The fight could’ve been staged, for all I know.
She knew she shouldn’t care about Carlos’ intentions, and she wondered why she did. She should see him as a notch on her belt, like the many others, and an untrustworthy one at that.
I’ll just keep a low profile for the rest of the trip, she insisted to herself. No sex. No commentary. Not even a facial expression that’d give the Ellies anything.
Just get through the banquet and the gala, and tomorrow we leave.
Her plan was immediately made harder when Carlos arrived at her room, nominally to escort her to the banquet, though he was far too early for that. Despite his limp, his puffed-up posture told her he trying to project his most macho—not recently beaten—image. She could also see lust in his eyes, and as he leaned in to kiss her, she turned her chin, so his kiss landed on her cheek.
“We need to go downstairs soon, and my father won’t be happy if I’m late. Yours either.”
Though in truth, she thought, your father would probably be delighted if we arrived late because you’d been fucking his new minion’s daughter. She couldn’t be too off-putting to Carlos at this stage, for that would bring its own perils.
She also couldn’t deny her attraction to Carlos. He was tall, athletic, and muscular, with wavy brown hair and flawless olive skin. He showed none of the signs of malnutrition or the scars of street fighting like the boys she encountered on the Wilds. He was clean, and he looked like he’d never been dirty. Even for an Ellie, he was exceptionally well dressed—distinguished and well kempt, without the typical over-the-top ostentatiousness of his class. He exuded confidence.
So, without another thought, she took his hand and led him into the bedroom.
After her second escapade with Carlos and a shared shower to clean up quickly, the two hurriedly got dressed and made their way downstairs to the transport tubes. They sped to the banquet hall, where they found Gilbert Calden, obsequiously leading the honored guests to their chairs. Jasmine was unsurprised to learn that Carlos’ assigned seat was next to hers again at the massive, immaculate dinner table. She then pushed aside her nagging concern about conspiracies and was grateful that her brother Alias and Patrick Baumgarten were several seats down, so she could avoid his disapproving looks—or any social mishaps.
Salutations, she forecasted. A series of toasts. Blah blah blah. Interminable banal conversation. As dread began to creep into her mind, Carlos slipped his hand onto her knee below the lacy tablecloth. After a thankfully brief greeting by Rashid, her father led the group in a short prayer, and the food began to arrive. The spread was even more incredible than the brunch and afternoon tea earlier that day. Plenty of drinks. Hot and cold. Flat and fizzy. Spicy and fruity. Virgin drinks, alcohol drinks, and even methylhol drinks. Drinks of all colors and consistencies.
The beverages flowed, and Jasmine soon recognized a new worry—her father, sitting among a group of Ellies at a long table, was plying himself with the fine liquor the petroleros had served up.
Jesus, she sighed to herself, I’m all worried that I’m going to fuck this up, when he’ll prob’ly end up doing it himself. She leaned forward to discreetly catch her brother’s attention. Alias darted a glance back to her from the corner of his eye, signaling her to ignore their father, who was too far away for them to apply a break on him anyway. Instead of setting her mind at ease, through, Alias’ response made her even more anxious. She searched down the table for her mother, whom she located near her father. As Camila took a small, hesitant bite of beef from the tip of a gilded fork, and savored the flavor, she caught Jasmine’s stare and gestured subtly to tell Jasmine to ignore it as well.
As the banquet wore on, a bottle of methylhol made its way around the table, coming to a stop in front of her father. He was already becoming increasingly loud and boisterous. It was as troubling to see him so out of character as it was to see him uninhibited in front of the Ellies. The appearance of the methylhol bottle triggered something in him, and without warning, Minister Goodwell pushed back from the table and got to his feet. He swayed side to side slightly as he waited for the table to quiet—which it did almost immediately.
“Free weaning-meds,” he blurted.
Complete silence descended over the banquet hall. Her father had brought the celebratory mood to an abrupt halt.
“And rehabilitation houses in every church,” he continued, as if emboldened by their stunned reaction.
All eyes shifted to Rashid. Ashley Templeton looked unphased, slowly stirring his tea. Thomas Baumgarten leaned forward in his chair with an alarmed “told-you-so” smirk.
“Minister Goodwell,” Rashid interjected, hoping to stop her father before his alcohol-courage led him into a corner.
Alias Goodwell Sr. reacted to Rashid’s calming voice by licking his wet lips and pausing, but he wasn’t done.
“I’m going to tell you why,” Minister Goodwell stammered with a quieter, less confident tone. “I’ve never shared this, but it’s—it’s important.” He licked his lips again.
“When I was a child and my mother lay dying of black-dust flu, my father was—as you can well imagine—distraught.”
Holy fuck, Jasmine exclaimed in her mind, transfixed by the start of a story a story she had never heard. She saw panic wash over her mother’s face.
“Dear—” her mother pleaded with as quiet a whisper as she could project. Her father was undeterred and cleared his throat.
Jasmine leaned in, desperately wanting to hear the story while praying he would stop.
“It took months for our mother to succumb, coughing-up blood and dirt. But once my father’d found methylhol to blunt his grief.” He lifted the bottle and shook it menacingly. “Took only a few weeks for the poison to snatch him.”
Wait a sec, Jasmine thought with alarm. ‘Our’ mother? ‘Our’ father? Who the hell is he talking about? I don’t have aunts or uncles—
“Y’all can probably guess the rest. He lost his job and couldn’t care for us. By the time our mother died, our father was a broken man, and we were working the streets for food. When he finally just disappeared, we were alone.
“My older brother was too old for a children’s home. We were separated, and I never saw him again.”
Brother?! I have an uncle? What the—
“My little sister and I became wards of the state, and we were shipped off to a state orphanage . . . Billings Home for Children.”
From the corner of her eye, Jasmine noticed three of the guards stiffen and exchange looks—their expressions conspicuously more intense than the others’ in the room.
“My sister Jasmine—only five—was quickly adopted.” Her father paused, now shaking from both emotion and alcohol, to compose himself. “I never saw her again either.”
An Aunt I’m named after?! Jasmine could feel her eyes stretched wide open. While the guards in the corner were laser focused on her father’s story, most of the Ellies were already tiring of the pitiful narrative.
“I spent was a whole year in that hell-hole,” her father stammered, now visibly fighting back tears, “before a traveling minister adopted me. That’s how I started on the path that led me here. A life in the Wilds, seeing things most of you can’t even imagine.”
Her father straightened his posture, and the sorrow in his voice began to give way to his more normal demeanor. He still swayed ever so slightly from drink, but the gentleness and tranquility that endeared him to so many resurfaced. Jasmine had never seen it waver like this, and it sent bolts of panic and sadness through her body. He cleared his throat and forced his welling tears into retreat.
“God’s will doesn’t include great masses of His children enslaved to drugs. …And none of our interests are served by this scourge. Who can argue against helping the vulnerable overcome debilitating addiction? Against filling the void in their hearts with God and displacing the accomplices of drugs: poverty, crime, neglect, and violence? Doing something—even something as small as what I’m asking�
�is our duty to God. …And it’s better for security. …Good for productivity. …and good for business.”
Holy Hell, Jasmine thought to herself, trying to process all the information her father had just spilled. She looked again to Alias, who stared fixedly at their father in stunned silence.
He didn't know any of this either, she realized. How could we not know? How could these strangers learn all this at the same time we do?
…And this deal is as good as over, she thought with mix of relief and disappointment. The Ellies’ll never do business with a wandering family led by train-wreck minister who sounds like a communist.
She scanned the table again, trying to read the Ellies’ reactions. Carlos, oblivious and unconcerned with Jasmine’s situation, had a bemused smile on his face as he took a sip of liquor from his gilded crystal hi ball. Patrick Baumgarten had the same smirk. The rest of the Gang of Seven squirmed uncomfortably in their chairs.
At the opposite end of the table from her father, Rashid, the Ellies’ leader for this deal, rubbed his eyes with his fingers and cleared his throat.
Baumgarten shot an incredulous look at Calden, as if to castigate the lackey’s poor vetting. Templeton just stirred his tea, unphased. Rashid was on his feet now, clearly intent on defusing the situation. Jasmine’s heart froze with anxiety.
“Minister Goodwell,” Rashid began reverently, “I appreciate the deep wounds you carry from the trauma of your youth. That so many others in the world have suffered similar fates in these trying times is of great concern to us all.”
What a charming load of bullshit, Jasmine judged.
“You have emerged from these trials as a respected man of God, committed to the care and healing of the souls around you. That is a testament to your heart, your faith, and your character.”
Just drop the bomb already.
“We would be monsters, indeed, if we did not accept your counsel on this matter. We will ensure that the church is resourced to help the most vulnerable citizens. Perhaps we can work out the details of this later.”
Wait, what? A collective sigh of relief fell over the table, if only for a moment.
Thomas Baumgarten chimed in coolly. “Yes, but just so we share a common understanding, the medicines will be specifically for Consortium workers who are also regular parishioners in the church.”
Sounds fair, Jasmine thought, though it wouldn’t have done a thing for Grandpa. Tension returned to the room.
“And if the church is to be an apothecary for the poor, adding even more expense to this venture”—he paused to let the group soak that in—“then church facilities must also provide other needed medicines and pharmaceuticals produced by the consortium and its affiliates.”
“Stimulants to boost workers' energy during work hours,” added Governor Mosino.
“Sedatives to discourage after-hours trouble-making—that sort of thing,” chimed Francesca Carroll.
“And can’t we make these pharmas available to people who aren’t employees? I mean, to help them and reduce our costs?” added Josephina Thomson.
“Yes,” Colonel Shikai affirmed enthusiastically. “There are many other useful medicines being manufactured by our partners.”
“The church should really ensure a profit on anything other than the weaning medicines,” Carroll chimed.
“We’ll need to keep records, of course,” Baumgarten added. “Make sure there aren’t abuses. We could put that data in the InfoSystems. Consortium officials and trusted affiliates could then access the data if they need to.”
Jasmine watched Rashid squirm in his seat, and her father’s face flushed red from alcohol and agitation. Alias Goodwell Sr. sat for a moment, still swaying slightly, a small bubble of spittle on his reddened lips. Rashid telegraphed a reassuring look to Minister Goodwell.
Reassurance or no, her father had little choice. He was beaten.
“No methylhol in my church,” he grumbled with what little resolve he had left.
The room went silent again, until Ashley Templeton shrugged his indifference. Baumgarten likewise nodded his agreement, prompting Rashid to reach for his glass quickly and hold it up for a toast. Everyone at the table lifted their glasses enthusiastically in response.
“Wonderful,” Rashid announced. “I think then we can finish our dinners and move downstairs for the festivities.”
And just like that, we’re drug pushers for the Ellies, Jasmine lamented.
As the group milled around the dining room, chatting merrily, Jasmine noticed her father’s cool and easy demeanor gradually returning, undoubtedly elevated by his small victory and a refill of his liquor glass. She was tired of all the joyousness, however, so it came as a relief when Calden interrupted the din by ringing a melodic crystal bell and inviting them to follow him downstairs to join the Christmas gala. The dinner party, affirmatively in a celebratory mood, obliged and proceeded down broad carpeted stairs to a set of massive double doors, flanked by impeccably-dressed servants and more of Sherman’s guards.
Carlos stayed at Jasmine’s side, gimping slightly as the massive doors swung open, revealing a mass of colorfully dressed people—a swirl of lights and a wall of sound shocking her senses. She instinctively reached out and took Carlos by the hand, though she immediately regretted the sign of weakness.
She felt Carlos’ warm breath in her ear. “We’ll run the gauntlet of introductions,” he offered, “and then we can hang out somewhere.” Overwhelmed and unexpectedly grateful, Jasmine nodded to accept his offer of assistance.
Yet another seemingly interminable line of greetings ensued as Jasmine followed the Ellie entourage through the cavernous room. Politicians. Industrialists. Military brass. Sports stars. Scientists. Media celebrities. Three-quarters of the way through the greeting line, as anxiety climaxed in her chest, a hint of vertigo crept up on her. Sensing her state, Carlos gently intertwined his fingers with hers and tugged her gently out of the line.
A blurry moment passed before, she found herself next to the largest fountain she had ever seen, a safe distance from the close, heavy air of the crowd. At that moment, she would have followed Carlos anywhere—including right back to the bedroom. Crystal-clear water babbled down twenty-eight marble tiers, a giant gold statue at the top—the first Chief Regent. The cascade led to a basin wall holding larger-than-life statues of the Consortium’s most revered luminaries.
Carlos found them a place to sit on the basin wall, conspicuously under the statue of Casper Templeton, his family’s most famed ancestor. The self-aggrandizing gesture was not lost on Jasmine, immediately taking the luster off her appreciation.
He’s an Ellie, she reminded herself. Now get yourself together and smarten up.
Oblivious, and accustomed to a more impressed reaction, Carlos slid closer to her and put his hand on her knee again.
Jasmine, seeing the elders congregating at a table nearby, grabbed Carlos’ straying hand and pulled them both to their feet.
“Let’s go listen,” she said.
“Really?” Carlos replied, surprised and exasperated.
“C’mon, it’ll be fun to listen to war stories,” she cajoled with a playful smile.
Carlos grudgingly relented, limping slowly as she led him to the lounge area, where the Seniors sat talking over drinks.
The conversation meandered between their new joint venture and the stories of their lives. Jasmine found that her father’s natural ability to get people to open up had not been diminished by the fog of alcohol that still hung around him (the Ellies were now making sure bottles of methylhol were nowhere around her father). Minister Goodwell’s personal outpouring of a drug-destroyed family had flattened barriers with the some of the Ellies, who had begun to spill elements of their own life stories on a level Jasmine could not have imagined.
As the stories dragged on, and Carlos’ impatience rising, Jasmine noticed Rashid sitting alone at the end of the table with a deep, reflective, and melancholy look on his face. Making Carlos wait for sex
had its own advantages, so, she decided to seize the opportunity to join Rashid, leaving Carlos behind. Confident that no one could possibly mistake her intentions with the old man, she sat down beside him and put her hand on his.
“Sir, you have said little this evening.”
Rashid replied with a sincere grandfatherly smile.
“If any of this succeeds, my family will be in your debt,” Jasmine continued.
“Dear girl,” Rashid replied softly, putting his second hand on top of hers, “make no mistake. Trying times are ahead. I wonder if it won’t be me who ends up in your debt.”
In the corner of her eye, Jasmine notice Colonel Shikai and Gilbert Calden absconding with two servant girls, who appeared less than enthused about the assignment. Meanwhile, Carlos sat in his chair across the lounge room, pouting like a spoiled child whose dessert was late to the table.
“I trust you know what you are doing when it comes to that one,” Rashid added with a cautionary tone and an askance look at Carlos.
She shrugged her shoulders nonchalantly. “He is what he is.”
“And what is he to you, my dear?”
She shrugged again, and he shrugged in turn, the faintest crack of a smile coming to his lips. “Just remember that pawns can kill kings and queens, but they mostly just take other pawns out of the game.”
Increasingly aware of the debauchery unfolding around them, she asked, “Is there no one here for you Mr. Rashid?”
“These are not my appetites, young one. I have a wife …and family at home.”
“I thought families could accompany the Seniors here.” She paused. “Though I have no idea why they would want to.”
“It couldn’t be arranged, but it wouldn’t have been suitable for them anyway. “May I offer you one reminder before you go back to young Carlos?”
Fire, Ruin, and Fury (Embers Saga) Page 12