by Colby R Rice
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.
Children of the Civic Order:
Know Your Rights!
If You are 17 Years of Age or Younger, You Are Legally Considered a "Ghost of War", which Means:
You Are Protected by
the Articles 37 through 39.
Article 37: Clear distinctions must be made between Koan soldiers and Civilians prior to the enforcement of legal and penal sanctions. Such distinctions must be supportable by both probable cause and clear, indisputable evidence
Article 38: All non-military human subjects, Azure and Civilian alike, who fall below the age of 18 are to be classified and treated as 'ghosts of war'
Article 39: No 'ghost of war' is to be physically harmed, arrested, or interrogated by any Azure or Civilian in law enforcement, any Alchemist in law enforcement, or by any agent— human or otherwise— working at the behest of the Civic or Alchemic Orders.
Any questions or concerns regarding the Articles39, or complaints of undue harassment by an Alchemic Police Officer, Soldier, or other Agent of the Alchemic Order should be addressed to:
Councilman Micah Burke
Demesne Seven, 40.723619, -74.036653
Councilman Duncan Pihonak
Demesne Six, 40.769302, -73.981363
Councilman Salvatore Morgan:
Demesne Five, 40.938154, -73.832078
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, chas
ing 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.
When she allowed herself to walk away an hour later, her limbs were still trembling. Happy now, Baba? The sour thought drove a frown into her face. She didn't want this, any of this. The war, Koa, Majkata— none of it. But as the shadows of Koa and the Cabal had continued to grow across the world, she realized she had to practice, every day, just in case. Besides, Majkata helped her maintain control— and that's what Baba cared about most.
She looked to the gymnastics station, and for a moment, she allowed herself to smile. Finally, it was time to be Ezekiel.
First, the uneven bars. She fluttered from one bar to the other, her body straight but limber, her joints hinging the contortions of her body to one another. Controlled yet supple, she became a dark ribbon beneath the lighting. She moved to the balance beam: mount, front handspring and then back, front, front, back, dismount. She repeated, rolling round offs and slow cartwheels into her routine.
Lastly, to the wooden floor and mirrors, where she took a moment to cool down and stretch. Then in her worn ballet slippers, Zeika started small, practicing the five positions. She changed to pliés, degagés. Then she moved to point, executing chaînés, pirouettes, fouttés. Another hour fell off the clock, and her silken movements evolved: front two-knuckle punch, roundhouse kick, chaîné. Crescent kick, triple chaîné, crescent kick, foutté.
She grimaced as her Majkata awakened, threading itself into her routine. The same curve of the foot, the same precision, the same muscle memories. Ballet, Majkata, and gymnastics— they polluted each other, using her as their dumping ground. Even if she and her family did make it into Demesne Seven, no dance school would ever take her. Her forms were too impure. Too Civilian.
I'll never be a dancer. Just some twit twirling in the dark.
But until Manja woke up at least, they were safe here, in the warm halls of the Guild of Almaut.
The rickety old shopping cart creaked in complaint as its battered wheels rattled against the wet dirt and concrete. As another rumble rolled through the heavens, the cart trembled in tandem, its metal pelican's beak bulging outward with the heavy packages stacked inside it. The rain came down hard across Zeika's poncho, and she gritted her teeth as she pushed the cart, her load feeling heavier today than it ever did before. Delivery was the longest part of her circuit, and it never got any easier. Especially on the rainy days.
"Shit!"
Zeika stumbled on some loose debris and nearly fell until she tightened her grip on the cart. She found her footing again, but just as she was about to push on, she paused, allowing her aching muscles to breathe. There was no reason for this. She was an athlete, as fit as they came, and yet her whole body was trembling beneath her plastics. She hadn't noticed how weak and achy she felt until now. She'd been so busy, the food had been so little for so long. She thought she could just push through it today, but...
Manja's little hand alighted on hers and squeezed, and when Zeika glanced at her, the girl smiled. No words. They always had to listen out for oncoming looters and APs, so they never spoke on the circuit. Manja maintained a lookout as she sat in the front baby seat of the grocery cart, holding a tattered child's umbrella over the both of them. Apparently, though, looters weren't the only things the girl was looking out for.
Zeika smiled back at her, Manja's bright eyes somehow sapping away the pain in her body. She braced herself and continued on, choosing to focus on Manja's wrapped knee instead of the long road ahead.
An entire two days had fallen off the calendar before she and Manja could leave the Guild of Almaut. Manja had needed more time for her knee to heal up, putting them a whole night behind their schedule. But Zeika didn't mind it. Manja always came first. Always.
After pushing the cart for what felt like ages, they finally came upon a housing settlement that looked much like their own. This one, however, was couched away inside a dilapidated donut shop and laundromat. Zeika rapped on the door.
"Quien?" A sweet accented voice filtered through.
"Me."
A chain of five locks opened one by one until the reinforced door was released and swung open. A warm, sumptuous smell wafted out into the street, settling into Zeika's senses. Garlic, pork, beans, sweet plantains. Mrs. Cartegena was at it in the kitchen again.
"Mis amores!" The short, squat woman greeted them cheerfully. "Please, please come in. Get warm and out of the rain! And the cart too, mamita, just set it right in here."
Zeika whispered her usual thanks as she rolled Manja and their load in.
"My goodness, how many times have I told you to call me Gladys, honey?" Gladys closed the door behind them and locked it again. "Now have a seat. Dinner's almost ready."
"Mrs. Cartegena, you really don't have to—"
"Shut up, Zeika. I said sit down."
Zeika smiled sheepishly and picked Manja up out of the cart.
"Hi, Mrs. Gladys!" Manja twittered. "Is Mr. Anthony here?"
"Yes, sweetie! He's tinkering with his gadgets again! Go get him so we can have dinner."
Shaking off her poncho, Manja ran to the back, calling Anthony's name. As Zeika laid her own wet clothes on the cart, Gladys bussed her down with a towel.
"My, my, you girls are out doing deliveries in this kind of weather? You work much too hard!" Without waiting for a response, Gladys ran into the kitchen.
"Rain's not too bad," Zeika whispered.
Plates clattered together in the distance, and Zeika sighed, plopping down on the soft shredded loveseat. She listened out for Manja.
"No, Mr. Anthony! Put your robot pictures down and come to dinner right now!" Manja's command boomed from the back.
Zeika rubbed her temples, trying to massage out the hunger pains. She didn't like this, getting too close to the clients. More time spent with one customer meant fewer trades as a whole, and less money. But Manja loved the old couple, and Manja always came first.
Soon, the girl skipped out from the back, followed by Mr. Anthony, who hobbled along on his walking stick. They were chatting; Anthony, about the newest robot arm some Azure had invented, and Manja, about what, precisely, was wrong with it. The conversation took a turn when Manja ran up to her, holding a fuzzy patchwork stuffed bear for Zeika to see.
"Look at what Mr. Anthony gave me!"
Zeika smiled at the old man. "Thank you, Mr. Cartegena. She loves stuffed animals."
"Ah it's a small thing compared to what you do for us!" Anthony smiled good-naturedly. He leaned hard on his cane as he sat himself down in an adjacent armchair.
"Speaking of." Zeika stood and took the first couple of wrapped packages from the top of the shopping cart. "Here's your delivery. Just double check to make sure we've gotten everything."
"Wonderful!" Anthony rubbed his hands together as Zeika set the package in his lap. He unwrapped the plastic and surveyed the collection of supplies within. An assortment of carrot and broccoli seeds, some garlic bulbs, two pints of paint, three spools of black sewing thread, a bottle of water pills, a frozen pork shoulder, a first aid kit… and a Glock 21 with two full magazines.
"Marvelous. Your payment is there by the door for when you leave."
Zeika looked over her shoulder to see that the old couple had already arranged and packaged their payment. They had promised her three-feet of painter's canvas, some dried herbs, a couple of pairs of worn shoes, a small sack of rice and brown sugar, and some woolen hats. By the looks of the package, they had delivered.
Anthony looked up. "The hardware?"
"They work. I've just cleaned them, too. If you'd like anything else, feel free to put it on your order slip." Zeika reached into her robes and pulled out a mini notepad and pen. It was already open to its first page, which read at the top: "Stop 1, New Order, Tu/March, 23, 2155."
Anthony quickly scrawled out a new order before he handed the pad back to her. "You are the angel of Demesne Five, Z."
"We're just making a living. Glad to help anyway we can."
"Shame what those bastards did. The whole Fifth misses your metal." He looked at the cleaned Glock in his lap, making a face. He was glaring at the insignia of the Alchemic Order emblazoned on the barrel, and Zeika could have sworn he was about to spit. "Piece of Azure trash. Wouldn't know firearms from their—"
"AMORE!" Gladys interrupted from the kitchen. "Please! The children!"