Ghosts of Koa, The First Book of Ezekiel

by Colby R Rice

  His face contorted with terror. "Please," he stammered. "I will do anything!"

  "Then bless me, buddy. Water, oil, prayer, whatever the hell you have to do."

  "I will do anything but that!"

  "Well then, we have nothing more to discuss." She began to back away, still aiming the gun.

  "Wait! Look, I'm not just being an asshole. I'm serious. I can't help you get in. After the repeals, they capped off recruitment. No newbies. If I bless you for initiation, they'll blow my head off."

  "They can carry one more soldier. They have to. I need to join, do you understand? I need to join them, or my family will die."

  He took her in for a moment, and his eyes actually softened as he looked at her. "Look. Koa is serious shit. This ain't for the fluffy, kid."

  "Have I ever been soft and fluffy?"

  She stared at him, making sure to keep her gaze hard and angry. She'd learned a long time ago that most people, especially the spineless, tended to take the hard gaze to the bank. After surveying her, he seemed to nod in agreement. Check cashed.

  "Okay," he relented. "Okay. I'll do it. You got your blessing. But if things go down the crapper for you after, it ain't my fault. Your recruiter told you the deal?"

  She nodded.

  "If you want entry, you gotta bring homage. Big homage. For all three tasks."

  "What kind?"

  "Exotic spices from the far East-- what the hell do you think? Something that'll be useful for them other than your smart-assed mouth. Eyes on the street identify the talent. Then higher-ups do the casting. Just make sure that when you debut, you debut big."

  "And then what?"

  "Pray they don't got ten AK-47s that also like to chit-chat." He looked down at her gun sarcastically.

  "After I 'debut', how do I find them?"

  "Hold out your wrist." And for whatever reason, he relaxed and began to smile again. "Don't worry, I'm gonna give you a way in."

  She looked at him warily, but he didn't bother easing the grin on his face. Whatever the punchline was, she'd missed it. Half of her suspected that he might hand her his cock rather than a map.

  "Hey, kid, it's your call," he said. "You either take the map, or you shoot me and go home bless-less."

  She extended her free hand, still eyeing him. When he grabbed her wrist instead of slapping a map into it, however, she jumped, nearly depressing the trigger.

  "You asshole!"

  "RELAX KID!!" He shrieked, holding up a free hand in fear. "Wait a sec! This ain't your usual map!"

  She scowled as she watched him turn her wrist over in trembling hands. Grin or not, at least he was afraid of her now... there was that much.

  "Take it easy. This is going to be uncomfortable." He rolled up the left sleeve of her sweater and pressed his bare wrist to hers.

  The warmth of his skin started off gentle, and then without warning, it kicked up about eighty degrees. Zeika winced as the smell of sizzling flesh wafted into the air. She tried to wrench her wrist from his grip, but he held on.

  "Nut up, kid," he said, tightening his hold.

  When he finally let her go, she stumbled back, blowing cool air onto the burnt skin. Felt like he'd branded her or something. She looked and saw that she was right: over Franz' mark, a series of dashes and dots had been tattooed into her skin. When she glanced back up at him, her eyes narrowed.

  "This feels like a trick of alchemy to me. Wanna explain?"

  "I can't, even if I wanted to. I don't know how it works. All I know is that's how Koa recruits. It got me here. It'll get you where you need to go too. Your recruiter put you into a hollow-- Hollow 12. That there's the map to it. After you've finished the three tasks, if they want to recruit you, then the tat will activate. You'll know when it happens. Then you can use it as a homing device. As you get closer to the hideout, the marks will form the number twelve. As you get farther away, the marks will scatter. Once you've got a solid number twelve going, you're there."

  Zeika was absorbing everything until she noticed Davy smiling again, a little too big. She turned to him full body, glaring him down. "You're telling me a whole lot of bullshit."

  He chuckled. "Oh no, it's a map all right. To the hollow and to you. If you don't debut right out here, sweetheart, instead of activating you, they'll come out and tear into you like wolves. And the tat will lead them right to you. Like I already said, they capped recruitment so, I guess this is it for you. Good fuckin' riddance, too."

  She rolled her eyes and backed away, putting the gun back into her robes. "We'll see about that. Your help's appreciated," she muttered over her shoulder as she walked off. "Don't worry. I won't tell my recruiter the note came from you."

  "They won't appreciate you shaking down one of their mules, by the way! Bitch!" Davy snarled after her. "I hope they blow your fuckin' head off!"

  Zeika didn't turn around, but she smiled, lifting her middle finger into the air as she kept walking, her next steps already forming in her mind.

  Xakiah paced slowly as he spoke. Five hours and thirteen minutes. That's how long he had until the train left Porcine Park. Usually, he would have spent this time in meditation, to become one with the silence and lay down the pieces of his plan. There was no time for that now. Too much had happened. Too much was at stake.

  So, he paced, and he spoke, and Vassal Moss listened. Moss' face betrayed nothing as Xakiah ran down the events of the day: Georin's information, the train, the creature.

  "Whoever is on that train is a traitor to the Order," his Vassal said finally. "You know what to do."

  "And Georin? He's a bit too in the know about all of this."

  "Georin and Madam Cua are never to be trusted, but we need them at the moment. Keep an eye on him. The time will come when he will outlive his use. Her too."

  "And the creature?"

  His Vassal said nothing, and rested his lips against laced fingers, in thought. Xakiah shifted as he watched him. Moss' silence was usually a good thing. It was a sign that the master Druid was merely doing his intellectual work as a strategist. But this time, his calm was heavy with unusual burden. This time, he actually looked worried.

  "If you come across the creature, do not engage him again," his Vassal said, rising to his feet. "Dismantle the train, and if you run into Ninkashi, dispose of them."

  "I-- yes, Vassal. I will handle it." Xakiah paused, unsure if he should speak further. Vassal Moss wasn't telling him everything, that was clear, and it was most likely for his own good. Still, he couldn't help but wonder...

  "Kaelen?" His Vassal's face was soft. "Something troubles you. Ask."

  Xakiah stepped forward, clenching his jaw. "He knew. He knew about the pink dress. About my father."

  "I believe he knows far more than that, Proficient." Then Xakiah saw his Vassal's eyes flick to something that was behind him. "But I see he's not wholly without art or decorum. I see he's gifted you, and you've accepted it."

  He turned to what Moss was looking at. The box, the same one the creature had left for him, was sitting unopened, but his Vassal's intense gaze was fixed on it.

  Alarmed, Xakiah knelt and lowered his eyes, immediately realizing his mistake. "Vassal, this is not a token of fealty--"

  "Do not apologize. Whatever he's given you is a blessing. You should open it. A gift from a Theosophic Vassal-- whether he is filial or rogue-- should never be denied."

  Xakiah straightened. A Vassal. That dead creature of the wood was a Vassal of the Alchemic Order. And a Theosophic one, no less. Surprising.

  He'd always thought Theosophists to be the charlatans of the three alchemic alignments. Their "alchemy of the spirit", was nothing more than the foolish ploys of dry popes and priests, an excuse to breathe old world theism, dogma, and theology into the new world order. Besides, they were fractured amongst themselves. Five separate clans of Theosophists, always arguing with one another as to whose alchemy was best. Meanwhile, Corporal and Druidic Alchemi
sts laughed at them, as the kings of court laughed at jesters and fools.

  Yet, many men chose the Theosophic alignment. Xakiah had never understood why one would choose to be a Jester if he could be a King or Strategist... but then, there was the creature. A Theosophic Vassal with incredible power. Perhaps, in the end, the jesters were the ones who knew the circus best.

  "Vassal." Xakiah looked at his Vassal, concerned. "What are we dealing with?"

  His Vassal sighed, his gaze far away. "That 'thing' is what happens when a Theosophic Alchemist realizes his true potential... and when we of the other alignments fail to correct him. This was our folly, and this is our punishment for it. You were lucky to have survived him."

  "Why'd he let me live?"

  "He must see some potential in you, something he can use," he scoffed. "That he'd court my Proficient, however, is unforgivable. He's a vain and vicious creature. You need only speak his name, and like the devil, he will appear."

  Like the devil. Indeed, the creature had spoken of crowns and thorns, cloaks and thrones, like some sort of satan. But those were things that no longer, or never, existed. If surviving a world apocalypse had taught him one thing, it was that anything could be killed, gods and devils alike.

  "Tell me his name, Vassal," Xakiah said. "If he is a threat to you or to the Order, I will handle it."

  Vassal Moss chuckled, waving him off. "Don't be foolish. Not even under the burden of torture would I speak his name, nor would I ever deliberately send you to confront him alone. I would not face him without an army of a hundred Vassals by my side, from all the alignments, for that is what it would take to subdue him. But if you want to know what he calls himself, just open your eyes. He has made himself known to you."

  Again, his Vassal lifted his chin to the box. Xakiah, finally feeling free to be curious, walked around his desk and opened it. They both looked inside. Xakiah tensed.

  Staring up at him were a pair of shiny black Mary Janes and white frilly socks to match, child-sized. On top was a simple stationary card with a one-line greeting.

  For the man made in the pink dress.

  He flipped the card over to the back to see a thinly-penned sketch, the ink of it still dripping, as though it had just been scrawled there. The sketch was of a hollow-eyed skull-- dry and macabre-- laughing with an unhinged jaw. A jester's cap, motley with the dazzling gold and orange colors of the Theosophic alignment, sat on its smooth, pale crown. A mentalist's mockery. Underneath the drawing was the creature's signature.

  Sincerely, Faust.

  Guess news traveled fast on the Koan grapevine, because Franz was on her as soon as she stepped back through the brick.

  "Are you insane?" He growled. "I said get information, not put the squeeze on one of our runners."

  Zeika shrugged, throwing her robes on a chair. "It's best to make use of our allies when we have them."

  "The higher ups ain't gonna like what you've done. You've marked yourself, girl."

  "I completed the assignment. I got the blessing, and I got a lead on my first task. Take it, or leave it."

  He glared at her. After a minute though, his expression eased, just a bit, into admiration almost. "Okay," he said. "What've you got?"

  "There's an Azure freight train delivering goods from the Seventh Demesne to the Sixth at 2:00 AM tonight. I plan to be on it."

  "Prove it."

  She tossed the folded blue note onto the table, and Franz picked it up. There was a printed first-class ticket inside, along with a detailed itinerary and a letter.

  "My Lord," Franz read aloud. "Here is your booking as you have requested. You will be riding in the first-class coach of the Sigma Express, along with our associates, who will be present for the negotiations. The Express will pick you all up at 2:31 a.m. at Porcine Park and drop you all off at the Co-op Marketplace Station at 3:43 a.m., where I will then meet you to provide transportation back to your domiciles.

  Keep this information with you at all times, my Lord, and if possible, memorize these details and then burn them. This is for your eyes only. Our contractor requests that all freight shipments be handled with the utmost discretion. Your most devoted servant, Jarell."

  Franz looked up at her, glowing. It was the first genuine smile he'd ever given her. "Porcine Park to the Co-op Marketplace... You're smarter than I took you for."

  "Too bad I don't feel the same way about you." Zeika said, smiling.

  Franz chuckled and lifted the paper to the light, examining it again for more details. Zeika looked to the corner to see that Manja was at Franz' hot plate, quietly stirring some mixed beans around in a pot. A pile of broken, fresh vegetables sat on a plate nearby, next to a glob of raw dough. The place looked a little cleaner, too.

  "Honey...?"

  Manja didn't turn around or respond. She just kept stirring, scraping the bottom of the metal pot in mechanical circles that never ended. Zeika lowered her eyes, wanting to smother the girl with hugs until she said she loved her again, but she knew it'd be useless. Manja was a child, but she was a strong-willed child. She'd have to come around on her own.

  "This is news, no doubt. But why's this important to us? To Koa?" Franz' voice broke into her thoughts as he turned to her.

  "Guess I'll be finding out. It's an Azure freight. It'll be important, especially when I dismantle it and send its pieces scattering across the Sixth. A gift, by express delivery, from me to your friends. But not before I gather data on the freight while it's still in the Seventh."

  Franz smiled, impressed. "Two tasks, two birds--"

  "And one pissed off Civilian stone. Yeah."

  "And the map?"

  She lifted her wrist and showed the raw patches of skin. He inspected it, turning her wrist over and feeling the scars. She winced. It still hurt like hell. Franz' mouth finally tightened into a line, a stamp of approval.

  "You have my permission to begin initiation," he said, dropping her wrist. "Sure about this, though? I mean, it's a shiner of a plan, no doubt, but how're you gonna kill the train?"

  Zeika looked at him and smiled. She could already feel her power awaken and course through her body. "I'm sure I'll manage."

  The tracker Caleb had placed on Morgan's car led him to the edge of Demesne Six, towards a small, urban forest about ten miles away from the former meat packing district. He'd been careful and had waited for the tracker to rest before following. When the trail had finally begun to lead him further from the city bustle, and traffic had become too thin to provide good cover, he'd abandoned his car and had gone the rest of the way on foot. It'd been a welcome night jog and had woken him up, which was a good thing, considering that power naps had replaced bonafide sleeping.

  Soon though, the way became thick with brush and trees, a stark change from the Sixth's urban sprawl. The chill in the air deepened, and the slap of his rifle on his lower back felt like an axe, even in its soft case. His holsters were loaded too, with reliable, heavy firepower and back up ammunition. He could feel itchy welts rising beneath the rhythmic rubs of padded metal, and for a second, he began to regret his decision. But only for a second. Welts, cold, or not, getting torn to shreds by Ninkashi wasn't an option. The protection was worth the pain.

  Besides, there was bound to be someplace warm up ahead where he could rest. From what he could remember from his childhood, the path he was on would lead to a train station, where local freights idled between departures--

  "Ah, Caleb. You're an asshole."

  His former thought died as he slowed his jog, taking in the space before him. It was a station, all right, but not at all how he remembered it. The grand old warehouse had been mowed down, apparently, and in its place stood a simple hooded platform and a bench, crowded by trees and underbrush. A way station, and an empty one, at that. There wasn't even a porta-potty, much less an idling train he could sneak onto.

  He should have known. Not only did his luck suck generally, but the ancient British Pullmans that
rolled through the Protecteds never did have a set schedule. Not one that he knew of, anyway. And yet Morgan's tracker had stopped here.

  He approached, crouching and weaving around the brush that lined the way station, trying his best to stay hidden as he did. The undergrowth around the train stop was tangled and unforgiving, but the tracks themselves were wide and empty, amplifying the dreary howl of the winds. Icy gales scattered leaves and threaded cotton wisps of cloud across the sky, and suddenly, he had a deep feeling of foreboding about all of this. It all looked like the old haunted lots he'd seen so many times in horror movies, except this was real, and this boogieman in particular was in a three-piece suit and wing-tipped designer shoes.

  And yet, Sal Morgan was no where to be found. Neither was his asshole town car.

  Still crouched in the brush, Caleb checked his tracker, straining to keep his movements to a minimum.

  "Lovely," he muttered.

  The tracker had disappeared from the radar. He stared at it, raising an eyebrow-- and then, it reappeared. Except it was another twenty miles away, and northeast. What the hell. Either Morgan had found it, or the tracker had hit some sort of electrical interference. Probably the latter, as the red dot on the screen was practically staggering across the radar, sluggish and erratic, but still heading north.

  Okay, left brain. What now?

  He looked, the answer stretching out for him as far as his eyes could see. The train tracks. Had Morgan hopped a freight from here? Or had he driven, somehow following the tracks? Cars could easily be transported in the cabooses of Civic trains as well, and the practice wasn't entirely unheard of. Either way, the radar made one thing clear: following the tracks would be Caleb's straightest shot to Morgan. On the flip side, it would leave Caleb in the open, an easy shot for anyone looking to take it. Not his greatest plan, but it'd be a hell of a lot easier than picking his way through the underbrush, that was for sure.

  Yup. Jogging in the moonlight, possibly being tracked by Ninkashi, a sitting duck for Koan terrorists. Easy peasy.