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!
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 roa
dway. 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.
The 6th of Six (The Legend of Kimraig Llu) Page 4