That long ago morning, he knew he was dead as soon as he pushed the young girl clear of the tangle of Choker weed. The clear area she had been playing in quickly surrendered to tentacles shooting from the main body. Even though his legs were gone, he knew he had to pull the little one back to safety. He saved her, but the weed held him tight.
Why Kimraig had pulled him from the Compost Heap years ago was never clear to Jake. As soon as he saw the frantic young woman trying to pick her way to the crying girl, he knew why. This would be fair, exchange his life, for the life of a female who would replace his gift at least once. Of course, he was betting he could beat the weed, and a little enraged by the unthinking wet nurse leaving the child alone. Was she familiar, this wet nurse? As they retreated, he realized who she was: Macy, from Battle Group 301.
Macy was not a wet nurse. The child was hers.
He knew as soon as he pushed her child free, that the weed had won. There were only faint images after that. Burning face tangled in roots quietly eating the damaged flesh from his burned chin and neck. Tendrils wiggled into his nose and ears as a tiny translucent froth covered him, consuming his body as if he was the froth’s dinner plate.
He knew there were only seconds until it covered him and all that remained would be quivering lump, a last wiggle and a flat spot that had been Jake Newday. Then the vines snapped, retreating into the mass as his thoughts slid away.
Those memories did not include sound, yet the curious suction of the pipes remained part of that experience. There was no need to question why the weed had retreated. He preferred to think it just did. Everyone else claimed he tasted bad.
A faint flash in the total nothing around him, jerked him back to the present. The blackness from the depths in front of him began to glow and then brightened inside of the circular tunnel entrance that cut into the basement wall. Figures, carrying digging tools and very small torches, walked upright in loose rows, four and five abreast. Tall Hunters could stand on their shoulders and reach the tunnel ceiling, enough room inside for SHORTS to travel safely.
The leader was as tall as Jake was sitting on the tabletop. She stopped while the others continued on to the elevators. Before Jake could speak, the leader began talking. “Yes, we made contact at the entrance to the old subway tunnel. Yes, our contacts from Across the Street had news of Kimraig. Yes, the news is mostly good. No, he has not set up a base where we can contact him.” The leader yawned and turned to the elevator.
“But Macy, you did not tell me how your day went.” Jake chuckled. It was very hard for him to contain his damaged smile or hide his relief that she was back safely.
“You send me into that evil place, to work in the dirt and to a meeting you should have done yourself. Then, ask me how my day went?”
Macy took a wild swing at Jake’s head, which he dodged and pulled her, back first, against his chest. The short stubs of his legs held her, not tight since the table he was sitting on offered little purchase.
“I really do not think this is the time to make love. But if you insist.” Jake nibbled at the short hairs at the nape of her neck.
“I told you to never pull my hair like that.” Macy relaxed against him, letting the tension of her mission ebb away.
“Actually, I have ulterior motives.” Nuzzling into her neck, he continued. “I need a ride to the elevator.”
Macy stifled a laugh of her own as she spoke, “You can get there on the stubs of your legs for all I care.”
Contrary to her words, she reached down to his thighs and pulled up, helping him hunch into the position above her hips which was most comfortable for her.
“Back hug,” he whispered as he squeezed with his thighs and forearms.
“Just once, would you let me have the last word?”
Jake remained silent as she carried him to the elevator, stabbed the Up button, and then stepped in for the short climb to the crew floors above the administration areas. There they could relax, since Wicca cleanup crews never ventured into Lower Levels.
When the doors opened, an armed reception committee waited with spears at the ready.
“Okay, your turn for last word.”
* * *
Builders Number 4 Building
Unfinished rooftop
The Wicca clean up squad stormed the rooftop as the Little People’s leaders, Tucker and Winnie, worked further down the building side. This morning, when they had been working the opposite edge of this section, Tucker had caught a glimpse of something more black than green. He wanted to make sure it was not rooted weed. When their rope teams had winched them back to the roof, the remaining hours of sunlight would have allowed time for a fast check of two floors in that next section. They were already down six, with the sun setting rapidly.
“There it is Winnie, just to our right.” Tucker signaled to his handlers to move his rope one bay to the left. As it moved, he was careful not to bump against the solar panels in case he slipped. He did not think his small size would cause damage, but he wanted to be extra careful.
He now had a clear view of the Choker weed. It had rooted in behind the solar panel, no longer just a spore. Already sending out tentacles to claim more territory for roots, it had worked its way under the fastenings and probably into the ceiling of the room behind. It was no longer just a spore, but an immature weed. There was enough room for him, as small as he was, between the panel and the building window. He had been right to add this quest after their final trip to the roof.
“Tucker, you stay glued to that spot until I get over there to help. And buckle your safety to the panel,” Winnie ordered.
He looked at her and faked a frown because his ready smile might let her know it was nice to have her worry about him. The heavy piece of dried Choker weed she had woven for their crew’s safety belts was as strong as the rusty steel cables used to tow broken SHORTS.
He worked it through the heavy braces holding the panel in place, only because he wanted her to think he did not have time to argue. He snapped it tight to his belt and then made sure she did the same when the crew moved her rope placing her beside him.
“All right my girl, I will work my way in by the window. Then I will pass the bucket out to you when I get the weed.” Neither of them had a chance to do anything before their ropes were yanked tight as the hand wenches tried to pull them back to the roof.
“Hey, take it easy. What is going on?” Tucker yelled.
They looked up at the faint image of a dozen Troopers in battle helmets hanging over the parapet staring at them. Their Queen looked over and yelled.
“You are under arrest by order of the Wicca. Free your line so we can pull you up. Now—or I will cut the rope.”
Winnie spoke softly across the panel. “They found out about us passing information to the Crossers. I am not going back up there. We would not have a chance.”
“Nor I, let’s get some slack to unsnap from the harness. That should make it look like we are trying to get out from behind this panel.” Now they were on the same page.
The Queen’s impatient voice made its demand one more time.
“Okay, okay. Give us some slack so we can get away from the panel.”
They pulled slack down, faked unfastening their safety lines and began to work their way out from behind the panel. Each disconnected the main line to the roof then tied a hitch knot in the line around the heavy bracket holding the solar collector in place. Now there was just enough slack to imitate their full weight should those Troopers decide to pull early. Completely free of the line, each gave their normal three tugs signaling they were ready.
In seconds they would have the window broken, disappearing in less time than that.
Their lines jerked, cinching the loose hitch tight like they were dangling on the end.
“Get ready to pull your hitch loose,” Winnie warned her husband
When it appeared their weight was dangling the line went slack. They pulled their hitches loose. In slow motion, the line uncoi
led down and the hand wenches followed banging into the solar panels on a fast trip to the rubble below.
From above, laughter echoed into the night.
* * *
Builders Number 5 Building
Non-Existent Lower Level
Chloe’s Quarters
It was dark now and they were here.
All day, Chloe had waited patiently for business in the holding pens outside the Council Chambers. She had not had one customer. Lately, no one sought her services, where once she was in high demand. She was too old for the business now, unless she wanted to sell herself in the cellars. There came a time when a professionals pride was all that remained. Now was that time—no cellar. Instead she was back in her quarters.
She rose and opened the door to their knock.
“Director,” she greeted the woman named Sala dressed in the flowing white robes of a Wicca Leader.
“Young sir,” was her greeting for the small young man in khakis whose mere presence put her at peace. They had never introduced themselves, as many times as they had met with her. But they were known to everyone fighting for their lives against the Wicca, his name is David Proctor. The fledgling Blue Army was his creation.
Today, she would help them—the Others—take down the Wicca.
“Chloe, I came personally to ask you to join your peers in a safe place. You have done enough for our cause.” The woman gathered Chloe into a comfortable embrace.
“There is no reason for you to sacrifice yourself. In a few weeks, perhaps even days, the Wicca will no longer control our lives. We can arrange another way to enable our fighters to escape from this building.”
Leader Sala held Chloe at arm’s length again. “Reconsider please.”
“Thank you, but no. I trained a young boy, and he has given thousands like me a little hope for a better life. Hope is better than slaving for a government whose only goal is, ‘tomorrow the same as today’.” Chloe did not tell them she was tired of hiding, tired of memories, tired of being old and used up. She wanted a fight, and the small thing they needed would be just that.
Tell her, she needs to know the rest.
“There is more,” Chloe hesitated because the true reason sounded indulgent. “No one will remember a whore. They will remember a hero of the revolution.”
Sala drew her in once again before she spoke. “Thank you, I will see to that,” she said. “David will take you from here.”
The man in his neat khaki clothes held his hand out for her as he opened the door and led her into the hallway.
As they made the way down to the hidden rooms that did not exist, Chloe thought of Kimraig Llu and their short time together, thoughts of the shy young boy. The Wicca had paid her to introduce him to pleasure. In return, he had given her a chance for a new life. She had taken that chance and ran with it, every minute worth the ride. He called her his beautiful creature.
* * *
This beautiful creature, not much taller than him, she was holding his hand and tugging him down to Number 4 Building’s Lower Level. Her place, she said, where they could be alone. He had let the fire and forbidden moisture of her small hand lead him wherever she pleased. Why would they want to be alone? He did not want to be alone with her, deformed as he was, deformed by that awful bulge below his belt, all of it tied to the moist heat of her hand.
Young Kimraig tried, lamely, to pull away. That half attempt sent her into a fit of terror he could not understand.
“No, no you cannot leave. Your training is my responsibility. Please, I will explain. We must close the door before someone sees.”
Chloe had stalked him for one full month, her new assignment. She never made mistakes; this very young male’s name was Kimraig Llu, legend of the short Hoarder Riots. The only male who retained a family name, even if it were only in hero tales spun in darkened hallways in Lower Levels. Every wet nurse told their own tale of a shadow running stairwells in the dark—daring anyone and everyone to stop him.
Heat got the better of him. If she ever told of this night, he would lie. He did not know what the lie would be, but he would lie. It was the heat making him enter that room. This heat had wrapped him so tightly; the sight of his travel bags, and rolled sleeping mat, and all three sets of armor, did not register. Nor did their presence suggest she expected him to stay for an extended period. His future was there, biting at his neck, willing him to reconsider.
If I continue with this woman, the Wicca will ban me from the Mating Ritual.
They threatened all the boys with that curse. Only Kimraig refused to practice that hot wet game with the troopers-in-training who were willing. Queens-in-training were supposed to be off limits, but that did not stop them either. No one ever caught them in the game or confiscated the protection each had purchased in the banned medical shops.
He thought of pulling away—impossible. Heat had him trapped on the couch, his shoulders digging into the soft cushions, her weight straddling his hips...kissing his neck, then sucking, the center of her brushing ever so lightly over his deformity. That hated spot, yet it controlled him now—warm, wet, wanton pain, holding his breath. It was true, he was dying fully clothed, no, no, no...ahhh.
“You remain fully clothed; I have not even reached the good part. Tell me that was not your first time,” Chloe demanded, in her young girl voice.
“Yes,” he answered. “It was my first time except at night sometimes, part of a dream.”
“How did you escape the pain from no relief?”
“I run up and down stairs in the dark, with only memory for guide. The roof is cold especially when it rains”
“But you have thirteen years of age, in three months you will be fourteen and going to the Mating Ritual. You could have fun with any number of those young trollops you train with.” She did not lose contact or alter her movement against any part of Kimraig’s body, only withdrawing to straightened arms the better to see him.
“No Mating Ritual now, not after I have done this with you.” He had lost control and punishment would follow. Maybe she had the wrong male—he hoped—maybe she was scared enough not to expose him. He knew that would not work. He must confess if asked. Then the other part of him, there must be more.
“I am not thirteen about to be fourteen. Three months’ time will be my thirteenth summer. The day of my birth is a full two months past that.”
“All this belongs to a twelve year old?” she said rocking heavily, her pelvis jammed to his dampened casual trousers and its secret, still rock hard, that the trousers could not hide.
“My deformity shames me even now.”
“You actually believe that crap the Wicca uses to control their children! Ha, deformity my flowery butt. They tell each female and male this same lie. ‘You will be an outlaw if you mate those awful things between your legs.’ The truth is they do not care. They want—no, they need a record of which male could produce the most babies. The protection they let you youngsters buy is a way to provide samples of your body fluids. More exactly, they keep a record of which male has the strongest sperm. That is why women like me are always so busy with the government and not you young ones.”
“What do you mean, a woman like you?” How was she different, he wondered?
She had not heard, or she was too busy to answer. Chloe began undressing him, tugging him this way and that until she had his tunic free. She stopped only to tear her own thin blouse away sending it crumpled to the floor. This frenzy was not part of her normal routine. Some part of herself—desire long lost—had taken over.
Why bother to undo the press-close fasteners at his hips or down the inside of each leg of his trousers. She ripped them down and off, mating them with her blouse on the floor.
Oh, he is big.
“No,” he reached to stop her from seeing him, too late. Her teeth, tongue, lips and throat found him.
“No,” he shouted again trying to push her away.
A hard slap across his face as a heated palm and clamping
fingers gripped in threat, just below his deformity, locking him in place.
“This is my reward. You will not take it from me.”
Unbidden, he pushed back at the boiling wetness that found him again. A flurry of shifting body and teeth gnashing at his shoulder; arms pinned above his head, nipples forced into his mouth, conscious life ending a lifetime later with her scream—another scream, and one by him.
Awareness came back, her stiff arms still holding his. She made him the object of her cold stare, as her body continued to move slowly on him with no particular frenzy. His arms failed to respond, numb, trapped against couch arm and back.
“Do you always stay aroused like this?” She squeezed his center tight as a glove, with muscles requiring her whole body to manage. “I sense you do not know.”
“My arms,” he groaned.
He was totally under her control. She released the one arm trapped against the couch, bringing it down to her naked hip. Holding it tight to the bone until his grip returned and it began to match the rhythm of her gentle rock. Weight supported now, with her free hand on the armrest. She brought his second hand down to her other hip and jammed it hard against her.
“That was the only time you will ever let a woman control you. You must give them the illusion only,” she growled as her feral green eyes ordered him from high above. “I will teach you while your hands control our pace. Do not expel until I say.”
Her demand registered, as Kimraig clamped her on him with arms still partially dead from their ordeal. He understood this. She was a skill to master. His body is the weapon, was the weapon. Moist heat will be its only target. Control of the woman above him the objective. He learned.
Shortly, Chloe’s arms stiffened. Her neck arched back at an impossible angle, a squeal cut to a gurgle by the pressure. Her eyes where open seeing nothing—no need to fake with this boy. Not the first time her peak had been intense. Yet none could compare with this. A spot inside, tickled before but never brutalized until this moment.
The 6th of Six (The Legend of Kimraig Llu) Page 20