From then on, he was in constant contact with Winnie, the driving force behind the Little People’s battle against the Wicca. Following secret meetings in rubble surrounding both their homes, they made plans. The first to bear fruit warned of an impending Builder attack designed to crush his Crossers. His troops were waiting.
The second, a Hunters plan to occupy a new building some distance away. Added tidbits of information obtained with bribes, along with snippets pilfered from unguarded thoughts and he hatched a plan quickly approved by now Prime Minister Painter-Richards.
His plan included input from a trusted Wicca Leader, Sala, and a Hunter named Yates. As with any plan, he scrapped most of it with the debacle encountered in building One Nine. It was the first time he committed troops of The Blue. This informal army included anyone who felt they needed a new life. All in all, an endless supply of individual souls willing to die for anything better.
One benefit was the addition of two Builder Battle Groups who wanted to defect to the Blue. David helped them stage a battle scene that would appear as if they had met their demise at the hands of the Ergots. They brought no weapons or armor but plenty of supplies.
The scrapping of the plan itself led him to one name, Brody-1. He followed his intuition and joined the mission to rescue Sala. Brody-1, a giant of a woman and her reputation across the Builders community, would be the single difference needed to take and hold Number 5 Building—once he enhanced her reputation to legend status.
Anyone can tell lies with enough guile for the masses to believe. He was not dealing with the average person. He must convince over one hundred politicians who had more practice with this type of lie. He started with the nurses in Number 2 Building. Everyone in the five buildings knew this was the start of the rumor pipeline—it was and always would be.
David planted stories of Brody-1’s physical powers, her heroic exploits in and around building One Nine and her promotion to Security Commander by the ultimate Builder symbol, Mistress Ann. No one person could do everything he credited to her. He had what he needed, a genuine female hero.
Now, here he was regretting his decision because of this female who he had known less than a week. He buried his fear. His plans had never failed completely and neither would this one. Yes, he would second guess—and third and fourth and fifth—continuing on as always, ready with a thousand alternate plans each soon discarded in favor of another.
Commander Brody, in the name of The Blue, would occupy Number 5 Building today; all of the Builders government would be under their control.
He walked “Across the Street” toward Number 5 Building. He passed the Holes leading to the old subway below his feet. The Builders troops no longer maintained the blockade of his people. He had an escort once he reached his destination. Quickly following through the garage and up a flight of steps, he found a long hallway and an extremely comfortable room where his escort left him to himself.
The room was more than comfortable, opulent a more apt description, the best available anywhere would be another. Leave it to the politicians to have only the finest when dozens starved each day. A single comfortable chair with what appeared to be wings, sat positioned against a wall hung with tapestries. Two couches angled, one end facing away from the chair, two seats of honor closest to the chair. A simple place for one woman, Mistress Ann, to hold court while sitting comfortably with her guests, all of them bathed in upholstery matching the ebony blue of her Superior’s robes.
Now he had his own dilemma, two women. He removed the computer printout from his packet, delivered by currier, just as he was preparing to rescue Director Sala. He had read it briefly and would deal with the opportunity when this was finished.
Memory of his casual lover, Jutes, had drifted away when he met the giant woman. He had a decision to make. Would he keep Jutes or Commander Brody—no, you cannot have both.
In the center of the wall, across from the winged chair, a large Vid-screen shouted for attention. Only the occupant of the single chair would have a clear view, her guests forced to turn sideways to the screen. Mistress Ann would view her underlings at length while remaining unobserved. That woman had more than a little psyche training.
Happily, David eased himself down to luxury—oh my, it fits. As if on cue, the Vid-screen commanded his attention when Sala walked from the council chamber’s open door to the lectern. He eyed the row of chairs he had ordered placed against the wall—too many, or not enough? If they did not work, it did not matter, there was always another plan.
Ready for her stolen role as Leader of Leaders, Sala, resplendent in her shocking blue scarf, marched across the floor and up two short steps to assume her position at the podium.
With five minutes until roll call, we have quite a few empty seats, she thought. Her internal “get even” grin was about to spring on them.
She banged the microphone three times, Mistress Ann’s valuable lesson.
“Roll call, in five minutes,” her clear and precise voice rang through the hall.
For some of those inside, hearing the five-minute warning was new. Following the example made by more experienced members, they took their seats. Even the few old timers had no clue what was up, yet political instinct knew when to take its place.
“Two minutes,” echoed with another pained squeal from the microphone.
Everywhere, the sound of concerned shuffling on padded seats began to invade the silence. This was uncomfortable for these women: stuck in their seats...adhering to a rigid timetable...no guards protecting the door...what next?
“Call to Order.” Leader Sala banged the Wicca’s gavel three times, the vicious strokes delivered more pain to the lecterns wounded microphone. It never failed to amaze her when the members of her government could not get to work on time even when they lived in the same building. Today it would cost them.
The Sergeant at Arms walked to each tier repeating, “Call to Order.”
Sala checked the Leaders seats behind her. Yes, twelve of thirteen overstuffed chairs contained two white-robed leaders from each of the five buildings and the two permanent members. The Coven at least was complete.
Bet this is the first time they all arrived on time, she thought, giving then no credit. She had made sure each received a warning call.
Making the fidgeting assembly wait again, she slowly surveyed the Council floor. Five tiered rows of comfortable bleachers complete with back supports. Only one female Superior, dressed in the flowing indigo robe required by her position, sat in front of Number 5 Building’s limited representatives. Twelve council members represented each of the five buildings: with their Superior, thirteen should be their number. There were too many gaping holes, too many colors and not enough members—in any of the rows.
“Order has been restored Leader,” the Sergeant at Arms said as she returned.
Sala removed her scarf—how she ached for the woman who had demanded the gift of her crossed lightning bolts. Draping several bright blue layers over the long-suffering microphone, she leaned down and spoke softly to the Sergeant. “Please stand where you are, you will not be needed at the door.”
The Sergeant started to protest, took one look at the hooded stare of her Leader of Leader’s, and thought best to follow orders.
“A pleasant day to you all, as you can see, we have done things a little differently this morning. However, bad news always comes first. Unfortunately, the 1st of One, the respected Mistress Ann passed away this morning...she will be missed.”
Obviously, that could not be the case since not one comment escaped the limited assembly. Sala heard murmuring from the seated Leaders behind her as the “next in line” received quick congratulations from those within reach.
“Enough mourning for now,” Sala said, unable to resist that barb. “Before her death, Mistress Ann left with me her vote for the replacement of the 4th of Four who unfortunately fell from the top of her building.”
Glancing up to the larger of the Vid-screens that line
d the wall, she checked the time. Six minutes had ticked away since Call to Order. Excellent timing if she did say so herself.
As if choreographed to some strange rhythm, the double doors banged open. Troopers in strange brown uniforms prodded a knot of political stragglers through the doors, then to the waiting chairs. They had trouble sitting with arms bound behind their backs. Those Troopers formed up between the wall and row of chairs—their bright blue helmets gleaming dully under the artificial light flooding the room.
A giant of a woman, dressed in the battle armor of Number 1 Building’s Security Commander, entered the hall followed by two...no four Hunters—four female Hunters. All five wore a bright blue scarf around their throats. The last two deliberately threw the double doors closed with a bang: hell of a statement.
“It seems the members sitting against the wall were tardy. Too bad, they will not be missed.”
“We have only one item of business before us. Select a replacement for our departed 4th of Four.” Sala motioned to her new Security Commander.
Commander Brody covered the distance to the seated Wicca in four quick strides, two of her Hunters jogging to keep up. Splitting off rapidly, the two remaining Hunters marched quickly to each side of the 5th of Five, the only Superior in the room. It did not take much to see this was not protection for the senior woman, but guards keeping her in place.
“Let us hear from you Mistress Gina,” Sala said, indicating the captive woman. Mistress Ann claimed you would vote with her. Is this true?”
One of the Hunters next to her placed the tip of her spear on Mistress Gina’s shoulder.
“Very good, I see you do agree with Mistress Ann. But even with two votes we do not have a quorum; we all know three votes are required. So I must open the two votes the Sergeant at Arms delivered to me this morning. Thank you, Sergeant.”
Sala produced two squares of recycled paper from the podium.
The tall woman looked up to Sala with a look of astonishment. What messages, it said.
Making a grand production, Sala opened each square nodding in agreement with the contents of each blank page.
“It seems we have a quorum. Number 2 and 4 Buildings have voted in like manner. Each vote disbands the Wicca government and this Assembly itself. ” She waited patiently as the bedlam rose about her. She diligently banged the gavel three times as required but did not wait for the tumult to subside. Instead, she signaled Commander Brody.
Half the Troopers peeled from behind the line of prisoner’s chairs. Splitting off to mount the stairs at the side of each tier, they took the steps two at a time into Number 1 Building tier of seats. The blunt end of spears took down protesters crowding the steps. Strong arms jammed them unconscious back to any empty seat.
The same action that took place on the steps of Number 1 Building, repeated in the tier for Number 2 Building. Although the guards mounted the steps to repeat the process for Building’s 3, 4 and 5 preservation of the political species prevailed, as everyone remained firmly in their seats—speechless for once.
“Well, now that we have all agreed, I formally deliver control of Five Buildings to the army of The Blue.” Sala’s voice had become vicious. She took her scarf from her shoulders pulling it taut between arms extended above her head.
“This is who we are. WE ARE THE BLUE.”
Epilogue. Hall ball
The first group of youngsters appeared from “Across the Street” just after dawn. They were tentative at first, until the lure of adventure took them into their first morning outside—ever.
Several boys and more girls had thrown on any clothing at hand, ready to taste their first day without war. They were all fastidiously clean now, which would last only until the first scuffle.
A ball appeared, quickly kicked between two boys. At first, their practiced movements refused to reach a rhythm in the wide avenue between the buildings. Understandable considering that the name of the game was Hall Ball. It did not take long for others to join, allowing the game to adjust to the unfamiliar reality of plenty of room.
A striker’s kick curved into the junk of smashed buildings and disappeared. Game fever could not lure the players to retrieve the ball—too close to the Builders.
Drawn to the laughter, another group dressed in old threadbare Builder training uniforms sneaked peeks from mounds of rubble. Two pre-teen females showed themselves with the errant ball clutched tightly under the arm of the tallest. The remainder of their group, four Hunters-in-Training, stood so that those on the roadway would know the two were not alone.
The impasse lasted about two seconds—games must be finished. One striker waved the two towards their makeshift playing field.
The smallest pre-teen reached down to her feet, lifted a heavy container, and picked her way carefully along an unseen path. She deposited her load a quick stride away from the two boys who wanted the ball. She bent down to the container and snapped the lid down against the side and dipped in. Standing, she sipped to show there was no danger in the offering, and presented the strangers a drink from the dripping ladle of water. Soon, both groups joined each other in the street.
Shortly, Princley’s Nora came towards them from the direction of One Nine. In her wake there trailed a small group of youngsters equally split between males and females. Their clothing was clean and repaired; obviously rags, different colors artfully sawn together.
Not so, however, with the ragged ball they carried. One emaciated male proudly flipped the ball’s filthy carcass back and forth between his palms, looking like it could pop any moment.
Nora’s calm motherly manner, like a wet nurse, soon had their small gathering broken into groups—hey, two balls.
Enterprising traders moved their stalls from Lower Levels, just for a temporary test of need. They did a brisk business, one even bartering sips of sweetened water. Another, with an almost identical stall, did better with the adults who had gathered. Some customers staggered back, always willing to part with more and more, as sips became swallows.
The next day, most of the stalls were back, except the one doing such a brisk business yesterday. He was dead, found in the rubble south, near the Choker weed with a message carved into his naked chest. “No more BJ.”
That first attack on the people roaming freely outside seemed random, until rumors began to circulate in all the Buildings and way houses of an experienced Hunter who had disappeared before the Wicca was murdered. Always a staunch supporter of that thirteen-member tribunal, this Hunter was taking his revenge.
People sighted him day and night in all five Buildings, in the rubble “Across the Street,” and outside way-houses. Attacks began to surface with more deaths. All the victims shared a grisly truth; the letter “V” etched into one upper arm.
There were too many sightings for it to be one man. That truth would not stop the beginnings of mounting panic.
After a double week, the combined government of their small island met quietly, seeking a plan of action to dispel the belief that Kimraig Llu had returned from the dead. Unfortunately, they could no longer ride the legend of a hero who had disappeared in battle, only to have him rise again to pull down the government who replaced his. He had to make an appearance.
* * *
Char and Kimraig were here in Number 5 Building at their combined government’s request. For now, safely inside this third floor room with a balcony, overlooking the six-lane highway. The sound of a milling crowd simmered up from the space below that separated the Builders and Crossers homes.
In the early evening darkness, lit only by flickering images, Char had to take a chance. No telling how long Kimraig would remain with her after his testimony, so every second was precious.
She held him now—for the first time in many months—kissing the tips of battered fingers on what had been his master sword arm. No more, the damage to his shoulder would not allow him to hold a blade. She would take what she could get. Deciding just minutes ago, as she helped him dress, she had to
ask her question regardless of the emotional cost to her.
“Kimraig, did you love LaJay and Breen?”
“I did I think, each in her own way. LaJay as a sister, Breen about how a slave loves his master,” he said, his tongue kiss searing the palm of her hand. “Even then, I was certain of only one thing. If I thought of you for very long: there would be no stopping me from throwing everything away to be at your side.”
“Both are dead now. LaJay by Breen’s hand, Breen by injuries received in the last battle for One Nine.” He pictured the SHORT’s burned out hulk found one day later.
“Unfortunately for us, her Hunters, our twin sons, were not among the bodies lying with her inside that vehicle.” He kissed the center of her palm again, light, fast, wet.
“This force, who attacks in the name of Kimraig Llu, continues to gather support among the elite—the same people who previously held power within the Builders government. These dissidents, who want the good times back, are giving The Blue nightmares.” He tried to ease into a more comfortable position without releasing his hold on Char’s hand.
“Do you believe they are responsible for these renewed attacks?” she asked.
“It has to be. Regardless of what the Kimraig Llu legend would have everyone believe, I cannot be in two places at the same time.” He let her go, struggled to stand—eyes pleading for help.
She moved quickly to gather him to her. Her arms and shoulders took his weight until his legs were firmly under him. Painter-Richards’ canes sat against a chair where they would stay until after he spoke to the crowd milling in the street below.
Char gazed around the hastily assembled media room, knowing it was time. There were several Vid-screens throwing constant flickering images on the wall, volume turned off to all but one.
That Vid-screen showed Director Sala, flanked by Rat in full Battle Gear just outside on the balcony, working the crowd from behind her microphone. The crowd milled across the wide avenue between the thirteen steps leading to Number 2 Building and to the smaller buildings of what had once been their hated enemy. She stood there, Vid-link in her ear and microphone a scant breath from her lips, extolling the virtues of their combined government in words designed specifically to control even the most reluctant listener.
The 6th of Six (The Legend of Kimraig Llu) Page 30