The 6th of Six (The Legend of Kimraig Llu) (16 page)

There seemed to be a lot of new water surrounding them. It may be an optical illusion from this height, but the river channels were much wider, she could not shake the feeling they were higher above the water.

Someone in this building must know this city.

Another someone must have a little police experience.

A few had to be mean enough to kill.

Their search gave them very little supplies for what she feared a new day would bring.

As the days passed and catastrophic events continued to unfold, she knew they needed a new government. She could design several, but which would be durable? They were mostly young women and a few old men. Then she knew. There could be no better format than her only fascination besides work—modern witchcraft—not benign but like the brutal covens of legend.

Ann decided the ruling body’s name had to be The Wicca, their bible the
Wiccan Codex
, with herself as head witch. Number 13 will be my new lucky number. That thought forced her first lunatic giggle—the first of many.

* * *

This is not good, that old bat Mistress Ann, has left me alone too long,
Kimraig thought. A steady film of perspiration bit into the cuts and bruises strangling his wrists and ankles. Close air was wearing on his nerves. The small cargo hatch behind his head was open as was the driver’s door. He could feel a faint stirring of air. These SHORTS were not a place to spend a quiet afternoon.

Pressure inside his steel box indicated a sheltered location. Basement garage of One Nine, he guessed. He resisted the urge to pull against the handcuffs fixing him to the temporary seat. Anxiety screamed.
Hey, I do not wait!

The SHORT rocked. A cool draft brushed the beads of sweat on his forehead. He coiled. Leader Breen bent over to clear the narrow opening to the cargo area, moving toward him with her short dress sword in hand. All female Builder’s, Troopers and Queens, carried this small version when not in battle dress.

He forced down the urge to lunge, but his thoughts were slower than his bodies’ reaction. He moved—maybe half an inch.

Damn near tore your hands off, start thinking!

What the hell was Leader Breen doing in the robes of a Mistress?

She moved to his side and placed her sword on the seat next to his left hand, the hilt within his easy reach. She unlocked his legs first, knowing he would do nothing with cuffed hands. When the cuffs fell to the floor, the keys followed. Breen slid into the seat so recently occupied by Mistress Ann.

“My sword is by your hand. Do what you have to do,” she sighed.

One flick of the sword and he was done. Leader Breen’s head rolled back toward the driver’s compartment, her robes of indigo blue splashed with...

There was no blood, because he had not moved. It was only a flashing thought, quickly gone. That thought pushing away a deep need to be with her. A need that had almost obscured the isolation that he lived with.

Her sell-out had numbed him, yet her sword remained untouched. The memories of their Mating Ritual, twin sons, and betrayal burning every nerve; he was almost unable to rub the feeling back into his hands.

“Why?”

Leader Breen fought hard not to show her relief.

“Had you not stayed with me last night, you would be dead. When you killed Mistress Ann’s Leaders on the concourse the day of The Gender War, her plans for the future went to the compost heap. I had to make sure you would not join her plans. She likes hostages. I gave her you.”

Breen held up her hand as he started to snarl. She would not break eye contact.

“Please, hear everything.” She paused, only until he settled back. “Mistress Ann wanted your head. You knew that, but then you made yourself useful and almost indispensable. Your plan to take this new building was perfect. Then there I was, as much a hero as you. She said she saw me as the driving force she had been at my age. I was groomed to implement her new government—equality for everyone, including males.”

Kimraig sat silently, willing himself to hear every word. He smelled deceit.

“Mistress Ann selected five Hunters as prospective mates. That male would help me govern One Nine. I was to choose last night. I did, she was livid.” Breen shrugged and continued. “This morning, before the Wicca Council, I announced you, Kimraig, as my mate.” Leader Breen took time to sit back against the hard seat.

“Go with me on this,” she continued. “Once I take over here at One Nine, you and your little army can go your own way, all but Midge. Mistress Ann owns her. She reported every move you made.” She still had not broken eye contact. “Leave her alone.”

No! Midge will not last a day on the roof of Number 4 Building,
he thought.

“After the parlay, I convinced her to grant you full immunity. Will you help?”

Finally, she closed her eyes tight and shuddered.

“Trust is a fickle mistress.” Kimraig picked up the sword and turned its hilt to Leader Breen. “I have no choice.” He looked away. “Is that all?”

Breen nodded only once. Mistress Ann was right. Lying did get easy. As she moved to leave the SHORT, she turned. “Brody-1 and Hunter Curtis are outside with a new set of battle armor. Wear it.”

She had no sooner cleared the doorway, and Brody-1’s overlarge form blocked out what little light there was. Battle armor landed at his feet, not his Hunter’s armor, different cut. The deep indigo blue matched Breen’s robe.

Brody-1’s curt voice grated on his ears as she handed him the helmet.

“There is one-way communication inside this helmet. Meaning all of us can yell at you but you cannot talk to us, less we make the connection for you. There is a telepathy block in the helmet. Which means no one can communicate with you by thinking at you either. Understood?”

He nodded as he locked eyes with the woman. He was not quite sure how good she was in hand-to-hand combat.

“Too bad, I want you to screw up so I can crush you myself. Talk to Mistress Breen like that one more time and that will happen. You got that old man?”

“Good luck,” he said

Fighting fair against this monster might be counterproductive.
Her performance did make it hard to resist a chuckle.

Old man she calls me. Well, maybe this will be fun.

He heard her muffled voice yelling outside. “Hunter Curtis, get your sorry butt in there and make sure he knows which way is up. God, they continue to surround me with idiots.” Heavy footsteps faded away.

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.