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

by J. K. (Keith) Wilson

  There it is, my first tool, conveniently stored in that large beaker.

  “Do not think. Do not taste, just drink. With it, you kill without remorse. Without the drink, you think instead of act.”

  That had been one-armed Grant up on that desk at the Crandall Towers, yelling at groups of twelve young women armed with pieces of sharpened pipe and chair-seat shields about to attack men with guns.

  They had mowed through the drunks like a giant machine harvesting wheat. Two of the old males had followed behind, collecting the few guns from the dead and dying. They also drank from the bottles of amber liquid, while they killed the wounded—no need for prisoners.

  Forget being Mistress, she needed Ann. Ann drank deeply. Ann chocked with revulsion at the memory of her repeated violation in this room. Bury that deep with another long pull as she emptied the clear glass beaker.

  Now it is time for her second tool. One sharp rap on the edge of the table and she had a usable shard of glass six inches long.

  I should have guessed that Bradley had his own agenda when he had proposed this parley. He does nothing for anyone without the bulk of the benefit going to him.

  Muffled clatter in the hallway and fumbling at the door. Fleeting flashes of hiding behind the opening slab, the comforting lightness of the clear glass shard braced against her rag wrapped palm: door latch locking; grouts of warmth splashing wetly up her arm; dead weight almost taking her to the floor. Old wrinkled male leaking foul, more holes than the glass had slashed. More wrinkles than I do! Psycho giggle—not Bradley.

  Ann needed the contents of her stomach and fought hard against the retching. Action—she had to act. First, check to make sure Breen was still breathing. Okay, she is barely alive. Ann was too old to carry her out of the room, so she would have to get help.

  I will be lucky to help myself.

  Closet off to the left. Maybe there were clothes there. I can certainly pass for one of these old coots.

  * * *

  On the street below and around the corner from the Annex, a makeshift Battle Group sprinted from the rubble to the shattered entrance of One Nine. “Go. Go. Go,” echoed in battle helmets. When they drew no fire; Kimraig followed, accompanied by his now permanent bodyguard, LaJay. Dr. Painter-Richards had demanded he take her, claiming she was a better Hunter then most Builder Hunters. With the help of the two self-adjusting canes she loaned him, he made good time yet lagged badly behind.

  He had discussed this route with all the others. They would attack up the stairs to the fifth floor. He would use the elevator shaft since he was unable to hold a shield. His destination was the interior spaces surrounding the elevators, the only place Kimraig had failed to gain access. He would meet them there on the fifth floor, if he had the strength to make the climb.

  There were access ladders inside these elevator shafts, hard traveling with his damaged ribs. A long ago genius had decided to protect the ladders in this one particular building with a lightweight aluminum cage. The cage protected maintenance men from falling backwards to their death—one of the few buildings he had seen with anything like it. With the cage and LaJay there to help him, he should be fine. Two others would add protection: one up the ladder and the last at LaJay’s back.

  The inside of the shaft glowed 10 times darker than pitch. At the passing of each floor, closed double doors bled needles of light—each quickly blunted against the black. At the fourth floor, Kimraig could no longer climb. He had stumbled on a bent rung and lost his grip. The aluminum safety rig saved him but he could not lean forward enough to regain a handhold. His knees trembled, threatening to collapse.

  Hitch it up Hunter. Breen is on the next floor. Move it, now.

  From below, hands at his shoulders forced him back upright. LaJay had climbed beside him on the outside of the cage, hung by one knee hooked in a cage strut, and pushed. She steadied him, making sure he had regained his grip. They started up again. A whisper filtered down to him from above.

  “At the top, everyone form on me.”

  What seemed like days later, that whisper was beside him in a hallway, a hallway he could not remember entering. “Where is the room,” it questioned, and Kimraig pointed the way.

  “Twenty paces down to your right is a small indentation. I was never able to open it but that is the only place where our people could be.”

  After pointing with his left arm extended, vertigo swept through him. He leaned back against the marble wall until it passed.

  Better not raise that arm again. He watched the two Troopers advance at a fast pace.

  At the far end of the hallway, five Outsiders held the door open to the stairwell. Three charged as soon as they caught sight of his small group.

  He was sure there had been five, a faint impression lingered of two more disappearing down the stairwell. One looked familiar.

  “Blood, lots of it, door is open,” the lead Trooper shouted back to them as he prepared to engage the threat pounding down the hallway.

  Somehow, Kimraig was at their back forcing his weight against the marble slab that should be a door. It yanked away, letting him spill forward, losing his balance. Heading toward the floor again, instincts spun him sideways—he did not make the turn, landing on the damaged shoulder.

  The slab door closed quickly leaving him alone inside.

  He had a brief glimpse of an old Outsider in badly wrinkled clothing charging at him with a shard of bloody glass. Then there was nothing but fire in his chest and a blanket over his sight.

  * * *

  “I should have cut your throat, but I am getting old,” said a familiar voice. Then again, taunting him. “Looks like that beating missed a spot.”

  One finger poking at a rib. Agonizing pain cleared his vision.

  “Oh, guess not, so sorry.”

  He would recognize that psycho giggle anywhere.

  Mistress Ann, just my luck.

  “Mistress Breen?” he questioned.

  “Medic took her to the morgue in the hallway.”

  Kimraig struggled, rolling to his side on the hard floor, attempting to stand. No explaining how he felt, just a weight pressing as heavy as One Nine, his anger at Mistress Breen forgotten in the face of Mistress Ann’s explanation.

  As he lay on his side, he felt a heavy pressure against his neck, near the artery. Her old foot pinned him against the floor. Conscious thought began slipping away; her voice echoed one last time.

  “Medic is on the way, got you a special mat in the morgue, right next to your Mistress Breen. No, I did not change my mind about cutting your throat. But, I am not too old to use my foot.”

  When he came around, he found that morgue mats are uncomfortable at best; a corpse would no longer care. Kimraig swiveled his head first to the right and then to the left. Two dead covered with tarps, each much too small to be Breen. A dark shadow hovered over him. He involuntarily flinched away; suddenly aware he could no longer protect himself.

  The dark shadow that suddenly covered him was all too real; Brody-1 had come to finish him off. Her restraining hand on his shoulder broke his attempt to rise.

  “Stay where you are or you will start that bleeding thing again.”

  “Where is Breen?” Kimraig whispered through cracked lips.

  “That is Mistress Breen to you, old man,”

  Kimraig could detect no malice in Brody-1’s voice, only her usual impatience.

  “Well, where is she?”

  “Off with Mistress Ann and the other delegations. Or what is left of them.”

  “You were detailed to return for help. Why are you still here?”

  “Simple, it was my first command decision. I sent Mistress Breen’s Hunter, Yates. The remaining Superiors know him, not me.”

  Brody-1 had no problem holding Kimraig down as he attempted to rise.

  “Listen for once you idiot.”

  Brody-1 went on to explain that a delegate, Leader Sala from the Wicca, had returned with a message. Mistress Ann, Leader Bree
n, and he, must appear before the Council. They were all under arrest until they explained this failure. All personnel would accompany them.

  Ha, just like the Wicca, foolish. Abandon tasks half-done and then come back at another time and start all over again. Against orders, he would leave a small force to hold what they had shed blood to take.

  I must stand before them and defend myself. Can I stand? Not sure, have to wait and see.

  A stretcher would be here for him soon, LaJay had helped him finish the climb up the elevator shaft so she could steady him as he attempted to walk. Now he would really need the canes from Prime Minister Painter-Richards.

  “Need LaJay,” he said, almost passing out from that small effort.

  “She has not left your side since the elevator shaft. I have no idea what all these women see in you.”

  The trip to the elevator shaft itself was an ordeal. Traveling by stretcher was a series of side-to-side, nauseating swings and up and down bumps guaranteed to roil the strongest stomach. He had a mouthful of the foul, fat little leaves LaJay had given him. To ease the pain, she had explained. A product from her mother’s country she had managed to cultivate in window boxes. A few swallows of the bitter sap and he could feel the nerve endings relaxing, the pain ebbing to a bearable ache.

  “Swallow the pulp as soon as you can,” LaJay warned. “Or an intense sense of euphoria takes over.”

  “Explain, please.” He tried not to growl but he knew he had. He had absolutely no idea why anyone would use a word like “euphoria.”

  She gave him an amused glance; her nose twitching up in an unusual way. That one glance saying she was about to play a game he had better learn fast. “You laugh, and laugh when they hang you.”

  Lowering him down the elevator shaft strapped in the stretcher was the worst. A short five floors to the basement, they said. It seemed to take forever. He could remember little else, except trying now to swallow the leaves, when an excruciating jar sent him into a gasping fit. He went with the euphoria. Took his breath right away and he slept.

  As they took him from the shaft in the basement, LaJay helped him rise. There would be no more fat little leaves until just before the meeting. It would not do to fall asleep. A single SHORT was waiting with the engine running. Rat was standing outside the open passenger door. Kimraig stopped abruptly, not willing to enter. In his condition, there was no way to fight his way out of this.

  “Relax, old man,” Brody-1’s massive hand was trying to reassure him, but it was not helping ease the tension. “Rat brought a second SHORT back for you. Mistress Ann and Leader Breen left a short while ago.”

  “Explain how this helps me,” Kimraig asked. Rat had a look about her he had not seen before.

  “I take him,” Rat said as she grabbed Kimraig’s arm, none too gently, and ushered him to the door, half dragging him into the interior. Between LaJay and Rat, he was laying on the back seat in no time, his hands locked again. This time, the manacles were in front. He was not going anywhere without their help.

  “Not sorry I do this,” Rat’s voice was the same, no nonsense. “Me people at Number 1 Building took to cell in basement. Should ‘a toll us you gunna’ be Wicca’s first male Leader. They not ‘bout ta share nothing with you.”

  Kimraig had no answer. He had not bothered to think of how his actions would look to those who had supported his journey. He had not thought past the takeover of One Nine. Well he had taken it over all right. Won the battle and lost the war: trite history.

  Finally, building One Nine passed behind them. He did not remember crossing the street to the annex where their attack had begun. He did not remember Luna slipping out to bring what remained of the Crossers delegation back to join them. Marta and Luna had kept Commander Colt’s stripped Team 1 in reserve in case they found Loyal Richards. They were not needed—no Loyal Richards.

  At least the two women had not turned the blame on him as he had originally guessed.

  Chapter 8. Silent Vote

  Number 5 Building

  Outside the Wicca Council Chambers

  Kimraig had no recollection of the ride back home. Two bodyguards met the SHORT as they arrived. Someone had remembered him, ordering protection for the people’s hero. It did not matter if the guards were only protecting his body for deposit in the Compost Heap.

  Brody-1 and Hunter Curtis were on either side of Kimraig in the holding cell outside the Chamber doors. They had guarded him while he watched the Vid-screen as the Wicca Leader of Leaders laid out the charges against him for his second treason trial. These two had made sure no one saw him on the trip from the basement to the showers, to the changing room. They knew his status with most of their population so it would not do for the ordinary people to see him in chains.

  “LaJay sent a reminder, ‘the hard part comes now’ so be aware.” Hunter Curtis chose to whisper in his ear as the cell doors swung open.

  “Got it, she told me. Thanks,” Kimraig answered before he could finish.

  He had heard it all before and he knew just what would happen if he did not swallow.

  Kimraig pushed the wad of chewed leaves into his cheek for storage. He had been chewing only a few—the remainder stashed in his pocket—chewing a long, long time and he was beginning to see shadows around things that had no shadows. He remembered why this “euphoria” could be the dangerous “hard part” LaJay had described. Everything wrong with his world seemed right and a little bit of that went a long way. He had needed that effect in the elevator shaft but he could not afford it here. He swallowed.

  His two guards ushered him to the temporary prisoner benches with its speaking lectern, deliberately set off to the side of the assembly. Except for those seated on the rail, the main body of people could not see these seats. Each delegate would have to stand and crane their neck to see the prisoner, as if his mere presence in these seats proved guilt.

  He looked to the seated Wicca Council, found Breen in her thirteenth spot in the last row. She looked worn down by the weight of the manacles holding her wrists in front, but looked as beautiful as ever despite a small swelling on one cheek. No bruise showed. It might be the paint some females wore, or LaJay’s medicinal leaves. Two armed guards stood a respectful distance away.

  Not for the first time he compared her to Char. That was unfair for both of the women. He tried to push the comparison aside, only to have LaJay’s image push it back to him. He had never been in a situation where there was more than a single woman in his life. Usually that was a Queen and required duty. Now he had three he deeply cared for. Although Mistress Breen, it seemed, was almost certainly a love-hate bond.

  The sight of Mistress Ann rushed him back to reality. She sat in her normal seat as Number 1 Building’s Superior. Now she wore a bright blue scarf tied across her mouth as a defiant gag, manacled wrists spread wide, the small chain pulled tight, hands held out in supplication. Making a spectacle, appealing for sympathy—or—he had no idea. An additional brace of guards stood within reach, as the council filed into their seats.

  The other four Superiors sat in their appointed place, constantly arranging their robes as if they were drawing attention away from Mistress Ann.

  As Kimraig took his place on the single bench at the side of the podium, a general clamor filled the chamber. The Crossers delegation had arrived.

  From the corner of his eye, he watched Prime Minister Painter-Richards enter on a rolling platform designed to keep her upright as she traveled. Loose of her restraints, the small woman was very good with a second set of canes like the ones she had loaned him at One Nine.

  Two Leaders ushered her to a reserved seat up front, an honored guest. Behind her were Luna and Marta dressed in battle armor, their helmets tucked discreetly under left arms: no Loyal Richards, no animals nor empty chairs.

  “Well at last, we are ready to continue,” Leader Pace said waiting for the large double doors to close. “Our honored guest,” she vaguely gestured toward the spectacle of their entra
nce, “representing the Crossers is Prime Minister Painter-Richards.”

  Leader Pace was not long on introductions unless it was her own. “Unfortunately, we do not have a representative from the Outsiders.” She paused, her chubby hands making a good show of checking her notes.

  “Will the male named Kimraig please stand to hear the vote on guilt or innocence.”

  “No Miss,” he answered.

  “You will do as ordered. You have heard the charges against you. Now stand.”

  “I have not heard those charges. Ten minutes of your proceeding were removed from the broadcast,” he had guessed at the time, so he chose to remain respectful. He continued to remain in his seat.

  Leader Pace looked to Mistress Ann for direction. The Superiors from the four other buildings stood, almost as one. The closest walked the short distance to stand in front of Mistress Ann, effectively blocking her from view. They were expressing their displeasure at the charges brought against their counterpart. Superiors were exempt from this type of harassment.

  It appeared to Kimraig that the missing minutes were a clever ploy to disrupt the proceedings. Who had arranged that, and why?

  Leader Pace, lost now, could no longer make eye contact with Mistress Ann. No orders if I cannot see her, she gulped. Guess I have to brazen through this part.

  “Hunter, for the last time I order you to stand and be convicted.” With her bluster, Leader Pace realized she had said the wrong thing. She pronounced him convicted before the Wicca’s vote. She stammered, looking for words to change what had happened, but it was not to be. Two sets of hands grabbed her elbows. She feigned a collapse as the two eldest among her peers led her from the podium. Leader Pace would have a hard time remaining a Leader.

  In the rows of seats, many began to stand. A Silent Vote had begun.

  This was just the second time in the Builder’s short history that this illegal vote presented itself. Their Rules of Order did not allow filibusters. None of those standing said a thing, but the spirit of the single word—filibuster—was intact.