“I need help with my research, specifically Human Reproductive Systems in Post Nuclear Societies.”
“I cannot help you.” This trip was a waste of time, she thought. Shifting her weight on her canes, she turned away.
“I picked those three baby girls you stole this morning. Now I need your help. We Builders are dying off as fast as you Crossers are. Our people number twice the size of yours. Which matters little, since the outcome is the same—death to all. Please, a few hours of reading and your interpretation is all I ask.” Edith hated the frantic bite in her words.
What the hell, we need help, and only Missy can provide what we need. Beg!
“Please, help us. This small thumb drive holds the story.” She held up, as an offering, a box slightly smaller than her closed fist. “I have nothing to hide and it does parallel the work you have been doing,” Missy surprised Edith when she turned again to face her. When her old friend had taken so long to answer, Edith guessed there was no help coming.
“It was you who sent Bruce to spy on us?”
“Yes. No one has that information but me. I did not notify the Wicca.”
“Why did you let us steal your babies?”
“A piece offering, something for an old friend and the love we shared.”
Tears sprang to Missy’s eyes as she remembered them, as they had been when they were both little girls. Edith, quick to cut male or female who thought rough fun with the crippled girl was okay. Missy would get in her licks, as she acted scared; luring them in for a swift kick between the legs. It worked, male or female.
An adult’s mistake and their terrible duo had forever torn apart. War started between the “haves-and-have-nots,” Edith’s Builders against her own Crossers. How could that cause two friends to become lifelong enemies?
Okay, fix that right now.
“Dog will fetch the box. Hold it out.” When Missy watched squeamish Edith hold out the box, she could not resist a dig.
“He will only take a few fingers.”
“I still have my knife,” Edith said, unable to resist a dig of her own.
“Dog, fetch.”
Only a few heartbeats passed as Dog retrieved the box and returned to her side. Cat had followed him, no longer interested in Edith. Putting the box in her pocket, she thought she had better get going. She might be late. Not like this, she cautioned herself. She drew her worn rosary from her packet and held it in her right hand against the cane. She let the cross dangle forward so Edith would recognize it quickly.
“We should meet again, someplace a little less threatening. Do you know a place?”
“I know ‘the’ place,” Edith replied, never taking her eyes from the worn beads, as she remembered the chapel they shared as children.
“I thought you might remember. I’ll contact you soon.”
Missy knew if she were late, Colt and his girls would start hurting people and taking names until he either worked his way through the entire Council or found her. She drank water greedily from her metal water bottle as she moved back towards home.
* * *
As Missy and Edith ended their meeting, three quiet figures emerged from the west stairwell onto the second floor where the Crosser politicians had gathered to grill their Prime Minister. Colt and his ladies, two Special Operations soldiers, had arrived to protect Dr. Missy Painter-Richards from her peers.
With Marta on Colt’s right and Luna on his left, they stopped to survey the long narrow hallway leading to, and then away from, the Council Chambers where the Prime Minister would soon meet with her constituents. Its entrance was open, people could come and go from the elevators directly across.
Lining the left side of the vestibule were stone benches, reaching from just beside them, all the way to the far stairwell door. On the walls behind each bench were faint square shadows where art once hung. A few couples and singles lounged on the benches closest to the double doors leading to the Congress Council area.
When Colt’s team first appeared, those few remembered what business they had inside chambers. No one wanted to be around when riot troops were this close.
At an internal command, Luna’s slender body encased in flat black armor, turned back to the door they had just entered making sure the latch had caught. Muscles, honed with hours of aerobics and sculpted with free weights, moved with fluid grace. She reached into the loaded pouch attached to her weapons belt at her left side, withdrew a white square patch as big as her hand, and then molded it over the door’s lock and frame. As she stepped back, satisfaction flickered over lips set in a full tan face. She turned and stepped back to Colt’s left, the patch popped and flashed with blue-white light, burned fierce for a moment than smoldered. Door and frame were one.
Marta could have been Luna’s twin, if viewed from the rear. From the front, the only difference was a thin white face, freckles dusting the nose, and a wisp of black hair nudging for freedom against her brow. The black strands liberally sprinkled with gray.
Without command, Colt’s team marched. Destination: the opposite stairwell door.
Unwisely, a pack of six women had chosen not to adjourn to the Council area. They choose to block the elevator doors, the doors where Missy would arrive. Each one of the hired thugs wore work clothing, shirts that hung loose from baggy pants, one or two wide, ragged belts. No iron had recently pressed these clothes nor had hair felt a brush in the last few days.
Each turned defiantly, then spread out at the sound of boots.
They were advertising their intent to stop anyone from entering the Council Chambers, Colt thought. Six against our three, odds are in our favor.
Luna, Colt, and Marta marched with helmet visors pulled down, clear face shields locked, dull black armor showing no hint of the hard use in the tunnel. Without spoken command, they turned slightly right, angling towards the wall with the elevator doors just beyond. Again, no command, only a slight left turn that had them moving parallel to the wall. Two hand lengths separated the wall and Marta. Three sets of combat boots stomping out cadence.
The six women braced themselves, ready.
Three dull black wands, withdrawn from weapons belts, expanded with a whoosh as thirty-six inches of carbon fiber riot club snapped into place. Four of the women scurried into the Council Chambers but two reached for their waistbands. With quick steps, Marta and Luna were on them.
Luna moved the two bodies to the Chamber entrance, one in each hand. No one would dare exit past the dead. She retrieved a single, crude, hand-made bomb from each waist pouch. Quickly defusing one then the other, she slid them back to Colt.
She finished and made the quick trip to the opposite end of the vestibule. Another patch appeared from her weapons belt and she pressed it firmly in place as she had with the first. Another flash and only the guarded elevator gave access to the Council Chambers. Luna stepped quickly to join her companions.
Their Prime Minister would be safe once she joined her escort.
The three choose to hide their surprise when Missy arrived from the basement rather than down from her husband’s office.
* * *
Across the street, Sergeant Edwards had called Chief Loyal Richards, to relay the good news.
“We found our missing baby, abandoned on floor three. The fake mother and recording device Bruce planted were gone. Our little girl is scared, and hungry enough to eat this phone.”
Loyal could hear one little scream and then muted slurping. The phone connection was very clear, unlike the stolen Builder’s C-links. Sergeant Edwards must be holding the baby girl. It must be a bottle. He knew Edwards was not nursing.
“Well Edwards, it seems our little girl has found her new wet nurse.” Lowell grinned to himself but still covered the phone’s mouthpiece in case he laughed.
“Sir, no sir I just...you know...a bottle.” God, she knew the Chief could feel her blushing even over the phone. “Sir, I am only holding her.”
A tightly rolled cylinder of papers slapped Loyal upside the head,
the phone jerked out of his hand and Cat hissed as her bared claws took a swipe at his leg, withdrawn at the last minute in favor of a hard bat.
“Miss Edwards,” Missy barked into the phone as she took another swing at Loyal’s head. “This is Prime Minister Painter-Richards. Please ignore this old fool. He does not deserve an assistant of your caliber. One other thing, try to find someone younger to moon over. This old one is not worth your time.” Missy hung up with a slam.
“Loyal Richards, you are incorrigible.” She fought her fragile torso back onto her canes and glared at her husband.
“She will probably have a heart attack just from your voice.”
“Yeah, well, better than pinning her hopes on some old hound sniffing around.”
“Sorry,” he said, hanging his head in surrender.
“Like hell you are.” Missy switched quickly to business. “Are you ready to go?”
“We had to make sure Bruce delivered the plans he stole. We did not see who they were.” Loyal was up and moving continuing to talk. “I will leave now by another route. The trip to One Nine will be longer but they will not expect me from the new direction.”
“Have you arrested Bruce?”
“No, watching him only.” Loyal reached a gentle touch to Missy’s cheek. He wanted to hold her but if he did, he knew he would not leave. “Stay with Colt, he will make sure you stay safe.”
“With these canes, I am rather a captive audience, don’t you think?”
Of course, what he did not know would not worry him, Missy thought.
* * *
Hours had passed since Loyal Richards had left for One Nine. At the entrance to the former subway, where Colt had entered the elevator door to deliver the three babies, the same door opened to black. About eye level, on the wall beside the open doors, a pinprick of white light flashed once. Its beam pointed the way, outward, to the mangled expanse of the former subway terminal.
Three silent figures, riot gear replaced with flat black armor, moved to secure the perimeter. Commander Colt stopped before entering the trench where the subway rails lay in a tangle mess. Quickly, Luna moved to the right and Marta to the left. No breathing apparatus, only double tanks with a hose connected to a hand held wand strapped between each tank.
The legend of this air eating flesh from steel was just that, a legend.
The pinprick of white blinked on a second time. It moved restlessly back and forth at first, along a pre-set path and then blazed. Brilliant light illuminated the mouth of the distant tunnel and pair after pair of green luminescent ovals. The pinprick turned to flashing crimson as the beam pulsed and snapped again and then again. None of the green luminescent ovals escaped. The faint scent of churning ocean and burned Choker weed and alcohol filled the team’s nostrils with the first breath in; gone with the second.
Colt signaled, seven more figures laden with equipment, formed at his back.
In the middle of the six, surrounded on all sides was a seventh member, a female well over six feet tall. Her broad shoulders and narrow hips encased in a more supple black armor, the color merging with her long black face with its perpetual grin. She might appear emaciated, were it not for her muscular runner’s body. Every day, on the Crosser training quad, in the old train station, LaJay jogged ten miles with a one-hundred-fifty-pound training pack for company.
A modified pack now perched high on her back. With knees comfortably gripping LaJay’s narrow hips, a slight, stately figure protected by the same armor, sat balanced in the modified pack. Strapped to her frail back was a pair of walking canes. Modified pack, walking canes, and small woman: comfortably less than one hundred pounds.
With little trouble, LaJay and her passenger could disappear—black armor melding with shadow.
Two half-wild animals moved to either side of the battle group. Dog, took station on the left side of Team 1. Cat the right side. Weary from the odor that was there and suddenly gone, they patrolled silently, every instinct probing the darkness.
Prime Minister, Painter-Richards would secretly join her husband at One Nine.
Join him for a gathering of enemies building hope for the future.
Chapter 6. Uneasy Truce
When Kimraig opened his eyes, he saw nothing, and felt only the uncomfortable seat of a SHORT under him. He was not moving, so he was not on the way to One Nine. There was pain, so much pain it squeezed his neck, vibrating every muscle at once. Kimraig could not remember how, and not much of when, he had disappeared from the garage. The last thing he remembered was seeing the woman called Not So Little Brody, and then, only blinding light. He tried to get a hand up to work the clenched muscles that strangled his brain stem—paralyzed. No, just handcuffs.
“Rest easy, young man,” an older female voice purred. “You have been restrained in the back seat of your own conveyance. Brody-1, what does he call this thing?”
“SHORT, Mistress. It is an abbreviation for Short Pencil.”
“Well, be that as it may, we will begin our journey to One Nine as soon as our decoy convoy clears the way.”
“I would have preferred to leave you in the compost heap,” the old voice continued patting Kimraig on the knee. “Then I would not have to worry about your total disrespect for your betters. However, Leader Breen insisted on you as her mate, which made killing you impractical. You are experiencing this melodrama for her benefit. You see, we need her. We no longer need you. So if you disappear along the way no one will be the wiser. She may shed a tear, which I doubt.”
He could not see. He could hear and smell the contempt in her breath as she exhaled. The voice he could not place patted him again. He tried willing the pain away, not much success with that. He tried rolling his neck: sharp pop, then some relief.
Well, well, a choke collar and a hood. Is there something I am not supposed to see, you old bitch?
Then he knew who owned that voice. Mistress Ann, The 1st of One, and the prosecutor from his treason trial. She had wanted his blood even then.
“Ah yes, recognition. Kimraig, you should try to control your body language. Those who look can see everything you think, even without using telepathy.”
“Leader Breen is moving, Mistress.” A female voice from the driver’s compartment echoed through the closed hull of the SHORT.
That voice he would recognize anywhere.
“Yes, that is your beloved Rat. We ladies stick together when it comes time to plant you males in your proper place.” Mistress Ann chuckled at her own wit. “Of course, we had to apologize for our rash decision to leave poor Rat on the compost heap. Leader Breen took care of that for us. She also promised me you would behave, if only for her sake.”
Very nice, Leader Breen set me up. The running troops distract my attention and she jabs her prod to my neck. No time to waste on placing blame, how do I get out of this?
Kimraig slumped and faked a sigh.
“I will take that sigh, and your body language as acceptance.” Mistress Ann had hoped for a chance to dump him in the rubble. “I hope you do not mind if I move away. Brody-1, please remove his hood. Oh yes, be prepared to use your prod.”
Kimraig did not flinch when the hood roughly tore away. Brody-1‘s form jammed the tight confines of the SHORT past overflow. He refused to let his face register shock as he saw Hunter Curtis, his son, sitting with a spear tip just inches from his chest.
Guess I have a family affair going on.
“What you say next determines your fate.” Mistress Ann kept her distance. “Will you behave?”
Kimraig could only nod. He would accept for now, I will catch a break soon.
“Brody-1, remove his collar. Watch the teeth, I am told he bites.”
Mistress Ann chuckled. She was having a rousing good time again.
“You may speak when you are able.”
Kimraig worked his tongue against his cheeks, then his teeth, fighting to bring enough moisture to form words. Finally, he croaked. “Yes, Mistress Ann, I will behave. Whatever i
t takes,” he lied.
* * *
A short distance from the garage where Mistress Ann waited, Leader Breen fumed. Brody-1 was the Queen. She should be here with Hunter Yates. Leader Breen took this as punishment for not calling sooner about the delay in their departure.
If she wanted a replacement for Kimraig, it would not be Yates. He belonged to Mistress Ann, an obvious spy. Brody-1 and Curtis had replaced him in the 1st of One’s personal Battle Group—hostages. She could not understand why Mistress Ann would need additional hostages when she gave her Kimraig.
Hunter Yates, whip thin and looking like no elite fighter she had ever seen, had handled the first two harassing attacks with ease. Which proved nothing, the entire Battle Group knew in advance about the attacks. Still, he did look capable. Perhaps she should wait to free Kimraig until she had enjoyed Yates on her sleeping mat. No, pleasure comes later.
Why are we marching to One Nine? Leaders ride, they do not march. What was the point, especially when you knew where the enemy would come from, and how many? A few more SHORTS and they could ride through these halfhearted attacks. Then Mistress Ann’s Troopers could flush them out without using this hastily formed Battle Group as bait. Well, orders are orders no matter what.
She answered the questioning looks from her own troops with a shrug. There was no explaining this.
There it is. The all-clear flash from the rubble she had been waiting for. Another one of the ambush zones was clear.
Leader Breen keyed her helmet mike. “Second attack neutralized, half way now.”
Rat adjusted her ear-bud as the C-link message come through. “Words from Leader Breen all messed up. I t’ink she say halfway,” Rat relayed to Mistress Ann.
“Wait one Mistress, ‘nother signal. On, off. No words.” She whipped her blond hair back behind her ear and concentrated again on the decaying signal.
Like first one, that one not from Leader Breen, gotta’ be other folks out there. Ain’t right, she thought.
Charles, Charles, Charles. Mistress Ann mused, thinking of the young man who had assigned these teams. Your assassins could not reach me. I must remember to give your partner Marvin something extra for this valuable information. Before I make him disappear.
The 6th of Six (The Legend of Kimraig Llu) Page 10