The 6th of Six (The Legend of Kimraig Llu)
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Mistress Breen!
Kimraig mused over that phrase: last night a brand new Leader, today Mistress of her new building—so much for equality. He prepared to help them. Follow orders—for now.
* * *
This is not One Nine.
Kimraig knew it before they would let him see. One look as they approached the huge entrance space confirmed. This was all wrong. The entrance should be in front instead of the side and some of the glass windows and doors were intact. One Nine’s windows were all broken and lying where they had fallen. He had been there so many times it was like home.
Not So Little Brody, who jammed him in the spine with the butt of her prod. She wanted him two steps behind Mistress Ann and Mistress Breen. When they rounded the elevator housing and entered the common area, he realized the old woman was leading. Troops should lead. Always protect your Leaders until you know if danger waits ahead.
The eye-watering jab of wood smoke clung to this space. In front of them was an oblong raised platform lit on its four corners by tall fires burning in ancient oil drums throwing light mostly towards the center. A canopy covered a raised platform large enough to hold all members of the Wicca, if they were here.
Small fires, in converted barbeque kettles, lit their path—just enough light to see a few feet up and down, no more. Small tubes in the tilted lids drafted the smoke to wherever. Creepy, had to be an illusion.
Most of all, it smelled wrong. Like a concrete punishment cage hastily cleaned.
Everything about this place shouted Kill Zone. Their war tactics instructor had stressed that zone’s value, and spent hours teaching them how to recognize each unique set up. That one legged, one arm codger had fought too many battles against hidden armies to let his students skimp on this valuable tool.
Kimraig was wary, he could not see the ceiling here as they had in the hallway. All of them were dangerously exposed.
In the center of the raised platform stood a tall, emaciated male hunched over a battered walking stick. He was old, not aging gently, with tufts of flattened gray cotton balls clinging to his yellowed, ebony scalp. His clothing was a wrinkled suit, contraband Armani just like those that circulated through the Five Buildings of home. His spoken words crinkled, the sound of ancient newspapers balled for kindling.
“Mistress Ann, I see you require your males to follow two paces behind. How very like you.”
The old man made his greeting reek with sarcasm.
“And all this is so like you, Bradley. Again you have found a pedestal to stand on just as you stood behind your newspapers on our street corner.”
Mistress Ann, with Mistress Breen at her side, signaled the two Battle Groups to a halt, as she continued to move forward into the large room. Only two female Troopers, one on each flank, stayed with them.
“Stand easy,”
Mistress Ann ordered. Each of the Troopers slung their shields to the ready hook on their back, and removed their battle helmets. They stood at ease with helmets under their left arm displaying the correct baring for a pomp and circumstance pageant at home, foolish here. Each right arm was under the shield behind. Unseen, were two fists clinching the butts of stun prods.
Kimraig refused to remove his helmet. Not much the bitch could do about it. The warning from Boomer raked though his head, “Never remove your armor while in the field.”
“Very good, we will enjoy cool fresh water when everyone arrives,” the old man coughed. “I have other guests who will join us. The elevator just to your left will open now.”
Bradley had staged this for effect. There had been no sound so the elevator obviously did not work, especially since it took two of his ruffians to force the doors. As if everyone was an actor in his play, all heads turned towards the elevator as the forced doors sprang open with a metallic grunt.
Kimraig understood misdirection. Is this old man hiding something, or have I spent too long sitting in chains. He looked instead to the partial windows with the fading outside light. Movement in the street, more company will come from that direction. It would be dark in minutes. A storm just to his left jerked his attention back to the room.
“You two were not invited here.” Mistress Ann’s hackles were up enough for her voice to carry into next week.
“Actually, I invited Charles and Marvin to join us.” Bradley’s satisfied smirk let everyone know he enjoyed her shock. “They will represent the Others, whose leaders would not reveal themselves to you. For all the obvious reasons of course.”
“More on that later,” he quipped. “We got some more guests.” For the first time the old man’s veneer slipped as his statement came poorly worded.
“They will come from the street. For some odd reason they refused my hospitality.” Bradley was back on top: a player on stage directing audience attention.
Kimraig checked toward the elevator again. Bradley had once again attempted to focus their attention in a different direction. He still saw nothing, only the blackness above him. It seemed alive as he turned to the partially broken front windows.
Another old man appeared. An old man stepping spry as a young Hunter, yet he was obviously as old as Bradley and Mistress Ann. His Battle Group, as always, had no form. Its loose formation spread around him.
The Crossers had arrived. Each of the group’s members seemed older, with only a smattering of youth here and there. They appeared evenly split between female and male, the youth decidedly only female. There was movement in the ruins outside. They had reinforcements.
“Ladies and gentleman, and my new clerical staff, may I present the one, the only, the great General himself; Loyal Richards and his Army of Crossers.”
* * *
Negotiations stretched from one hour into two. Each vote ended on the same point: one or another of the group would not allow any decisions to finalize without a unanimous vote by all delegates to their proposed new Government. They would not concede to a simple majority or a two- thirds majority, only a unanimous vote.
At the start of the third hour, Charles had had enough.
“You, Mistress Ann, do not want an open society. You want things your own way.” He and Marvin had worked themselves closer to both Mistress Ann and Mistress Breen. Turning to Bradley, Charles lost his temper and yelled. “And you, you disgusting old man, you just wish to hear yourself ramble about your life of depravity before the bombs.”
“Do it Marvin, shoot the old bitch, now.” Charles was practically screaming.
Marvin drew the pistol from his coat pocket. A slight turn to his right brought the barrel into perfect alignment for a booming head shot. A measured half turn to the left and two quick pulls sent a second shot toward the moving old man on the raised platform. The body falling against his right leg threw the shot off mark. A hit in the thigh brought Bradley to his knees.
As he swung the barrel under his chin, Marvin squeezed the trigger twice more, firing the third and final shot. His limp-frame collapsed backwards, covering Charles’ exploded head. No one gave an extra thought to the bright blue scarf hanging askew from the pocket that had concealed the gun.
Before the first shot entered Charles’ head, Kimraig was moving fast toward the two women he was here to protect. He had them both down as a rain of darts fell from the darkness above. The darts, tipped with membranes filled with caustic liquid, burst on contact. The liquid ate cloth and skin, smoldered on armor. Mistress Ann’s two Troopers, fell instantly. Victims of darts tipped with four-inch spikes, expertly aimed at the neck, where their helmet should have been.
Kimraig scrambled on hands and knees to retrieve a shield to cover Mistress Breen’s head and torso. What felt like his world smash into his back, the weight whipping him face-first into the floor tiles. He was vaguely aware of slight figures dragging the two women away. A last memory pushed at him before he passed out.
Do not leave weapons on the field of battle where your enemy can pick them up to use against you.
Chapter 7. Dead Is Dead
If he did not know better, it felt like his chest had been run over by a SHORT. It had been a long time since he had been stomped. It was pain Kimraig quickly identified, pain associated with combat boots cleaning their soles on his door mat rib cage. Scuffling and angry words plagued one painful ear. Only one ear, the other remained silent.
With too much effort, he willed himself to sit halfway up, balanced on one arm. Brody-1 was trying to break free of Hunter Cullen and Hunter Curtis. Despite their size, they were having a hell of a time holding her back. His eyes roamed back, forth, up and down. Excellent defensive positions back by the stairwell door. Young disciplined troops expertly placed to protect each line of attack.
“Hunters, form on me,” Kimraig said haltingly.
Mostly, he could not decipher why they were arguing. He had their attention at least. Clearing his throat, he tried again.
“Hunters, form on me. Do it now!” He said in his best parade ground order, delivered low pitch, designed to carry only to those three scuffling a few feet away.
“Brody-1, to me now,” he hissed again.
“She will kill you,” Hunter Curtis blurted.
“Brody-1, now,” he repeated.
Lucky for me they have not been long off the training quad.
Kimraig did not give her time to think. Instead, he reached his hand up demanding help to rise. He saw her fleeting indecision as training overcame naked emotion.
Pain! Anguish in places he did not know existed. Brody-1 had jerked him roughly to his feet. He chose not to recognize the naked triumph in his eyes as a surprise grunt forced its way past his clenched teeth.
Kimraig had to reach up to grab her shoulders. He would have been more comfortable if he were reaching down to shake her and shout one inch from her nose.
I am not going to grow eight inches right now—probably better luck shaking Number 5 Building.
“Look at your troops,” Kimraig whispered. “Do it, now.”
It never hurt to have a little spittle emphasize a command, but he did not have any.
Brody-1 looked quickly to each defensive line. Then back to him with a questioning frown. Good, her attention was back with her troops, where it belonged.
“They formed themselves that way...just as you trained them. They did that alone; you were too busy blaming me for your troubles.”
Kimraig paused for emphasis. He was guessing again, but as volatile, as Brody-1 had acted today, it was not the first time they had to act on their own. Her troops had learned. Uncontrolled temper is a bad habit for a Queen.
“The decision you make next determines if you keep their respect or not.” His strength was fading fast.
“You cannot get them back to their homes by yourself. You simply do not have the experience to attack inside a building and win.”
He started to slide down the mountain her size mimicked.
“Please, let me help you.”
“Curtis, a hand here,” Brody-1 refrained from squeezing the old Hunter, a hard one for luck.
“Sit him against the wall and prop him up. We need him. He has experience inside these buildings.” She gritted her teeth but she got it all out.
“Medic, bring him water,” she yelled.
“All right ladies, dig in your panties and get those extra weapons.” Muted grumbling all around greeted her order.
“I know you have them; I started where you are.”
* * *
Kimraig recoiled, his nose burning. Back of his head smacked the wall. Fire and memory screamed all at once. Ammonia, a crystal of salts passed under each nostril. He breathed deep, once. For his trouble, he smacked his head a second time. The lingering odor of a violent sea remained etched in his nostrils.
“Relax. You are almost back with us.”
A voice he did not recognize. The medic, he guessed.
The hand passed under his nose again. Then he managed an almost yell, and he was completely awake.
“Hunters,” he coughed, clearly seeking anyone but this medic.
Hunter Curtis took a knee at his side replacing the medic. “Looks like you zigged instead of zagged,” he paused, and then continued. “Brody-1 has a status report. You ready?”
He nodded. They could get right to this without any false inquires about his health.
“Okay, first your status. Medic wrapped you tight. Bunch of cracked ribs, maybe one broken. Wanted to give you pain meds but Brody-1said no. She is still pissed at you, we think. Cullen and I put your armor back on. Nothing we can do for your throat. Medic said it would heal or not. Questions?” he asked.
Kimraig shook his head no. This answered his hidden concern: they had paid attention—willing to let him lead. Next, he needed to know how well Brody-1 had prepared her troops. She was also right about the meds. Meds slowed decisions. The pain in his throat seemed bearable, if he did not talk.
“Weapons report; a few knives hidden under armor, nothing over eight inches. And full battle gear in the SHORTS.” Curtis grinned. “Enough prods to go around. Weapons tech gave them a little juice. They shoot an arc about a foot long, only once though.”
“Questions?”
Kimraig managed a “no” with a slight side-to-side swivel of his jaw.
“Good, now the causalities: two Troopers down in the main hall, bodies, armor and weapons gone. One Trooper slightly wounded during a diversion hit against the stairwell. Enough burns from those darts to go around.”
“Found no trace of Mistress Ann and Mistress Breen, or their armor.” As if he anticipated the next question, he smirked. “Yes, they put it on this morning under their robes; the new light weight model.”
Kimraig watched Hunter Curtis do that eye role again; must be some type of stress release. A little nudge might keep things on track.
“What about the Crossers?”
The young man seemed fine as he continued. “Just a few blood stains on the floor, looks like something licked it up. Same with the two clerical men, they left the part where the bullets entered.” he paused. “What was that shooting about?”
“We may never know. Most likely Bradley put the little one up to killing Mistress Ann, probably with promises as payment. No telling about why his partner killed him,” Kimraig shrugged.
“One other small item, communication with home is out. Reception is nothing but static.”
In a few more seconds, Kimraig learned that Brody-1 had gone downstairs to secure the three SHORT’s. Something had attempted to open the big slide-down doors from the outside. She had managed to block the mechanism with one vehicle. A second blocked the remaining stairwell leading up to the first floor. The third was ready for loading from the single doorway her troops controlled. She was on her way back.
“Ask her to wait one,” Kimraig coughed weakly, handing his battle helmet to Curtis.
“Restore my communication.”
For the first time, he saw Curtis grin. “Never was off.”
The helmet was too tight. The face shield slid down across his face, good enough.
“Command channel,” he ordered the tiny mouth speaker in the clear plate. He was grateful for the breeze as the heat from his body activated the small ventilation fan.
“Brody-1,” Kimraig said when she answered. He knew there could be others listening on the captured portables Mistress Ann and Breen had been wearing. “Please,” that one word grated against his soul, “please hook Rat up to your com-link.”
Brody-1 was good—no questions.
“Kimraig,” Rat was there, her voice tentative.
His soft guttural phrases danced from another world. Its high-low singsong pitch, masked a lack o
f complex sentences. Simple communication from the beginning of time, passed down from mother to daughter to future Hunter by the same wet nurse. Celtic tongue...language of a people fleeing their war torn home into a roiling sea. Driven to cold, wet islands then forgotten as centuries passed.
Hidden behind the ancient phrases, he explained the conversion of the tools on top of the material handlers. These everyday tools, used to pry stuck loads, would be heavy steel spears, invincible against its lighter counterpart. Rat would know how to instruct Brody-1.
Hunter Curtis waited.
“Brody-1 will bring weapons from the SHORTS.” Kimraig raised his visor and reached up. “Help me up, and no jerking.”
Preparations with the new weapons took over an hour. They were heavy, not all could control them. The next part of his plan would be only him. He remembered movement in the rubble outside, just before the Crosser’s delegation had entered their ill-fated conference. That had to be where the survivors withdrew to lick their wounds. He needed help with the rescue of his leaders, and so did they. Kimraig intended to join forces.
He edged quietly out of the building into the darkness, picking a path comparatively free of broken glass. The moon sat just high enough to shed a little light. He quickly disappeared from sight as building shadows fought with the moon light.
Rat, making no excuse for her defection, had warned him what to expect. One large cougar would stop him with a soft snarl. Behind him, a larger wolf would butt his backside with its muzzle. “They is first guard. No move,” she cautioned. “You fall on face, dead is dead.”
It was not like that at all. A wall of rubble funneled him into an opening just large enough for a man. The cougar was above him and snarled in his face then batted his helmet, claws almost tearing it from his head. Involuntary recoil, then a heavy weight pounded behind his knees. Snapping him forward again, pinning his knees. His damaged ribs led the way into a jagged chunk of building. Hot breath bathed his neck, bandages tearing.
Dead is dead.
* * *
“Check his status,” said a voice, an agitated female trying to cut through Kimraig’s fog.