Flames of Hope

by Cassandra L Shaw

  The van pulled into a parking strip. Xylvar pulled into another slot beside a large four- wheel drive. From the van with a blue stripe, a large woman dressed in blue denim from neck to toe got out. She reached back inside the van, and then slipped on a wide-brimmed denim hat.

  “Unless Father Morgan got shorter and wider, and changed clothes, we’ve got the wrong van.”

  “And has a fetish for denim.” Jasmine punched her left palm. “Damn. We were following the wrong van. The Father must have been in one of the vans that took the industrial exit. Hope the bastard wasn’t going anywhere we need to know about. Damn. I want to catch him in the act of draining blood or kidnapping a sub. I’m in the mood to rip out someone’s throat, let the warm blood trickle through my fingers.

  Xylvar grinned. “So bloodthirsty, my dear. Unfortunately, it won’t be today.

  “I just hate injustice.” Her stomach gurgled. “Let’s go find some chow.”

  #

  They pulled onto a side street next to a small café catering to the local suburban clientele, and parked in one of the three slots behind the shop. Even though the morning was as bright and as welcoming as the smiles from the husband and wife owners, Xylvar still wheeled inside, shunning the glorious day to hide his telltale wheelchair from casual, drive-by observers’ view.

  He handed Jasmine a menu. “Order big. Might save us from having to hunt for lunch.”

  They ordered eggs Benedict with sides of bacon and thick toast, adding a share stack of pancakes with fruit and syrup.

  As the middle-aged café owner walked away, Xylvar pulled out his link and a map of the area where they’d lost Father Morgan. After studying the map for a few moments, he pointed to a few roads branching off from the industrial exit. “Got a gut feeling about his destination this morning. We eat, buy some supplies, and go for a drive-around.”

  Jasmine’s link dinged, and she opened a text she’d set up under a fake contact for CeeCee. “I’ve got another invite to a Pure meeting.”

  “Delete the contact. Not safe for Storm, Jasmine, or CeeCee to be around. We need to stay out of sight and contact.”

  “Yeah, well, CeeCee is going to this meeting, because apparently there’s an excursion. I have a feeling the excursion might be important. Here’s the address. I gather we will be taken from there to our outing.” She leaned in close to Xylvar and kissed his cheek, smiling at the stunned look on his face. “I’m going.”

  “Too many unknowns.”

  “Other than that old bag at church, there’s no one onto CeeCee. Rich and Kaid luckily don’t know she exists. CeeCee is safer than my real name, or even Storm.”

  “Too dangerous when the only backup is me.”

  “Uh. Not a problem. You’re better than five men. I’ll go wired and pack a few knives. Wiring can hide under my bun under my wig.”

  #

  For the rest of the day they prowled the roads and tracks Xylvar found interesting. Two stood out as good contenders for hidden cabins, and they marked them for further investigation once they had a vehicle more able to take on the rough terrain.

  “We need to purloin a four-wheel drive, or to feel safe enough to contact the Katoom clan to ask them to check out the tracks.” She couldn’t see any of other way.

  Xylvar put down the link he’d been studying. “We might have to steal one.”

  “Probably safest for us. I don’t feel the urge to risk advertently informing Rich and Father Morgan someone might be onto them.” The biggest problem would be in finding a vehicle equipped for Xylvar and capable of managing rough roads.

  After a day in the van, bouncing over rough tracks, Jasmine settled into the couch bought straight from the heavens while she hacked through the cyber back door of the FBPI. She used a skipping technique, allowing her to dive in and out of the site so quickly it would be nearly impossible for anyone who noticed her entry to identify or track the troll.

  “This encryption’s good. Better than I expected. It’s been upgraded within the last few days. My paranoia would normally make me think Rich.” Hell her paranoia made her wonder just how many in the bureau were corrupt.

  “Does he have that sort of pull?”

  “That’s the thing. He’s several tiers of hierarchy above me, but Rich is a stratosphere below those who could sign off on such an expensive tech upgrade.” She turned her link toward Xylvar. “This upgrade’s making it damn hard to find out anything about agents and their assignments, or even who their immediate supervisors are…but the guy we found in Vanessa and James’s unit, Carsen, is legit. A field agent who usually works under Alonzo Caruthers around the southern states. Probably why I didn’t recognize him.”

  “Anything on Savtos Kabull?”

  She kneaded her shoulders. Xylvar shifted to take over, smoothing the rigid muscles, then digging into the knots. “Ahh, shit, that hurts sooo good. You could do this for a living.”

  “Touch strangers? No thanks.”

  Jasmine laughed. “Yeah, I’d rather shovel dog poo for a living too.”

  “Now that’s a career choice. Wonder if it pays well?” He rubbed and dug some more, running his hands down her back, over her shoulders. Then ran a thumb over the almost-invisible—and usually hidden under her top—blaster scar.

  “So, Kabull?” An octave lower than normal, there was an edge to Xylvar’s voice she didn’t understand.

  “Nothing on our dead man at all, other than he’s an occasional contract agent. But otherwise the bulk of his file’s been erased. I’m trying to backtrack the deletion, but they’ve written over it rather than delete it, and the overwriting is code, so no words link together. And his file isn’t marked deceased.”

  “Well going by the smell, the man was definitely dead.”

  “Truth in stench—I like it. So, the connections between Rich, Carsen, our missing neighbors, and whoever bloody else, are yet to be identified.”

  “There’ll be something somewhere.”

  “And I plan to find it. We have to.” Jasmine leaned into Xylvar’s fingers, taking the touch for the limited in time treat it was.

  32

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Enhancers and stains applied with far more care then she’d taken before, Jasmine sprayed a setting agent on her face to stop her stains smearing, smudging or sweating off. For someone who never bothered much with such frivolities, she was pleased with the disguise. Xylvar hid a fine wire transmitter under her very tightly pinned bun, and she wedged a dagger in a fine sheath between her breasts. Two smaller ones were concealed under her “dress” leather belt.

  Weaponed up as much as possible, Jasmine pulled on CeeCee’s wig, fastened it tightly, and brushed it so it sat farther forward on her face than normal. She blinked, her bright green contacts concealing her silver-flashing irises.

  “CeeCee May is here.” She twisted her mouth, and opened it wide, stretching the paint she’d applied. “I hate the feel of all this crap on my face.” To fit CeeCee’s persona, she wore skin-tight pants, but since they were made from elasto, they’d stretch with her even if she tied herself into a knot yogi style.

  She might need the CeeCee “look,” but she also needed to be free to fight. Her equally body-hugging vest also moved as well as molding to her body enough to hold everything in tight.

  Since CeeCee liked to stand out, she threw on a red satin overshirt for a splash of color and warmth.

  In a handbag she’d never normally carry, but CeeCee would, she hid a few listening and tracking devices. One never knew when she might get a chance to tag one on a key player. Around her neck hung Xylvar’s tiny lizard vid camera, ready to capture a few images of people and cars.

  Xylvar dropped her off at CeeCee May’s fake address, an empty, furnished unit, where she caught a cab to the address she’d been given for the meeting. Xylvar stayed in his van, ready to roll should she need help. She didn’t expect trouble. She’d go in, film, listen, and hopefully learn something worthwhile.

  Out of the ca
b on a quiet street of local grocery shops, she said a friendly hello to Jen, then stopped at a set of stairs leading up to a second story unit. “Shit.”

  Jen took one step up and looked back and down at Jasmine. “Wha’s up.”

  “Nothing. Just forgot to lock my back door.” Of all the problems they’d gone over, they hadn’t figured on stairs. If the shit hit, she had no backup. Xylvar couldn’t get to a second floor without a lift. He would, of course, call it in to Kaid or hit someone for another favored owed, but calls and explanations and travelling took time.

  They were now officially doing this on the blind.

  “Hope your neighborhood is a good one, or you’ll come home to nothing but space.”

  “Thanks, very reassuring.”

  “Only joking. Come on, we don’t want to miss any of the talk, and later there’s a field trip.” Jen leaned in close. “We’re going to watch the milking of a Crea’s gold-rich blood. You know, I’m not sure they should be totally removed from Earth. Mining the metals this way must be way more environmentally friendly than digging holes in the ground.”

  Her beast nerves, already tauter than a fishing line hauling in a whale, shuddered to be released. She slammed on her mental beast brake, forcing the tide of silver to retreat. Her heart missed several beats before pounding to catch up. Act normal, look pleased. She forced her face to stretch in a smile, hoped the effect look semi-normal. This is what a pure evil freak would feast on, think woo-hoo. “Cool.”

  On the good side of the horror fest waiting, she’d have knowledge of where to rescue at least one Crea. One was better than none, even if she had to witness an act of ultimate malicious hatred.

  Hopefully the chat from the vile spawn of rabid dogs before the show-tell trip would be quick. She’d better crack out some legendary acting skills tonight. Somewhere deep in her arsenal of tricks she needed to find the chops to constantly look cool, talk cruel.

  Or she’d be dead.

  Or hooked up while they drained her blood.

  Upstairs, a stocky man ushered them into a room. A tall, sandy-haired man approached them, and something about him made Jasmine duck her head so her hair covered more of her face. Every brain cell she owned buzzed, trying to make the connection, the link to where she knew him from.

  FBPI? Katoom? Church, the freaking local shops? Where? Where? Where? She shuffled into the room, and stood against the wall, waiting. But waiting for what?

  “For the latest recruits, we require a full handprint of both hands, and a strand of hair for DNA.”

  Her hands flexed. Great. Her prints weren’t on file anywhere visible, but if this got back to the FBPI… And Rich would know she was onto the Pures. And then there came the problem of being a full Eli, and the difference between her handprint and an Earth-born human. The trace of silver she might leave behind, an added problem. Would these goons notice, even know to look?

  She sure hoped not.

  The hair wasn’t such a big deal, she’d give them one of the reds from her wig. Since she’d paid through an elephant’s trunk for it, it was real hair, which is why, other than the color, it looked so natural.

  She lined up, casually wiped her hand down her pants to remove any residual silver.

  “Place your hand in the center, fingers spaced a quarter inch apart.”

  She nodded, then placed one hand on the screen, then the other, sliding both an infinitesimal fraction, knowing it would smear the end result, hopefully disguising the Eli. She turned and, when nobody called her back for a rescan, unclenched her hand.

  At a second table, she plucked one of the wig’s hairs before slipping it into a thin glass tube.

  “Name and address and identification please.”

  “CeeCee May.” She gave her new fake address, and showed the ID Xylvar managed to scrape up for her from his limited resources and equipment.

  “Thank you for your devotion to the true cause.”

  Jasmine glanced up at a tiny, sweet-faced woman somewhere between seventy and eighty years old, gave her a tight smile, and moved out to the hall.

  Another woman, considerably younger, pointed down the hall. “Next open door. Take a seat and get comfortable.”

  Jen and Jasmine headed for the only other open door. Inside, eight other new recruits sat vibrating in anticipation of some great revelation. Or they just wanted to watch while fellow humans with a slightly different gene set, trapped in cold steel cages were milked of their blood.

  Her silver started to bubble. She halted and trampled it down, an act so unnatural, only one other Eli she knew could do it. Jen bumped her with her arm. “You okay? You went a funny color for second.”

  Shit, did silver escape her control? Keep a lid on your emotions, girl. “Yeah, fine. Just hungry. Didn’t have time to grab dinner before I caught the cab here.”

  Jen pointed to a table in the corner with sandwiches piled high.

  Jasmine wanted to throw up. Several people seated held recycled cornstarch plates piled with crustless sandwiches cut into triangles. Oh, well, at least the monsters were civilized. Would she find cucumber ones in among the dainty pile?

  Kidnap, drain, distill, please help yourself to a dainty sandwich. And now she’d have to eat, or Jen would think it odd.

  A plate piled high in her hand, she took a seat next to Jen. They’d go down like glue, but she’d have to eat them. She held the plate out. “Want one?” Or two or six.

  “Sure.” Jen took what looked like chicken meat and lettuce, and Jasmine bit into its mate. She chewed quickly and swallowed. Picked up another one with ham and tomato and ate it just as quickly.

  “Wow, you really are hungry. Good thing they have those. A little birdy told me we’ll travel from here for about an hour to the hold cells. Then we get the tour, and another talk, before they drive us back.”

  “Another talk?” for assholes, they sure were chatty.

  “Yeah, I’m with you. I just want to get into the action. This talk talk talk is driving me nuts.”

  She guessed she’d never understand what made Jen, a normal young woman, so full of hate. Jasmine had met them before, nice people missing empathy, or seeking a cause and following it, no matter how evil, so long as they were left feeling superior.

  At last, after another droning plea for credits, the main speaker stood. “I’m sure you are all eager to leave for our excursion. Please leave your bags, links, and any image-recording devices behind, then head for the back door.”

  Jasmine left her handbag on the back of a chair. A sensible move by the group, although leaving behind her link didn’t sit well. At least Xylvar’s encryption code would mean if anyone tried to code into hers, they find nothing more than a few fake CeeCee May contacts.

  She tapped the vid viewer on her necklace, hoping Xylvar was awake after such a long, boring ‘hype’ chat about the Pure movement. The back stairs were noisy, metal, rickety, and scarily rusted. But no one seemed to worry as they headed for the small minibus waiting in the narrow back lane.

  As she got closer to the bus, her neck hair tingled and burned. “Blackout windows?”

  Jen laughed as if they were about to go to a theme park. “To keep the spot a secret, silly.”

  “Oh, yeah, of course.”

  No one else balked. Only fools trusted so blindly. Come my victims, into the van. Thank goodness, she and Xylvar had found ways to conceal knives on her. Talk about potentially walking into your own lion pit.

  A quick glance at the slightly wrong blue of the letter on the number plate suggested it was fake. All the tech available, and they hadn’t managed to replicate the government’s special tint.

  Secure in Xylvar’s skills and the quality of the tracking device in her hair, Jasmine stepped into the bus, sat back, and watched her fellow passengers. They all appeared normal. Most of them were friendly, in the typically restrained way of people involved in an illegal activity. She’d never understand their motivation or prejudice, or the section of their brain that mad
e them think one species or race was superior to another.

  Legends of the Eli were full of stories about how human species or subspecies inhabited many other worlds, in many other galaxies, although no one knew exactly where, or on which planet, the first human species originated billions of years ago.

  Probably none of the humans on Earth, subspecies or not, looked much like those first beings, but then evolution worked in odd ways. Why, after all, did the humans from Elan form metal in their bodies, running finer than talc in their blood? Fine enough to pass through cells and form a thin exoskeleton on the outside of their human skin?

  Yet here they were, once refugees from another planet, now living on Earth. Proof other human species could adapt and find planets to suit their type of human body. And who said the Earth humans, with their limited physical attributes, weren’t the odd ones out when compared to all the evolutionary possibilities throughout the millions of galaxies and planets?

  Elan legends spoke of species who were telepathic, others who could teleport, and others as small at adulthood as a five-year-old child on Earth, or giants twice the height of the tallest Eli or Crea, or humans with skins of blue hue or green, and striped, furred human beasts. All were humans in their basic genetic coding, but with adaptations evolving over eons to suit their specific planet and its environs.

  Jasmine didn’t know if or where those humans still existed, but was sure the possibilities of human evolution extended far beyond her imagination.

  Here on Earth, the Eli and Crea were still the unknown, the invaders. But they hadn’t invaded. They’d merely arrived and tried to blend in, to live as Earth humans did. But even a war lasting nearly a century, slaying more than fifty percent of all three human species, didn’t manage to eradicate the fear, the hate. It was quelled, but, as she was sitting in witness to at this very moment, the hate was not eradicated.

  And Jasmine knew that, no matter the wars, the years, the centuries that would come to pass—hate would always bubble to the surface, like a deep infection rose in a pustule. And the removal, the expulsion of the infection, always left a scar.