  "All right then, be graceful like a ninja. Toes straight like a ninja. And arms up, loose and free. Hands and fingers like-- er-- like worms! Yes! Like limber, sneaky worms!"

  "Cool!" The boy whooped. His stance improved immediately.

  "Gonna start packing..." Julie muttered, and she moved off.

  Zeika set her bag down onto one of the tattered love seats. She scanned the crowd of kids, finally relaxing when she spotted one four-year-old in particular. Manja was focused, her eyes hard, an adult-like seriousness on her mahogany face as she held her stance as still as possible. She was just as short as her peers, but the thick crop of kinky hair and stark blue eyes were almost impossible to miss in the crowd.

  Denise barked again. "Form two!"

  "HAI!" They pivoted, completing the air circles with their arms, ending the move in a step forward.

  Zeika held back a small laugh as the kids straightened up like mini soldiers. The sight was enough to push her fatigue and worry and lingering disgust to the bottom of her thoughts. She clapped softly, stepping forward onto the mat.

  "Very nice, you guys! All of you will be experts in no time!"

  "ZEEKY!" Manja whipped around. Giggling, she made a beeline for her. "Zeeky, I missed you!"

  The girl's smile knocked the chill out of Zeika's bones, and she knelt, scooping Manja up in her arms, snuggling her nose into her cheek. "What's kickin', Commander? How was your day?"

  Manja let out a dramatic sigh. "Tiring. Her Highness is sleepy."

  Zeika snorted. "Her Highness? It was 'Commander' this morning. 'Her Great Empressness', yesterday."

  "I'm all kinds of queen, Zeeky. Right now is 'Her Highness'."

  "Oh brother!" Zeika turned her knapsack around to carry it at the front. "You ready?"

  "More work?"

  Zeika nodded. "More work."

  "Carry me then, please. The Queen is tired."

  "You're such a brat!"

  Manja bit her bottom lip and grinned. "But I love you, Zeeky!"

  "Oh, shut up." Smiling, Zeika crouched down for Manja to piggyback. "Just don't fart on me while you're back there, all right?"

  Manja climbed onto her back. Using the extra obi sash Zeika kept in her pack, she guided it around the girl's body and bottom, once, twice, three times, and then tied the sash tightly around her own torso. Manja's weight instantly melded into hers, anchoring her. She felt the little chin nuzzle into the crook of her neck, and the soft breath gave Zeika her rhythm. They waved Julie goodbye, and in the next second, they were heading out of the door.

  Seductive ribbons of smoke curled up from the candles set on the low table. Tiny flames illumed the small tearoom, their light latticed by the pink rays of sunset that bled through the wall-to-wall shoji doors. Shadows fluttered against the walls and inked tapestries.

  Ridiculous.

  Xakiah frowned and sat back on the downy floor pillow trying to shake the haze that eclipsed his focus. Azures were used to such luxuries, but he'd never taken to them. There was nothing inherently powerful about the space. Like all other places designed by Azure architects, this one was built to dull the senses and slow the mind. Even the most discriminating Azure would be so sensually overwhelmed that he wouldn't be able to suss out a disturbance in the air, nor would he detect the soft padded footfalls of a lurking Koan assassin. It was a velvet slaughterhouse.

  He homed in on his company of five, all of whom seemed quite at home in the midst of the sensual delights. Dispersed between the bowls of steamed rice and curries, five silver lockboxes sat on the small table, one for each guest.

  "Do you all have safe places where they can be stored?" Xakiah asked. "Gentlemen?"

  "Yes, yeah, uh huh," the group of councilmen responded, but not quite in unison.

  The strange collection of people always made it difficult to run a roundtable, especially around dinnertime. At Xakiah's right, ever-quiet Sablo Peterson was lips-deep in a swig of coffee and had only half gurgled out his reply. Mikhail Beige swooned next to him, having just single-handedly polished off the last of the vodka. At Xakiah's left sat Hans Muirgin, a charlatan if he'd ever met one. Despite the ornate gold ring on Muirgin's left ring finger, he flirted shamelessly with Esther Monona, the only female councilmember in the group. The wrinkled hen-like woman giggled, turning away as Muirgin leaned into her cheek.

  The largest and most attentive councilman, Ismail Billings, sat directly across from them. He scowled murderously at the raucous pair of paramours but nodded at Xakiah before stuffing another helping of chicken laab into his mouth.

  "All the arrangements have been made, my boy. Just as your Vassal has requested," Billings announced, putting down his chopsticks. "You may consider your artifact in safe hands." He cut a disapproving look at Muirgin, Monona, and Beige. "Relatively safe hands."

  Xakiah felt himself relax, even if only a little. Billings was the head of the small council; he'd at least make an attempt to keep the others from screwing up. "That's good to hear," he replied. "And now for the rest of you--"

  Snap! Snap! Snap!

  Thick fingers cracked open the air about a foot from Xakiah's face as Muirgin tried to get his attention.

  "Hey, messenga boy!"

  Xakiah's fingers clenched into a fist, but as he pivoted, an eyeful of tropical color nearly blinded him.

  Muirgin was brightly clad in a leathery orange and yellow zoot suit, and about six golden rings adorned his thick manicured fingers, including the wedding band he so dutifully ignored. Muirgin was wearing another one of those disgusting suits of his, the kind that looked as though it should be plugged into a wall outlet and lit up to bring business into a porn store. That Muirgin had paid his way up the ranks was the worst kept secret of the Order, ill
-kept by Muirgin himself who was always throwing his money around and squawking about it.

  Like a parrot taking it in the ass.

  Xakiah would only be doing the Order a favor by snapping his neck. But luckily, the sudden fluorescent break in his thought pattern had given him a moment to recoup. Cool calm pooled into him, but he made sure his scowl was unmistakeable as his gaze on Muirgin darkened.

  "Councilman?"

  "Yeah so uh, how do we know that this favor we're doin' you and your Vassal ain't leadin' us into trouble, Cotch?"

  "You are in service to the Order. That is all you need to know."

  "Hey, just because Vassal Moss thinks he's got us by the balls in the Halls of Eyre don't mean he's got total power. We need you, sure, but you also need us to protect this Page that the Order's all gaga about. So don't think you're the only one here with some lev'rage."

  Muirgin's sudden belligerence caused a hush at the table, bringing in the gazes of the other four councilmen. The man smiled a bowl of butter, yellowing crooked teeth crowded inside thin, oily lips. A slick goatee shined against his pointy jaw.

  "What is it now, Muirgin? You want more money, or are you just swinging around the power cock at the dinner table?"

  "No, I don't need more money. I make my own. All I want to know is that I'm not gonna get capped by some Koan asshole just cause I got this piece of rock on my hands." Muirgin looked down at his own silver case with disgust. "What kind of protection do you plan to provide for our troubles?"

  "You will be getting paid your keeper's fees as agreed. It's up to you to fashion your own protection out of that. Anything more and my Vassal will have to question your loyalty to the Order. Publicly." Xakiah seared Muirgin with a silencing gaze. "I'm not sure that would be good for your business or your health."

  Muirgin's demeanor melted, his sarcastic smile turning into a nervous one. "Okay, messenga boy. No need to tarnish my immaculate reputation. I was just askin'."

  "Good." Xakiah rose. "When I find a safe haven for the Page, I will inform you. Now, I need to tend to other business. Are there any other questions?"

  "Yes, dear boy," Ishmael Billings piped up. "How went the meeting with our ombudsmen?"

  Xakiah felt his mouth turn down a little. Vassal Moss' meeting at the Halls of Pact had gone well, but not quite as they had wished. Once they had discovered Koa was using minors to run missions, they had taken the matter to the Halls of Pact to... loosen some of the war stipulations. Some of the Council's response had been lukewarm at best.

  "Sal Morgan has agreed to spearhead our endeavors in Demesne Five as expected. Micah Burke, on the other hand, may pose a problem. The events of last spring seemed to have left him... jaded. Now, he's charged with the zoning issues in the Seventh. He is not yet convinced that we should repeal the Articles39. Some on the Council seem to agree."

  Billings snorted. "Of course he isn't convinced. 'Champion of Civic justice', indeed. He's a fence walker, not a reliable brother of our Order. Whether on purpose or by foolish coincidence, he'll get in the way of our objectives. I don't want the rest of the Council following him down his rabbit hole."

  Xakiah watched Billings lean the soft lumps of his face against his folded knuckles. His usually sharp gaze now very far away. He could see Billings' wheels grinding on the problem and churning up blanks, ones Xakiah felt compelled to fill. "Do not worry, Councilman," he offered, stepping forward. "I can redirect him."

  The corpulent councilman chuckled, finally looking up. "Don't trouble yourself, dear boy. Burke would be better convinced by one who speaks his language. Allow me and Morgan to deal with him. I think it would be a sensible start to our new partnership."

  Xakiah locked eyes with him and smiled, impressed. A problem solver. Proactivity was a rare trait amongst politicians, and he liked that Billings embraced it, amongst other things. Of all the councilmen that Xakiah had ever met, Billings was the only one who made sense. He was a fat pompous windbag, but he and his policies made sense. He was probably the only other man of import aside from Vassal Moss who took the Koan insurgency-- and their youthful new recruits-- seriously. He was the one who had agreed to be leading chairman of their Page committee. He'd even promised to report in every three days on the status of the artifact and on the committee guarding it. With him on their team, maybe Xakiah could actually get some real work done for a change. As they exchanged confident nods, Xakiah felt himself relax even more, finally even able to enjoy the space and the fools in it. Yes, this could work.

  "Agreed." He then turned from Billings, addressing all of them. "I take my leave. My escorts will arrive shortly to chaperone the five of you home. As always, the bill is on us. Enjoy yourselves... and keep the Final Page safe."

  With that, he swept out of the room, leaving the chosen five to their meals.

  Captain Jeb Palmer toggled with a flat silver plate on his desk, and a matrix of light glittered upward from it, bending into shapes, letters, paragraphs. In just seconds, all the details of Caleb's life were projected within the boundaries of the plate, and Palmer scrolled through them with pudgy fingers.

  "Twenty-six. Home-schooled." Palmer's voice rolled over the floating dossier. "Proficient Alchemist. Druidically-aligned." He raised his eyes, the light of interest flickering on for the first time. "You're a Druidic Alchemist?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "I'm surprised. It says here that you were the apprentice of Vassal Alyosius Persaud. But he's Corporally-aligned. How did you two make it work?"

  "We didn't."

  Palmer's brows arched higher.

  "We... parted ways a few years into my training," Caleb continued. "I no longer needed his tutelage."

  Palmer's gaze waxed suspicious before he turned back to the hologram file. Caleb waited as the first fifteen years of his life rolled upward from the silver disk, disappearing into an invisible atmosphere. Palmer then stopped, pressing one meaty digit against the airy hologram, right under two lines that were capitalized in bold red letters.

  "Seems you did a little hell-raisin' as a youngin'."

  "Hormones."

  Caleb winced internally as he watched Palmer scroll down at least ten more lines of bold red. But the man didn't seem moved by the scarlet letters. He was busy reading the information under it: Caleb's credentials as an officer in Demesne Fifty-Two.

  As Palmer navigated his way through his dossier, Caleb's eyes wandered across the office. Files, dull gray cabinets, awards; cop stuff, nothing too out of the ordinary. Bookshelves sat on the walls in haphazard array. Papers, posters, folders of all kinds leaned out of their spots on the shelves, reaching for the captain.

  Caleb's gaze finally rested on the dusty impressions in the wall behind Palmer's desk. Five differently-shaped molds had been carved in sequence next to one another, but only one of them had been filled. Sleek, descriptive plaques underscored each mold.

  Vassal, Alchemist of the Fifth Degree.

  Indigen, Alchemist of the Fourth Degree.

  Silvern, Alchemist of the Third Degree.

  Proficient, Alchemist of the Second Degree.

  Dilettante, Alchemist of the First Degree. It was this one that had been poured full with molten bronze. The medal itself cast a dull shine, and carved in its center was Palmer's name, as well as his Vassal's. Months' worth of dust filled the calligraphies.

  Palmer cleared his throat and took a sip of his coffee, his eyes going wide under his bushy brows as he scrolled further down the holographic file.

  Caleb decided he wasn't going to fret about Palmer's facial contortions, even though he knew what they meant. He had already prepared a well-rehearsed lie months before he got here, in case it came to that.

  He continued to look around, noticing three thick tomes on the shelves beneath Palmer's rank plaques. The three stood taller and fatter than all the other books he had, and their covers had been stained with brilliant colors that Caleb recognized all too well. One was a deep azure blue,
the other a sun-fire yellow, and the last a blood red. The Three Alchemic Alignments, the collection was called. There was no indication of which alignment Palmer belonged to.

  "So I guess you're trolling around Demesne Five for the civvie snatch then, huh?"

  The acidic lilt in the Palmer's voice forced Caleb to avert his gaze from the tomes. "Sir?"

  "You know what I'm asking. The rest of your file is closed. You wanna explain?" Palmer turned the holographic file towards Caleb, pointing at the thick silver line in the middle. Beneath it, the hologram read 'Access Denied'. "You had a good career, and then as of the last two years, your record drops off. Why are you giving up a cushy job over in the 52nd to lay up in the ass crack of the world?"

  "Civic duty, sir."

  A couple of chuckles fell from Palmer's mouth, practically clattering across the desk. "Bullshit. Civic duty? These are my folks, boy. Not yours."

  Caleb blinked. "You're a Civilian," he said, finally understanding. "Not an Azure."

  "Well, whoopty-la-doo for you. Seems like training as a Druid did you some good."

  Caleb made a face. Aside from explaining the huge rod that was up the Cap's ass, his being a Civilian also explained why he didn't have an alchemic alignment. That distinction belonged to Azure Alchemists only. Apparently, so did manners.

  "You buried nearly 100 cases over there in the 52nd. That's pretty good. Excellent, even, if it weren't for the fact that most of your perps had been petty thieves, kidnappers, and thugs. You ever worked with big fish, boy?"

  "I'm pretty fond of grouper, actually."

  "You know what I'm talking about, smart ass. Have you ever tracked down Koan terrorists?"

  "No."

  Palmer shook his head and laughed, sending his toothpick into a tailspin. "Sweet Jesus. And they have the balls to send you over here like you're actually going to be useful?" With disgust, he flicked off the hologram. "What a waste of my damned time."

  "The criminals I caught were just a symptom of the pond I was working in, Captain. I'm not sure how you all work here, but we tend to keep our fish under control in the 52nd. Not a Koan terrorist in sight."