The 6th of Six (The Legend of Kimraig Llu) (5 page)

Now it was time to play a little.
Breen-3 was a Queen and surely trained in full
. At the end of that one thought, Kimraig forced a minimum mind block over his thoughts. No person without training could eavesdrop. He knew the block dared her, and he would let her break into his thoughts.

Immediately, soft probing started under his scalp, signaling her entry. He made sure she knew what he wanted as he shaped his thoughts.
Come into my parlor Breen. Join me on my sleeping mat. There is no need for your gown. You know this is what you want...

A sharp pain at the back of his skull came with her reply.

Kimraig, perhaps you should think about your work and not dream about something you will never achieve. Stop blocking me!

Breen-3 continued to probe. He left nothing more to see.

Her telepathy skills were much stronger than long ago. Kimraig had made his point with that easily broken block. Only time would tell if she wished to repeat, or even remember, their several hours together. His emotions betrayed him, emotions first kindled by a young innocent girl on his last night as a slave. Ignore that memory. You cannot go back.

Emotion poured in. Kill. Then Love.

Why did his thoughts add violence—kill—to the concept of Love? He recognized the word love from rumors filtering in from Lower Level. The word confused him since it seemed to pair two people in one whispered word—marriage. Was it perplexing because it was not always a man and a woman together in that forbidden ceremony?

Away from that, think of something else.

He put his battle helmet back in place, careful to make sure the electronic telepathy block he had stolen remained off. This was a legal device, but not for him. The Wicca wanted their dishonored Hunter on a short leash. If he would block their probes with electronics, he must be hiding something.

“In two weeks I will have four battle groups, but no extra Hunters. We will need all elevators. That should make up for today,” he assured her. With that statement, he hoped to repair the damage he had done by not consulting her on his construction plans. He needed her by his side for now. Breen-3 was always interested in more troops for her projects.

“All right, keep me posted.”

“I placed the Long Pencil today,” he said without emotion.

Breen-3 did not answer immediately. She was too busy checking off the best place to relay the information for her maximum benefit. To his surprise, she did not rage.

“When you finish Number 4 Building, how long before growth fills the new space?”

“You read my report...”

“Facts, Kimraig!”

“Six months, Miss,” he said with the proper grace. By trimming the time, he gambled that she had not done the math contained in his report. A little over a year was closer to the mark. It depended on how large the politicians wanted their opulent quarters.

He had his own agenda. Assembling his army to occupy his building—One Nine—was his main priority.

She did not mention he had ignored her order not to deploy the LONG until after the council adjourned.

In a few heartbeats, Breen-3 replied, “I’ll summon the Wicca Council and resubmit your plan. Prepare to deliver a full report.”

“Yes, Miss.” He had guessed right; she was preoccupied, paying him no attention.

“Kimraig, this is a direct order. Do not, I repeat, do not block my probes.”

Breen-3’s C-link unit took the brunt of her anger. The panel creaking as she gave the end button a killing stab with her thumb. Just seeing him on the Vid-Screen stirred her up as no other Hunter ever had. The fact that she needed him for at least a week prompted her rage. He knew the building One Nine. She did not. Simple—after she had that knowledge, blood would flow.

In our future is a sleeping mat for two.
Use him and discard him after One Nine.

Mistress Ann, her mentor, would not have Kimraig’s head until Breen-3 had complete control of her new building.

Chapter 2. Kill—Love

The faded tan uniforms of several two-man winch-teams spread along the parapet were beginning to soak with sweat. As Kimraig arrived from his successful bout with Leader Breen, one tan uniform finished his check of Tucker’s and Whinny’s harness. Bound to one another by the marriage ritual of Lower Level, these two would lead their teams over the side. Adam, their son, and his mate Lilith would quickly follow.

They always waited for him to leave his office and move to the building edge to watch them start the mornings work—not necessarily his idea of being their good luck. Nonetheless, he always made sure they saw him watching.

Each swung opposite legs over the side, letting the rope attached to the wench pull tight. They signaled for slack as they planted their feet against the concrete wall, leaned shoulders into the wind, and slanted their backs into space. At the proper angle, each began baby stepping backward down the building side. Their two man winch-teams continued to feed them slack.

This morning they were dressed in bright solids and matching pastels, clothing chosen to suit their gentle nature. They drew attention naturally and wanted to look their best. Kimraig knew the Crossers had to be watching and wondered what they thought of the colors draping his building.

Were they envious of the Little People’s freedom to wear whatever took their fancy for the day? He thought not, but he was envious. For a fleeting second, he wondered how his Char would look in a dressing gown of the same shade of vivid red that Lilith wore.

As the first morning sun swept the building, he watched more teams of Little People follow over the parapet. Hand winches lowered them down the building face between rows of jury-rigged solar panels salvaged from the city’s ruins. They signaled constantly for slack as they fought to keep the wind at their backs.

Kimraig had recruited these weeding teams from the hell of Lower Level in Number 1 through 4 Buildings. No lower level in Number 5 Building, they needed more space for extra politicians.

These floors were prisons. Had these Little People been newborn babies instead of toddlers when their growth pattern failed, they would not be here with him. Instead, the Wicca confined them in the Lower Level on floors just above each building entrance. Imperfect people were good enough to act as alarms when the poison winds came again.

This slow development made them too old to discard in the basement. Imperfect babies disappeared with the help of the Wicca cleaning squads. Ergots roamed the basements and tunnels under the city—an unknown species the size of human males that appeared as translucent blobs. They ate anything unattended.

Instead of food for the Ergots, they became Kimraig’s harvesting teams—adults with bent children’s bodies—collecting the spores of the green and black Choker weed that blew in each night.

With serrated knifes, they dug out each tiny root-fiber where it had forced its way into unseen cracks in the building sides. Special buckets, impervious to the spore’s caustic sap, collected the weed. When full and tightly capped, these buckets traveled the freight elevators with each SHORT’s empty material tank.

Their destination was the mixing bins that supplied the sticky liquid fiber a LONG needed for building. The mix of harvested Choker weed, water, and chunks of rubble equaled lightweight, super strong buildings.

Tucker and Whinny would be the last to climb back to the roof tonight. They would swing their legs over the parapet just as the sun dipped into the ocean, then back before first light the next morning. Keeping the buildings in one piece was never easy.

Kimraig’s first experience with the Choker weed had not been pleasant.

Three Battle groups had marched to the cliffs that day without their Queens—ten year old Troopers and Hunters-in-training. The ocean raged for their blood.

Years ago, earthquakes triggered by a quick succession of one super volcano eruption and a series of nuclear bombs, this had abruptly forced their island up. Rock became fluid under its bed of sand, breaking Manhattan’s tenuous hold on the mainland. Sharp, endless tremors followed. Plate tectonics and continental drift sent their city crawling south along the seabed.

Back then, the Choker weed covered just a small part of the shoreline, with only a few tendrils crawling up the almost vertical cliffs—cliffs that reached higher than he could throw his spear.

Kimraig could not have known then, that the shambles of his city would disappear under the weed.

Not fond memories, just an imprint of the past helping him fill the waiting time on Top Side of Number 4 Building. Around him were the Builder’s four sister structures. He watched his people preparing to pack it in for the night.

Equipment—air conditioning of all things—once crowded the roofs. They had removed all these units from each building. Air conditioning was a memory of metal salvaged for construction projects long forgotten. The square holes under the units went deep into the building. Each lined with metal sheeting and ducts, which had carried cold air into various rooms. This sheeting salvaged in turn, the square holes sealed off, and the roof repaired.

The salvaged material remained unusable as is. Metal shears cut them into usable sections. Most of this material went to the manufacture of material tanks for his SHORTS and the LONGS. Minor pieces of the sheeting worked well as cowls to protect the small, flex-fuel engines of both vehicles.

Heavy struts and brackets became vehicle bumpers and frames. The subway rails were a different matter. The acetylene for torches disappeared with use, no equipment to make more. There were plenty of hacksaw blades and hand labor to cut the steel.

In their five buildings there was one welding unit. Feeding its thirst for electricity required all the capacity from the solar units in the project area. Without solar, the building was dark, quickly losing the fresh air provided by fans. The crews hurried. Welding rods were a problem, there were not enough. Homemade rods lacked the easy flow of iron to metal. Welding was no longer an exact science. They made due.

Nothing wasted.

Tarps covered the container gardens, the plots that provided their food. Heavy rain came without warning. They all lived with the supply of water; feast or famine, since collection and storage in every building was scarce. There were few large containers to catch the runoff.

Water collected and left in open vessels soured quickly.

Salvage crews dragged water towers from downed buildings. They rebuilt them in stairwells, channeling water from the roof to fill them. Two remained, assigned for reassembly on top of this new construction. His finish date was a long way off.

Number 2 Building held the new fish tank with the first highbred saltwater fish. Just beyond was One Nine, the next building Kimraig had suggested as relief for the Builders chronic overcrowding problems. At eight-tenths of a mile distance, it would be difficult to send reinforcements when his army seized control.

One Nine was named for the two large numerals at the entranceway. Their new world beckoned not quite a mile away, a safe place to raise families.
That is why, dear Breen I am rushing you.

Kimraig knew One Nine would accept more levels above the existing ones. The spire took valuable space perched on top of the building. The removal would be his first project.

His fingers drummed with anticipation; little finger to index finger, repeatedly like playing a keyboard. The Wicca would not take long with their decision, not with the heavy losses his plan showed for the Battle Groups when they fought to hold the building.

Yes, he had bloated the figures; he wanted to take as many of his people with him as possible. His strongest fighters would stay in their own buildings until the panic subsided, then filter into the new building. The tunnels and rubble would hide them. His army would defeat anything skittering in the dark.

“Kimraig, attend the council,” echoed from his C-link.

“At your pleasure, Leader,” As he answered, Kimraig turned to enter his once bright observation room, now dimming with the fading light. Soon it would be dark, another day gone.

After requiring his attention, the Leader of Leaders ignored him.

Standing in front of his Vid-Screen, he scanned images from the Council floor. All the leaders were dressed in the long flowing white robes required by decree. The Leader of Leaders held the podium, speaking from the lectern. Behind her, thirteen over-stuffed seats held the remaining Leaders who formed the Wicca Council. The Leader of Leaders seat was empty while she held the podium. One other remained empty, unfilled since a Leader’s death.

In the tiered rows of Number 3 Building, Breen-3’s seat sat empty.

Five tiered rows of comfortable bleachers, complete with back support, formed a horseshoe with the Wicca Council closing the open end. Each of the tiered rows held twelve females. One female Superior, keeper of a single building, sat alone in the front of each tier, dressed in the required robe of indigo blue. Twelve council members represented each of the five buildings. With their Superior, each tiered row numbered the Wicca’s symbolic thirteen.

Indigo blue robes, white robes and the multi-colored dress suits of female council members, gave a false picture of festivity to the amphitheater. Fortunes lost, throats cut with no blood spilled. Potentials made and others squandered, always the order of the day. Politics!