Xylvar spun his chair. “Haven’t seen you here before.” This was only Xylvar’s second visit to the bar, but Mr. O.K. Corral probably didn’t know that.
The guy turned and gave Xylvar a look that would have slammed shut the mouth of a lesser man. Xylvar met the man’s hollow stare with his own until the man glanced away.
“Lookin’ for someone, and it ain’t you.”
Xylvar nodded, broke the eye contact that allowed him to see and feel some of the man’s thoughts and emotions, and drained his beer. This wasn’t his message-sender. Mr. O.K. was looking for someone who’d murdered his wife and two kids.
“Hope you find him.” Xylvar did. He’d seen what the man walked into one fall evening. He hoped O.K. found his family’s killer, and took a long time to savor his eye for an eye.
He continued observing the bar patrons. He needed to find that slime Pure sympathizer and acquire information. Information he could sell for credits.
Credits were scarce for someone on a disabled Special Operations pension. New recruits weren’t informed of how little disabled survivors received on discharge. Of course, normally it didn’t matter, since most didn’t make it out of the force alive.
Unfortunately, he had.
Four weeks ago, he learned of the new trial surgery that might repair his spinal cord if he could afford to pay for hospital and specialist fees.
Xylvar had six months to earn the required credits. After that, the specialist said, the damage would be too long-term, making the procedure unviable.
He’d just have to earn enough. With saleable skills, both learned and innate, he’d have to work twenty-four seven to pull the credits needed. And he was determined he would, or die. And with the recent undercurrents of racial tension the credits were flowing into his account more readily. His main financial boost came from Kaid Sinclair, leader of the Katoom Eli clan. The Eli leader had taken a liking to Xylvar’s skill set and paid him well for any information he discovered and shared.
Black market informants indicated the Pure movement had started kidnapping clanless Crea and Eli to harvest the gold and silver in their blood.
A practice so evil most humans considered it an abomination.0
Such barbarism had been outlawed worldwide for three hundred years. Yet, as Xylvar knew, laws rarely stymied greed.
At only a quarter Eli, Xylvar didn’t have enough silver to make it worthwhile for anyone to milk him of his blood or even to render his entire body for his limited silver. Still, he’d fight against such acts. Though he despised his life, he hated injustice more, and would help hunt down and stop the uprising of evil.
In preparation for his visit to The Blue Bar and its unsavory clientele, he’d concealed his all-seeing silver eyes with near-black contact lenses. The lenses made seeing into a person murkier, but he’d still gain enough insight to know if someone was evil enough to be involved with the Pures.
Four men at the far end of the bar had the glazed eyes and aura of crazed violence common to Mule addicts. The way they swaggered, you’d think unwashed bodies, missing teeth, and greasy hair were preeminent proof of their manhood. They’d eyed two men who strolled in and left ten minutes earlier as if assessing a meal. They’d eyeballed Xylvar when he first rolled into the bar as well, but soon lost interest. A ten-years-out-of-date wheelchair and his shabby clothes marked him as not worth mugging.
Good chance such gutter pigs could be his Pure sympathizers. But Xylvar knew prejudice and evil didn’t always come in a tacky package. Education, impeccable manners, and wealth did not make a saint.
Xylvar sipped his fresh beer and casually kept the men in his peripheral vision. Something very dark emanated from those meatheads, and would have worried him if he gave a fuck about staying alive.
Their decision to ignore him was wise. Not because Xylvar possessed a mere handful of credits, but because Xylvar, even wheelchair-bound, could kill all four in seconds without drawing his hidden blaster. Special Operations might find him of little use for assassination assignments, but they’d taught him excellent skills. Some skills were worth keeping. Adding to.
Post-accident, anger-fueled training had honed his strength and killing expertise.
Two women walked in. A redhead and a brunette. The brunette’s shoulder-length, thick, bouncy curls, and curves to match, caught his attention—made his chest spasm.
She turned. His chest eased, allowing to him draw in a deep breath.
Too old, and not beautiful enough to be Jaz. A fly crawled near his hand, and he brushed it away. What if it had been Jaz? Wasn’t like she’d ever been his. Since she become engaged to his best friend before Xylvar left to join the army. His infatuation with her was soul-crushingly pathetic. And one of the reasons he’d left. And now, even if she happened to sit down next to him, those glorious eyes smiling into his, what would she see?
Not the Xylvar she’d been friends with. No, she’d see what he’d become.
A cringeworthy, soulless half man.
The two women ordered drinks, then headed for a corner table, sitting with their backs to the wall while they watched the front door as if it might explode. The redhead held a large canvas bag close to her side, her other hand gripping her drink like she wished it held a blaster.
He understood their tension. Anyone with a modicum of taste or love of life would find The Blue Bar a nerve-racking experience.
So old he could paint dinosaurs from memory, the barman picked up Xylvar’s empty glass and raised his left eyebrow.
“Darkest Brew.” Xylvar eyed the elderly man, who carried a blaster strapped to his leg in plain sight, while he pulled the beer. The glass arrived near Xylvar’s left hand, condensation tracking snail trails down the outside. Xylvar pushed a yellow credit disc across the counter’s dark, sticky wood.
The blue-veined, knobby hand took the credit.
“You get a bit of action here?” Xylvar nodded at the man’s thigh.
“I like people to pay for their drinks.”
Xylvar needed to get closer to the men and two women, to look into their eyes and read if one was the intended recipient of the message he intercepted.
He drank half his beer, then wheeled toward the bathroom so he could pass the four unwashed. His rubber wheels made tacky, sucking sounds on the floor. No five-second rule for this floor—instant biohazard. The barman watched while Xylvar rolled, his almost lipless mouth turned down.
Their body odor hit Xylvar from ten feet away, but he met the steady stares of the two facing him, reading some of their emotions, gleaning a good view of their thoughts. One considered himself the leader of the filthy gang. He’d killed, mugged, and raped. The other wasn’t much of an improvement, but he preferred to beat people up for little reason and steal. Neither man would make the ranks of solid citizens, nor were they the person Xylvar hunted.
Xylvar swung his gaze to the two women and, to keep their eyes on his, gave them both a dark smile. The sort that, from a man like himself, repelled and yet gave some women pause before looking away. Ah, the bag was full of designer sunglasses the redhead stole from her work. The women were waiting for a buyer, hoping the buyer would pay enough to allow the brunette to fund leaving her drunken, wife-beating husband and move to Florida.
Whole place was full of happy souls.
Xylvar felt totally at home.
Inside the washroom, the stench of failed auto-flush and disinfect systems, and the fifty-year-old, cracked yellow tiles, matched his expectations. He spun his chair and waited.
The two men Xylvar had not already eyeballed strode in. The bigger one grinned to display his two missing teeth. His left eyelid spasmed constantly.
“Nice case of Mule twitch.” Xylvar said in a dry, even tone.
Mr. Big cracked his knuckles and showed off a set of rings capable of smashing bone. Xylvar had expected their company. He’d felt their intent while he read their leader. Though he wasn’t worth taking on in the open bar, as a trapped man in the crapper, he made
fair game.
Xylvar ran his tongue across his top teeth in anticipation. His blood silver bloomed like thick dust on his skin, as it did at times of high emotion in all Eli. A full blood could glow like a chrome beacon. “Nice night for it.”
The men looked at each other, smirking at the shared pleasure they’d get from beating up a man in a wheelchair. Mr. Big lifted his leg and placed his metal-pointed boot on the left wheel of Xylvar’s chair. The man twisted his foot until a thin, six-inch blade shot out of the tip.
Xylvar’s heart thudded dully and evenly. Good, a few tricks made the coming fight more enjoyable.
“You pay to take a piss here.” Mr. Big nodded to the ring Xylvar wore on his left hand. A thick, intricate gold band holding a large emerald. “I think that bauble’s mine.”
Xylvar glanced at the ring—the only thing he had to remember his father—then into the man’s eyes while he lashed out an arm. Honed to extreme strength from weights, training, anger, and the fact he preferred the workout of manual wheelchair propulsion, his arm was more powerful and effective than a wooden bat.
He knocked the man’s leg from underneath him, dislodging it so it jerked too far forward and sideways. Xylvar grabbed the man’s ankle and twisted. Mr. Big tried to spin away, but was too slow. His knee cracked, and he let out a strangled scream. His boot-knife cut through the faded denim shirt and nicked Xylvar’s biceps. While the blood stained, Xylvar shoved the man onto the floor. Mr. Big landed with a satisfying crack of his melon head on tile.
Mr. Big’s friend pulled a razor-edged knife and lunged. Xylvar pulled his own from under his ass and slashed, catching the man across the chest. The man shrieked but continued forward, his arm swinging the knife to lash the air. With a quick grab of shirt to haul the man closer, Xylvar used the steel butt of his blade to smash him with a fast upper-cut, in just the right place for a knockout. The man went down, landing hard on his friend.
Xylvar looked at the two men—one out, the other trying to get out from under his hefty friend—and carefully wheeled around them. He washed his hands and checked his arm.
“Damn.” It needed medi-seal. He’d glue it himself when he got home. Cleaner than using the free clinics and, since he could down a couple of whiskey shots first, less painful.
He pushed out of the small hall and found the barman heading in. The elderly man stopped, slid his blaster back into the holster on his hip, nodded at Xylvar, and strode back behind the bar.
In the bar area, the other two unwashed were gone. They probably had their own victims, or waited outside to see what their buddies scored in their toilet mugging.
Since nobody in the bar that evening was his message receiver, he decided to call his night uneventful and leave.
Xylvar wheeled for the door when he gazed into the eye of a woman who’d entered the bar while he was making new friends in the toilet. The woman, a step behind her partner, had dark circles under her eyes, and looked drawn and fragile.
Her thoughts came in a jumble of pictures, words, and emotions.
Six Crea. What had he had done to those six Crea the other day? In the bathroom, pissing blood from the latest beating, she’d heard a noise, and, nerves raw and full of terror, looked out. Stupid. She should know better than to react to any noise or motion. She watched the van pull down the drive to the back garage. The garage that hadn’t been used for two years.
Shouldn’t have looked, shouldn’t have watched, now she was part of it. She’d fry in Hell for what she hadn’t done. No different from life.
Xylvar eyed the woman’s husband. Gold rimmed the pigshit scum’s irises. Part Crea, and he’d sold out his own race. Xylvar wheeled out of the bar and checked for the other two unwashed. The coast clear, he wheeled up the street to his old, beat-up van Rehabilitation had converted to take a chair. Once inside he found a small bandage, wrapped up his wound, and settled in for a wait.
He couldn’t have stayed for more bar time without attracting too much attention. People bleeding usually made tracks for a medi-clinic. Plus, if the unwashed were still around, and they realized he’d toppled their buddies, he’d have more to fight, and he couldn’t be bothered.
It helped that his van smelled a heck of lot better than the bar.
People came and went until the couple at last emerged, the husband’s hand clamped heavily on the woman’s shoulder as they walked down the road. They got into a nondescript white vehicle too far away to see the license plate. Xylvar picked up his small binoculars, but another car pulled out, blocking his line of sight. Not a big problem, he’d follow them, find out where they lived, and contact Kaid.
Xylvar pressed the starter disc. The van made a zinging sound, as if the electronic connection wasn’t hitting its target to engage the engine. Xylvar tried again. The engine started, so he drove out into the lane. The van lurched and stopped. Fuck. He hit the starter disc. It made the same odd noise, but after a few more zings, the engine started. Hand hard on the power button on his steering wheel, he drove down the road and came to the highway.
Shit. He thumped the steering wheel with a closed fist. The couple and their car had disappeared.
He’d have to go back to the bar tomorrow night, and probably face the four unwashed again, although he might just put a blaster in his lap as a warning. Still, he had a lead, and that was almost as good as credits in the vault. Kaid would be pleased, and Xylvar could put real meat on his table and pay his power bill. He’d set the rest aside for his spinal cord surgery.
#
Pale early morning light filtered through the dogwood overhanging the weed-dotted strip of land beside Xylvar’s unit. This spot, with his squirrel and bird feeder, was his main source of outdoorsy comfort. Most Eli needed outdoor, forest chill-out time, even one with mixed genetics like himself. And today his spot felt especially soul-filling. For today, life had real hope.
Late the night before, after Xylvar returned from The Blue Bar and glued the cut in his arm, Kaid Sinclair called and asked Xylvar to work with a new clan member on a long term project. Kaid and his clan felt their combined cyber skills would more effectively cyber track and follow leads on the Pures than if Xylvar and this woman worked separately. And the cherry, the payment would almost cover the entire spinal procedure.
He’d start in a couple of weeks. But he’d get through until then. He’d find that couple from The Blue Bar, and they’d give him some leads. He’d pay his power and buy fresh food for once.
So, even though he didn’t play well with others, he’d take the gig and work with a partner. Walking was more important than anything else…certainly his anti-social preferences.
Nothing would be allowed to interfere with his chance to try the procedure. He’d tough it out, no matter how much it sucked.
Coffee in the cup holder of his wheelchair and cyber tablet in his lap, he smiled as a squirrel scampered down and took a nut from his hand, all the while assessing him with bright black eyes.
“Your food provider is secure for now.” How life could change in a few days.
Now he had hope of once more living a real life, his revolver could stay in the drawer, be withdrawn only if the surgery didn’t work.
The new procedure experimented with an intercellular repair agent so advanced it started at the molecular level. With nanorobotics attached to spinal cells harvested from his own system, the cells would divide and form bridges, pathways, and new connections, that allowed the nerves to function as they were meant to.
He had no problem allowing his body to be used as a giant guinea pig. If it failed, he still had his hollow-point bullet.
With the squirrel feasting on the free feed, Xylvar angled his chair to catch the majority of the soft sun’s rays, then opened the local cyber-newspaper he subscribed to, an honest news report that actually reported provable news.
On the front page was the image of a couple. The couple he tried to follow home last night. Caleb Stains and his wife Rebecca had been murdered in their bed. He skimme
d the rest of the short story and shook his head.
Well, shit, there went his power payment and steak. Talk about shit luck.
4
Chapter Four
After a two-hour workout on machines made to keep his muscles and tendons stretched and functional, Xylvar headed for the rendezvous with his new work partner. He ordered a second coffee and adjusted his wheelchair for a better view of the fold-back French doors, the potted flowering plants on the sidewalk, and anyone entering the café.
The female Kaid told him to meet was late, and he hated tardiness almost as much as he hated working with someone, for someone. If this had been for anything less than the chance to walk, he’d have left half an hour ago. Kaid’s credit lure set a fair snare for any mercenary, but for Xylvar it could mean to walk again—his life.
Worse, the female worked for the Federal Bureau of Preternatural Investigations, or FBPI. An agent with probably basic agency skills who followed cyber laws. How could her cyber skills, limited by international laws, help him locate the Pures’ epicenter, or even a base, or a sympathizer? To dig into the underbelly of lowlifes, you needed to ignore laws and rules telling you to desist. Yet Kaid wanted him to work with her, and had even given him strict instructions about how not to behave around her.
He would behave. But, if his luck was true to form, he’d do something to piss her off, and she’d arrest him for breathing.
His second coffee arrived. He lifted the cup and slopped the scalding brew over his hand. “Fuck.” Silver dusted his skin while he mopped up the dark liquid.
“Mommy, that man said a bad word, and his eyes are silver.”
The brat’s mother, a slightly rumpled version of the beauty he’d bet she’d been, leaned closer to her child, as if Xylvar would try to take a bite. Yeah, women saw him and cringed. He was scarred, his face disfigured, and then, of course, there was the obvious. He was part Eli, and far more sinister than most. It wasn’t hard to sense his blackened soul.
Flames of Hope Page 2