The 6th of Six (The Legend of Kimraig Llu) (27 page)

“Send someone with a brain cell to fill me in. They had better be here an hour ago.”

Thirty steps to the wall, thirty steps back to the opposing wall. If Number 4 Building were gone, the others would follow. Except in Number 5 Building, where there were no Middle and Lower Levels.

I will not wait around, pacing. If Kimraig and that back stabber Breen, think I am going to allow them to set up their own little play area in that Number 6 Building, they had better think on it some more.

Mistress Ann turned back to the table and picked up her C-link, with charged batteries.

She would issue orders to all buildings. Anyone loyal to Kimraig would wind up in a cell until she had a chance to knock him and Breen into the Compost heap. He would have no support personal in any of the five buildings. No revolution would start here.

You, Mistress Ann, you will check every hour,
she ordered herself. She would use her newly charged C-link, just to make sure all completed results exactly matched her orders. No one, not even one, had better make a mistake.

* * *

Builders Number 2 Building

Natal ward, floor three, Baby Factory

The orders from Mistress Ann, concerning Kimraig Llu, finally had Julia moving. Since her good friend Chloe had introduced them as teens, she had done what Kimraig asked. She owed him. He had helped place hundreds of her babies in good homes. Babies she had rescued from the carts labeled for the compost heap.

Julia was not brave like him. Terrified would not begin to describe the fear that had forced her to flee her meager office pallet.

Hiding now, disguised in stolen green scrubs, she slipped silently between the false walls where she had led the Crosser saviors to the newborn baby ward, and helped them steal three babies. The Wicca’s clean up squads were searching in the hallways. Troopers, from several battle groups, had joined the search for a wet nurse named Julia, in a building jammed with women.

Julia was never able to wet-nurse because when she turned thirteen, the elders had taken her insides, so no baby to kick off the process—ever. A doctor had given her a normal physical and declared her autistic. If that were the case, the doctors would have abandoned her in the basement when she was born. Young Julia had a choice, accept her fate or suffer the sentence of death. Each day she saved unwanted children, proving she had made the right choice.

In those days, the Wicca had practiced eugenics—anyone who displayed the slightest defect immediately faced sterilization or death. The Mating Ritual produced all babies—no one mentioned the hordes born in Lower Levels—only those who displayed traits of the brightest and best males and females participated. Each was a Wicca choice.

That was why the physical in her thirteenth year, she would be eligible for the Mating Ritual at the age of fourteen. The Wicca had made sure she would not attend.

Eugenics remained alive and well in this building, but was not widespread because the gene pool had become severely limited.

That young girl Julia was now Nadia, Chief Administrator, Hospital and Newborn Baby Ward, Number 2 Building. The robes and identity of her posting rode warmly in a cloth baby sling nestled against her useless breasts.

Pausing just a few feet away from the Nurses’ Station, she stopped to listen through the thin panel of the wall. As always, the nurses were chatting. Their voices pitched loud enough to attract any negligent intern within earshot, female or male—hopefully male.

“I tell you again, they are looking for the Chief Administrator. I do not care that there is no wet-nurse named Julia in this building. Nadia remembers everyone who even stayed here, even for a day.” The nurse was almost beside herself that her companion would not listen to her simple explanation.

“Well, I just do not see why they would tell you. It is not as if you do not have an endless supply of tall tales all the time. Anyway, if she is here, they will find her.” The second nurse lifted her head and walked rapidly away.

“Megs wait, tell me who said I tell tall tales,” the first nurse yelled, chasing after her.

Nadia continued to the opening near the stairwell, relieved the troops were looking for someone who no longer existed. She was determined now, determined but no less scared. Only she could warn Kimraig that Mistress Ann was rolling up the leaders of his network.

She had quickly devised a cover to get out the guarded double doors leading to the street. The guards would see an old doctor in green scrubs on an errand to deliver the newest lists of births from their Mistress Gina to Mistress Ann. Everyone knew not to interfere with anyone on an errand to Number 1 Building.

Finally working her way outside, she still had no plan for slipping unnoticed through the lines of her building’s battle groups. They held the Crossers contained in their enclave—a prison. Here, right now, defiance gripped her and she realized why she had made special preparations in the Lab. She knew the underground route the Crossers had taken with her precious little girls. She had followed them to the opening of that former subway tunnel, and then watched as their strobes disappeared. She would use the same route as they had used, regardless of how she feared the light that moved back and forth on the wall.

She had observed that unknown weapon as it moved and then its instant flash as it destroyed those wild blob things with a ray of light. If more wild things returned, she had prepared a quick way out—poison that she called BWL. If this new weapon refused her...she shrugged; she was dead either way.

Before she left her lab an hour ago, Nadia had assembled three chewable capsules of the poison. They now rode in one non-soluble packet tucked into the back corner of her jaw. One capsule of the seductive powder had earned the reputation of stopping hearts within seconds: three of the darlings...instantly.

The meaning of the initials, BWL brought a sense of peace.
Bright White Light...at the end of the tunnel.
It was a description of a vision that some say they saw when they had almost died. There would be no coming back to tell this story.

She moved into the tunnel.

* * *

Builder’s Number 3 Building

Compost heap

Unaware of Nadia’s plight, Jake sat in the dark waiting. Here, at the very bottom of the compost heap, humming feed pipes drew sludge up to the top, then added it back constantly, effectively turning the contents over. This noise, repulsive to almost everyone, curiously soothed him with the memories of life brought back from death.

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.”