Flames of Hope

by Cassandra L Shaw

  The large, ultra-modern bathroom, tiled in white and duck-egg blue, had deep blue towels and robe. Soaps and other cleaners were scented with something floral with a mixed spice note, the ultimate in unisexual. Back in the living area, the vase on a small table held a bouquet of blue and white flowers he couldn’t name. The couch, a dark burgundy, went oddly well with the dark blue carpet and blinds, and the soft, gold rug was plush and probably cost more than Xylvar earned in the past two years.

  All this flash wasted on him.

  It was beautiful, elegant, better than anything he’d ever stayed or lived in. A suite that should be shared. And he wished he shared it with Jaz.

  He found the room service menu and ordered a meal to be delivered at seven, switched on the halo, flicked through the channels, then turned it off. With a small adjustment he opened the blinds, to let the view of the outside world in, then opened the double doors leading onto the balcony, and rolled out. In the ninety-one-year worldwide war, Boston, a city once zoned only for human occupants and no subspecies, had been nearly annihilated. Now the city held Eli and Crea enclaves, and suburbs with a mix of both subspecies and pure humans.

  And, of course, the zones where no Eli or Crea ventured if they didn’t fancy finding a blaster hole in their backs.

  He knew that out there in the ’burbs of enrichment in Boston, once his home town, hatred existed among and between the three human species’. He’d been ostracized because he hadn’t fully belonged to any race. Being only a quarter Eli made him alien meat to full humans, and to the Elis, he didn’t have enough silver in his blood to be embraced as an Eli.

  From this vantage point, he could almost see the suburb he’d grown up in, remember the hatred, the beatings, and his friend Tony, a full Eli, coming to his aid.

  Rumors were, Boston was a Pures and Humans First hot spot, meaning no Eli or Crea were truly safe. Eli and Crea, although many times faster than a pure human, were still vulnerable. A blaster still burned a hole through their bodies just as easily as a pure human. And the Boston gangs were renowned for modifying blasters so that they could almost cut a person in half, no matter what the species.

  It was one of the reasons clan booked this hotel. Eli-owned, its management employed a mixed staff of pure human, Eli and Crea.

  Nice such places existed, but Xylvar wasn’t sure how long the hotel, or any other business, suburb or even town would remain multi-species. For he knew it didn’t matter the species, there were always members of the community who held their own prejudices.

  Xylvar had tasted the racism from two species in this town, knew how hatred and power twisted and sucked in the weak of all species—pure human, Crea, or Eli—intolerance of the different always festered somewhere.

  Last time prejudice had been allowed to spread and infect the world, the three human populations almost destroyed themselves. And this time, the world held Jaz.

  To fight the festering from spreading and ending in another war, Xylvar needed his legs.

  #

  The next morning, after an early breakfast, Xylvar arrived at the clinic. A receptionist asked him to fill out an electronic form, and to sign with his palm print. He handed it over to the young male, a lanky Crea.

  “Xylvar? That’s old Eli and Crea? Elan.”

  Elan was both species old home planet. “Yeah. Family name from the first arrivals. Translates to one of passion, or something like that.” Well, he had certainly felt it the other night.

  “Passionate lover. Xyl short Xyllyn which means passion, Var, or varsey, to love with body.”

  Xylvar lifted his brows at the young man. “Guess a bomb voided my name.”

  “A bomb? You were in the armed forces?” The young man gave Xylvar a look mixed with equal amounts of horror and wonder. And it hit Xylvar, the man was flirting with him.

  “Er, yeah.” Didn’t the guy see the chair?

  A middle-aged woman appeared and held out her hand to Xylvar who took it. “I’m Dr. Beck Shelton. Please follow me.”

  She turned and hurried down a white hallway until she came to a set of double glass doors. She opened them and indicated Xylvar should enter.

  Inside the new room, he swallowed, and the first tingles of sweat hit his neck.

  White walls. White bed, White floor, with a red tile every few square feet. The sickening stench of medicines, antiseptics, cleaning products, and bitterness washed over him.

  He gripped the handles of his chair, his knuckles turning white. Sweat spread to cover the parts of his body he could feel. Blood roared in his ears. Memories of horrid pain, crushing disappointment, and the unyielding bright fucking white of the hospital, stopped him from moving.

  He started to pull air in, puffing it out too fast.

  It wasn’t going to work. Wasn’t going to work.

  “Mr. Johanneson—Xylvar, are you all right?” The woman dropped to a crouch beside him, pried his fingers off the armrest and felt for his pulse. She turned to someone he couldn’t see. “Panic attack.”

  A sweetly feminine voice cut through the rushing blood. “He’s had a lot of procedures since his accident.” The voice came closer. “Drink this.” A cup was put into his hand, but he could barely hold it, his hand shook so hard.

  “Please. Drink it, it will help.” She took his hand and lifted it and the cup to his lips. He drank the vile-tasting liquid. “It’s just a something to settle you. A mild sedative.” After he finished she took the cup and threw it into the recycle bin.

  “Have you been assessed for PTSD?”

  He nodded. He doubted anyone who’d gone through what he had wouldn’t have some. In dreams he couldn’t control it, but during the day he managed fine.

  “And?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Sure you are. All you quiet guys are.” She retook his pulse. “You keep that thought going while we start with a whole-body scan.”

  Great. He couldn’t wait.

  #

  Xylvar rolled into the specialist’s office, the key specialist and nano-bioengineer who invented the procedure.

  The doctor brought up a seventy-inch screen. He walked over and pointed to a large image of what Xylvar assumed was the section of spine that had shattered in the explosion, and started to talk and show Xylvar other images.

  “So my chances are slim.” Or fucking none.

  “Because you have used mechanical and electrical stimulation, maintaining daily movement, your muscle and bone density wastage has been greatly reduced. So, if the procedure works, your rehabilitation time will be faster than most. However, I estimate that, with the extent of your damage, and the age of the injury, you have about a fifty percent chance that you will walk again with aids such as walking sticks or robotic leg braces.

  He’d be even less mobile than he was now. “To walk freely?”

  “Hard to estimate, but much lower. Perhaps twenty percent.”

  “To feel. To achieve an erection?”

  “As high as fifty percent.. Maybe even higher. However, if the repair is not fully achieved, you may still have limited sensations. And as I mention in the booklet, the procedure can work just enough to cause pain. And that pain could be considerable.”

  Xylvar looked at the doctor and gave him a quick nod. “I’ll take the risk.” There was, after all, still a single hollow-point bullet, waiting in a revolver that would take away all pain.

  21

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Jasmine put in packets of diced steak, chicken pieces, bacon, and a small ham into every one of her four coolers. On top, she placed an ice brick before clipping down the insulated lid.

  When they first started their undercover personas, she’d noted Xylvar’s reaction to the fresh and plentiful food she bought for the duplex. Sad thing about men with such pride. They’d probably starve before seeking such generous assistance as this.

  And the cost of upkeep and running his rehabilitation equipment would take credits. How did he manage on his pension and the spor
adic income from his mercenary cyber work?

  Jasmine wheeled her trolley to the conveyor belt and lifted the filled hampers onto it.

  She’d left a slow pot roast on to celebrate his homecoming. Hopefully he’d been given the news he wanted, and the surgery, or whatever it was, would give him his legs back. She didn’t know what he’d done in Special Forces, other than he’d been an assassin but whatever it was had broken his soul.

  She couldn’t imagine what it would do to a person mentally, being trained to kill without reason other than orders. To deal with becoming a calculated murderer, and then to be critically injured in an explosion, sustaining injuries that left you disabled, would surely break anyone to some degree.

  Then add the fact you blamed yourself for your injuries….

  The man with the nearly-healed scratches came over to the conveyor belt, nodded to Jasmine. She smiled back brightly, and put four empty hampers onto her trolley and headed for the shelves of pantry foods.

  “Hey, sweet cheeks, you attend one of the churches?”

  The man’s voice came from way too close by, his breath thick with beer and European sausage. She held her breath and tried not to gag.

  “No, I’m not a believer. I just believe in helping others if possible.”

  He leaned forward stared pointedly at her breasts. “Reckon you help a lot of guys have a better day just by walking by.”

  She stepped back, dug around for some acting skills, hooker style. “That’s the plan.”

  He leaned in closer, his breath blowing ugliness and moving her hair. “What color hair do you really have?”

  “Red.”

  “Nah, that’s a wig. You also wear a barrow-load of enhancements. Who you hiding from, sweet cheeks?”

  “Not hiding from anyone. I just like how I look with a little help. And my hair’s red, but not as nice as the wig.” Shit-shit-shit.

  He scratched the side of his face. “What do you do for a crust?”

  “I—um work, at, er…in design with a clothing designer.” Couldn’t have him showing up a few doors down wanting to book her.

  “Really? They make that outfit? It’s hot. They make a lot of hot clothes?”

  What a jerkoff. “No. this is just me. We design mostly workwear, corporate end.” Such a slob wouldn’t have a clue about corporate wear. She didn’t either, but what he didn’t know wouldn’t get a throwing star stuck in his shoulder.

  “Girl like you…”

  She swung and put the trolley between them to keep herself from punching him in the throat. “I have to get these filled. You have a delivery.”

  Jen, one of the other women, pushed her trolley down the aisle. “Jasper, Father Morgan wants you.”

  Jasper gave Jasmine a slightly squinted glare, shoved his hands in his pockets, and strode off.

  “Guy’s a slime. You’d swear he was Eli or Crea or something.” She shuddered. “Creepy creatures, they are.”

  Lock the silver, lock the silver. “They’re very good-looking.” And compared to humans, they mostly were, which Jasmine always figured was one of the reasons so many pure humans disliked them.

  “Sure. But they’re not human, ya know. We’ve got to stick to our own.”

  Not really. “True.”

  Jen leaned onto the shelving. Pulled out an herbal smoking stick, lit it and started to draw on it. “Tell me if you see someone coming. Not allowed to smoke in here. Pious bitches.”

  Jasmine blinked. What was Jen doing here if she didn’t like anyone?

  Jen flicked, blew out a stream of rank smoke, coughed into her fist. “How much longer you got yourself down for?”

  “Twenty minutes.”

  She drew again, blew some more smoke out, her eyes watering. “Cool. I got a motor, we can go for a drink.”

  “That’d be nice.” The back of Jasmine’s neck tingled, and not because she lied. Something told her Jen wasn’t who she made herself out to be.

  “Yeah, sure. Meet me out front, end of shift.”

  #

  Jen’s car was surprisingly new, and a better model than most could afford. Jasmine looked around it appreciatively. “What do you do for a living?”

  “Oh, I own four stores. My gran left them to me.”

  “And you do the hampers?”

  “Sure. Good for the soul. Father Morgan only supplies humans, no subs, but that’s on the quiet. ’Course, that could be because the Eli and Crea have their own dumb beliefs, or don’t ask for charity. All that earth and sun crap. Wouldn’t matter if they did believe in the real God anyways. God knows who’s human, who’s a monster.” She ran her hand over a necklace. “Course their gold is the best.”

  She gave Jasmine a large wink. The hair on the back of Jasmine’s neck stood on end while she struggled to stop herself from simultaneously throwing up and pulling a knife on the woman. But along with the disgust and horror came the realization that Jen just might have, or know of someone who had, a connection to the Pure movement.

  Her heart thudded hard but slow. A long, meditative look out the window calmed her, restored her control. She drew in a breath, turned back to Jen, and smiled. “I’ve heard there’s an uprising against the subs. The Pures or something like that.”

  “Sure, there’ve been around for ages, but the new person running it has vision. True vision. Big visions. Couple of years at most, and Eli and Crea will be nothing but jewelry, ornaments, and fertilizer.” She pointed to the sky. “If I was one of them, I’d be finding the original ships and be zipping into the stars. ’Course, I don’t care if they don’t.”

  And what would they use for fuel if they did somehow discover the ships the original Crea and Eli landed on Earth in? “Yeah. Me either. Be good to get in with the group. Help on the base level.” Slice all the members into small chunks and feed them to starving animals.

  Jen gave her speculative look, then hit the auto park button of her vehicle, letting it slip into a spot while she bit her lips and applied lip stain. She finger-brushed her hair, then messed it up again. “Like my hair bed-mussed.” She assessed Jasmine. “Guess with that outfit and those great tits, you already look like you love to fuck.”

  Jasmine looked at the bar where they’d parked. Constructed of old red brick, it had a dirty concrete plaque above the door announcing the building had been erected in 1910. Two potted pines stood sentinel on each side of the front door, and an auto-driven street cleaner slowly rumbled down the path, whisking away whatever it found. In the door, an ancient neo sign in bright yellow declared it was the Spur & Bit bar—never closing.

  Inside, the odor of spilt booze vied with stale greasy food smells. The dark wood floor, dull from lack of polishing, matched the tables and chairs. People, leaning close and talking softly, occupied several tables. Two sex workers, badge stating their license number hanging off a chain pinned to the little bit of clothing they wore, leaned against the bar, their eyes dull with boredom. Two men strolled in behind Jasmine and Jen. The workers rolled their bodies toward the men, their faces animated. One guy blew them a kiss but walked past. The other ignored them. The girls returned to their original positions, slumped and dull-eyed.

  Jen sniggered. “Wouldn’t be getting much business here.”

  “Because it’s not busy?”

  “’Burb is super-povo.”

  “You mean poor? Then why are we here?” The place seemed out of place for someone who drove the sort of car Jen owned, and who owned her own businesses.

  Jen shrugged. “Atmosphere.” She giggled. “Guessed you’d be interested in the Pures, If you want we can meet a guy. He lives near here.” At Jasmine’s cautious nod, Jen pulled out a personal link and sent a text. The barman, a huge bear of a man with cropped red hair, gray eyes that missed nothing, and hands the size of Jasmine’s head came over.

  “Ladies?” The term sounded a touch sarcastic.

  Jen pursed her lips, leaned over the counter so her top dropped open. The barman didn’t even glance down. Jasmine ha
d the feeling he stifled the urge to roll his eyes. “Tequila shot.”

  The man turned to Jasmine. “Orange juice.”

  Jen laughed. “You kidding? Put some vodka in it.” She demanded of the barman.

  Jasmine met the man’s gaze. “Orange juice.” He nodded.

  “What’s with not drinking?”

  “I’m visiting my mom tonight.”

  Jen nodded, grabbed the shot off the bar and threw it back. She gasped, rolled her head and tapped the empty shot glass on the bar. “Well I’m not. Two more.”

  Jasmine guessed she’d be catching a cab back to her own car. After four more shots, Jen grabbed another two, staggered to table in a corner and fell into the seat. Jasmine followed and put her half full glass of orange juice on the table, checked the chair to make sure it wasn’t dirty, and took a seat. She sipped her juice while Jen downed her shots.

  Jasmine waited for Jen to throw up, pass out, or blab all sorts of interesting secrets.

  Several people entered the bar. A stocky man with a smooth, boyish face and slightly receding blond hairline slowly took in the room, saw Jen, and started toward the table.

  The man pulled out a chair, sat, stared at Jasmine, then gave Jen a disgusted look. “Can you talk?”

  “Sure. Only had a cuffle.”

  “Idiot.” He sat back in his chair, and turned back to Jasmine.

  “What’s your name, Red?”

  “CeeCee.”

  He leaned forward and nudged Jen. “What you tell her?”

  “Nuffen. Well, nuffen much.”

  Jasmine tried to look casually interested. “Jen mentioned something about the um…” She made a show of checking they weren’t being listened to, leaned close to the man who smelled of pine and something chemical. Like he worked with wood. “Pures.”

  “What’s that?”

  Jasmine knew he was playing dumb to check her out. “Jen and I got to talking, you know, about how someone has a vision for how to get rid of the aliens.”