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

Wrapping its steely claws around this gathering lurked the pallor of decay—a way of life consuming itself.

Kimraig knew that the first Wicca Decree adamantly forbid males in Chambers, yet he spotted at least two dressed in the khaki uniforms of the clerical staff. They were not running errands; they sat comfortably in visitor chairs. Males were males; it made little difference if they had committed to the alternate lifestyle of the Others. In this room forbidden meant none.

If Breen-3’s telepathy abilities were able to bridge the gap between the two buildings he was vulnerable. Prudence was not his long suit, but he made an exception this time. They could not get even a hint of the subterfuge riddling his Action Plan.

Kimraig took a calculated risk. Should anyone discover him using the stolen blocking device in his helmet, his plans would come to a sudden halt. He switched it on. His thoughts appeared normal as the Leader of Leaders spoke.

Next, he turned on his Vid-Screen and two-way camera, finally allowing the council to see him as well as he could see them.

Pay attention, she is about to remember you are here.
Just in time he faced the screen.

“Kimraig, your Action Plan suggests we occupy structure One Nine. Should I assume this is an attempt to relieve our population overflow?” The Leader of Leaders glanced up towards Kimraig, her image filling the chamber’s video screen. Her plump body wheezed with annoyance. She continued without waiting for an answer.

“This foolish plan has a casualty rate of 37 percent. Please explain.”

Kimraig spoke quickly. “The proposed structure is eight tenths of one mile from Number 4 Building. Each step is unexplored enemy territory. It makes little difference if Outsiders...”

“Oh please,” the Leader of Leaders laughed. “You can’t seriously believe those homeless drunks you call Outsiders could attack you and win.” This did not bring the laughs she had sought. Many in the Chamber were old enough to remember all too well the battles fought with drunks when the survivors of the quakes and bombs struggled just to survive.

“Yes I do, if we go unprepared.” He waited for a signal to continue. When it did not come, he went on without invitation.

“As I was saying, it makes little difference if Outsiders or Crossers see us leaving our building in force; our mission will be an Act of War. As Field Commander, I expect minor loses in this phase. But, if our interior inspection finds this structure unusable, we must evacuate.”

Pausing for effect, he was glad he had used a block. A few calculations on their part and they would know that the requested number of troops bordered on ridicules. Should the council use their combined probe against him, it would be vicious. Was he suspect?

“That does not explain these casualties,” she interrupted.

“Let me add this. Once we withdraw, one or both of our enemies will attack in full force. I will not take the risk of our five buildings falling into their hands.” With no emotion, Kimraig had delivered his version of the plan, the one that suited him. At this late date, it surprised him they were still playing games.

A steady buzz issued from the tight circles on the Council floor. Female voices were talking all at once, a confusing chatter only they could understand. If a male took the time to study the quickness of wit and humor expressed by women in general, maybe, just maybe, he could follow along. Kimraig had expended the energy, and done just that.

He had missed something; something important.

“We will return in a moment.” A blank screen followed.

Of course, the Wicca is complete! There were twelve females in that tight inner circle. Counting the Leader of Leaders, they totaled thirteen.

It had been four months since Leader Von had fallen—or jumped—from Top Side of Number 2 Building. Her partner of fifty summers had passed just weeks before. Today, the dozen remaining Leaders had selected a replacement, number thirteen.

“Kimraig, attend the Council.”

“At your pleasure, Leader,” he answered as his screen blinked on. He smiled. He had not left the Vid-screen for one second.

“This expedition to the building called One Nine will be under Leader Breen’s operational command. You will temporarily resume you duties as her Hunter. Remember, temporarily resume. We do not reinstate your Hunter’s rank,” she glanced up to emphasize her point.

“She will contact you before the Wicca Council’s roll call...in two days’ time. You will escort her to this building according to your plan.”

“We, the Wicca, have spoken,” Thirteen voices echoed.

Their inquisition ended with the election of a Leader—Breen.

Disappointment kicked Kimraig. He had expected to lead the expedition to One Nine himself, with oversight from the Wicca through Breen-3. All communications with her would be with a Vid-screen, and from a distance. He had not expected direct supervision from a new Leader.

With Breen in her rank of Queen, it might have been possible to use their shared participation in the Mating Ritual to his advantage. He reported to her many times each day, relaying the progress of the work on Top Side. No one would notice if she took him to her sleeping mat where he could use his skills to his advantage.

Now that she was a Leader that would be impossible. Unfortunately, males contacting females had always assured a death sentence. That had not stopped him from using his talents to manipulate any woman he wanted. He would not take a chance of Leader Breen catching him trying to influence her decisions, not with One Nine so close to his control.

Now I will simply take the building when we arrive,
Kimraig thought.

Well, at least he had a challenge. It was hard to be empty with a challenge.
Wait, I am not empty, on any level. It is time to make this new job work for me.
This thought caused confusing feelings to spike painfully through him. He released his thought block and immediately felt Breen—Leader Breen probing under his scalp. She was forcing her thoughts into him, abrupt and impatient as always.

Kimraig, report to my chambers tomorrow night by 8:00 pm. We will discuss what I, personally, expect from you.

At you pleasure, Leader Breen,
he accepted. He had no choice.

Emotions rushed in a second time. Kill...Love.

He knew now that whether she was Breen-3, or Leader Breen, she added the violence to the word love.

As he left the small room and walked back to the parapet, his mind sifted and sorted constantly. A casual summons to meet the night before the morning roll call. This development might prove more valuable than any previous relationship.

Kimraig signaled to an indistinct SHORT. The stubby machine pulled to a stop next to him. The door opened up like a wing. Inside, sat a badly scarred male with one hand missing and no legs below the knee. He acknowledged Kimraig with his version of a nod.

“Jake, tell Rat to get the others prepared to leave on short notice,” Kimraig said and then stepped back. He smiled, knowing his commanders in each of the five buildings would have his order in less than an hour.

* * *

Breen-3 is now Leader Breen. Leaders did not visit rooftops. There would be no walk-around today.
Kimraig took a little extra time to savor the fresh air delivered by the ever-present stiff wind on Top Side of his last project for the Wicca. Breathe deep! Exhale! Breathe deep and slowly exhale, exhilarating! The late afternoon sun remained strong enough to pour its warm rays across his face. Looking into the heat, he used his palm to shield his eyes against the fading light.

The last thing he did every day was check the advance of the Choker weed. Would he need to increase the harvesting of the weed to keep it clear of the Building? No, someone else would take care of that when he was gone.

His thoughts turned to what should be in his sight above the stain.

The few history books they allowed the masses to read, had taught him there had been two narrow fingers of river separating this island from a grossly populated city.

Below the setting sun, the green-black Choker weed’s footprint spread away from him into the distance. In the west, where the moon would disappear, there was no city. None to the south either, only a small island where ruins were constantly battered by waves. To the north, toward the stain, the green-black of the choker weed covered the horizon and another lump, which could be an island. In the east, there had been no city this morning. Their hunk of rock continued to drift, and the weed followed.

Once again, the spire of One Nine gave him comfort. The thought of Rat’s scrolled note brought his eyes to the dilapidated low-rise buildings across the rubble chocked six-lane roadway. The Crossers would send the last piece of his plan from there.

Tonight he would meet their contact. Caught, he would be a traitor with no escape. Successful, his misfits would scratch an invisible—for now— “V” on every member of the Wicca Council who ran the Builder’s government. Anything more would give away his plans for an escape.

Through this single Crosser, he would contact their leaders. He must inform them that his force would be no threat. He would fight through if necessary, but he preferred a temporary alliance.

A bribe always helped.

Turning away, Kimraig adjusted his uniform preparing for the evening chill. His blouse had once held the honored rank of Hunter. No more, he was only Kimraig, a male. In the Builder’s society, males had limited opportunity. He, the only Hunter in recorded history to have killed his Queen, had none.

Two traitors’ commandeered four battle groups, and attacked the Wicca intending to bring down the existing government in favor of their own. It did not matter that his Queen, Viral-1, had ordered their Battle Group to surrender before they entered that crucial battle. He had killed the only reason he existed. Then, he had the gall to rally the Builders shattered forces and lead them against what remained of the two traitors so called Gender Army. These traitors—Wicca Leaders themselves—had tried to claim their right as noncombatants. On the field of battle, this Hunter refused to recognize noncombatants.

He had seen the bright blue scarves here for the first time—one with his Queen and one with each of the two Leaders who led the Battle Groups. One brief battle did not make a war, except this time. This 45-minute battle went into history as the Gender War.

Kimraig had murdered three sacred females in less than an hour’s time. He could have escaped punishment for the two treacherous Leaders but not for his Queen. The brief battle had ended, leaving Wicca Council with a genuine hero they dare not kill. Burying him away in the construction battalions was the only answer.

His arena became space. Save space. Reallocate space and control the use of space. The need for space continued to grow. Breeding and educating all the replacements for the different Battle Groups in their five buildings presented a challenge, they constantly needed more space. Kimraig and his crews provided the space. Now, only the Wicca Council and the five Superiors could overrule him. He just had to be careful to address all females with proper respect.

Kimraig was in control, not in charge. That was the responsibility of various political hacks. Each ordered him to complete the project, then disappeared from the scene quickly, preferring to idle away their time in exciting politics. Except Breen-3, she checked on her responsibilities regularly.

In exchange for his fake loyalty, Kimraig built something for himself. He put together his own military force, compact and experienced. In each of the buildings, abandoned souls lived in Lower and Middle Levels—the unseen. The Little People lived there, as did females who refused to be controlled, a few males unfit for company, and groups even the loose coalition of misfits called Others refused to recognize—anyone who was inconsistent with various group norms. They kept this fragile ecosystem, his army, from collapsing.

They would start their revolution with nonviolence. They would ask politely, making no demands. They would accept, with proper grace, the small concessions reluctantly given to stall any lasting reform. When everything failed, they would fight. They had nothing to lose.

It was almost time for fighting.

As he waited for Breen-3’s daily walk around, he checked the loading teams working the elevators. From first light, each of the sixteen empty SHORTS had paused in front of the double doors. Captured thieves, allowed to live as laborers, slid empty tanks off the SHORTS replacing them with full tanks. Then they quickly buckled them in place on the main chassis. Another filled the driver’s small drinking water reservoir—the water as valuable as the load.

Drivers, former Hunters and Troopers unable to fight due to injury, kept their individual units from bumping the load in front. On track, they moved slowly back to the LONG in an endless snaking parade of solar-powered boredom. During periods of low light, they switched to methane gas collected from the buildings sewer system. Work stopped only with sunset, which after a long day was now almost upon them.

Kimraig tracked his SHORTS as they shuttled back and forth from the elevators to feed the LONG. Each stopped as their dumpy snouts connected to the large machine’s material bunker. It took just seconds to empty their full load of thick slurry. The machines would remain moving until the last tank was pumped dry into the LONG.