The 6th of Six (The Legend of Kimraig Llu) (33 page)

“Listen up.” Boss waited a minute, then shook his head in disgust.

“When I say listen up, that means all of you. Good. Now anybody screws this up, out the window you go.”

Given their limited attention, Boss quickly explained that Kimraig would split his forces and attack both stairwells at this end of the building. That information had passed to Boss thanks to little bubbles near a closed elevator door. As soon as that Hunter’s troops passed the second floor, Boss would send his little baby Ergots up after them.

He pointed to the blocked door at the end of this hall. Kimraig would use the stairwell where the door was braced shut by the column.

This group of Boss’ men would gather here and cut Breen’s forces in two. With limited protection, she would be easy for Boss to snatch with a small group waiting on the floor below. Kimraig would find the door blocked, unable to enter, cut off from his Breen.

There would be two choices for Kimraig to rescue her. He could attack back the way he came, then up the stairwell Breen had taken. Or, he could continue up to the next floor, run the short hallway to the second set of stairs, and then fight down to his woman. Much too confusing for Princely, and he was much sharper that these guys.

Once he thought on it, he understood. Before Kimraig was able to reach her location, Boss would be long gone with his prize.

Princely made sure he had a firm hold on Boss before helping him down the stairs into position. There would soon be a good place to put his fish knife to work.

* * *

Edith was cowering in the dark again, idly looking out the window: not hiding, just thinking. No, not thinking, but praying for Leader Breen and her Builder troops who were trying to occupy One Nine. With no moon tonight, there was little to see. An uncovered torch flashed from Battle Groups surrounding the buildings
Across the Street
. Crossers lived, worked and loved in those structures. Would war never end?

Maybe it would, with the help of the contents in Princley’s battered plastic boxes scattered around her personal living quarters. Here were documents, scraps of written communication and professionally printed-paper of all types. Clutched to her breast, a document on mismatched paper written in hand scribbles; a medical document—research. Meticulous research written in a child’s hand, facts crossed referenced to each plastic box.

And a mirror image of her research on the much larger Builder’s gene pool.

Here in her five buildings, various groups in Lower levels were having male children at a rate almost equal to females, especially the Little People. Other nomads in the ruins, who were not part of the Outsiders, experienced the same birth rate.

Princely had detailed for her one such group that the Outsiders had attacked in a walk-up apartment building. Bradley had killed the three men, captured and used the women, and finally turned them over to his men. Children, male and females in equal numbers; Old Crone took for her business.

One pre-teen girl ran with two Outsiders in pursuit. For whatever reason, Princely took off after them. Edith could read the anguish in his narrative when he had been unable to stop her initial attack. For the first time, he killed without thought. He cleaned her, did what he could to repair the damage and hid her in different locations know only to him. Nora was still with him.

Twenty scribes, working in small groups, sequestered themselves in separate cubicles on the top floor of her Number 2 Building. They would verify everything. This was independent work, parallel to hers, with the same two conclusions—the Wicca’s tendency to kill indiscriminately, and nuclear devices used by their forbearers—hindered the birth of male children. Would her old friend Dr. Missy Painter-Richards’ work match Princley’s and hers? Missy was Crosser; Edith would be committing treason if she arranged to meet with her.

She arranged the meet.

If the killing did not stop, their floating little island would cease to exist within the next few generations. It would hobble along until the old people passed. The Outsiders would absorb those independents in the ruins and the Wicca would make sure the Little People disappeared. Choker weed would finally take over, and then even it would be gone.

Now Edith was about to kill again to stop the killing. This was a paradox for sure!

A quiet tap at her door almost sent her to heaven before her time. She opened the door a crack with her eyes closed. No need, the hallway was also dark.

“Sleeping—what is it?” She questioned the crack.

“Bruce here, Doctor.”

No question it was his face—white like a grub. She opened the door just a little more. The rustling sound moving through the narrow opening told her when to close and latch. Even in the dark, she checked the hallway.

“Do you want light?” he asked.

“Candles on the desk, near the window, close the curtains first.” Edith waited patiently, imagining the blue light he described lighting his way.

Soon, she saw the small glow from her hand-made votive candle. She felt it now, her small silver cross hiding beneath the mounds of melted wax. Cross and votive candle banned on threat of death without trial. The faith these two items represented had given her strength all these years.

If she was caught meeting with this boy—the enemy, a hated Crosser—the penalty would be the same as holding a cross. Edith, a Builder, had joined the Others to save lives not to push an alternate lifestyle agenda. The Builders own Leader Sala, their Director, would do that while building a government for all of them—a government without the Wicca.

“Did you see,” she asked working away at the stitching of the bright blue scarf in her pocket. She knew Bruce had one also but kept it hidden inside his clothes.

“Yes, exactly the same as the work Dr. Painter-Richards presented to her council. What do we do with it?”

“Copies of all three combined are ready for delivery to every computer terminal in the five buildings, and anywhere else they find a willing host. The Wicca will never be able to bury this information,” Edith sighed.

“There are too many loose ends for my liking,” Bruce complained as he began his eternal pacing. “Where does my blue night vision originate? Why do some have just the one complication and others have small furry tufts behind their ears? Why do a few males produce male offspring’s, but most produce none or only females?”

“Stop going on about this, it does not become you. Your own Painter-Richards’ theory does as well as any. Her explanation of that nuclear power plant re-gifting its contamination to all of us seems to be right on.”

“I know, I know, but the Wicca...what they did burns the most. They made bargains with us, and then yanked their support as soon as we opted out of the Mating Ritual. Now here we are...”

“Old news Bruce, time to change the subject. Any contact with Kimraig or our Director Sala?”

“No Doctor. The last word we had, she was with Kimraig trying to occupy Number 6 building,” he said pausing, and then continued with his original tirade. “This is something else I do not believe.”

“And that would be?”
This child is the best when it comes to getting everything done.
Edith thought.
Oh, he does give me a pain where I sit down.

“He is going to screw us, you watch. No way is a Hunter who worships the Wicca going to give us a break. Alternate Genders he calls us. We are not. Each of our groups is unique in themselves. Each group deserves its own Gender, not lumped under a catchall phrase like that.”

“Well, young man, we are betting our existence on him and Leader Sala. I will expect you to be the first to thank him. Now, up to middle level and get those disks out to every floor in every building; and do not forget disks for your Crossers. The two of us must join forces. Mistress Ann has kept us under her thumb long enough.”

Edith knew that just asking him usually meant he would do it as fast as possible without oversight from her. But, when his anger crushed him—like now—he went on tangents, and then forgot things, like now.

“Forget my delivery Bruce?”

“Sorry, Doctor. Advance copy Lisa the computer Tech Supervisor said.” He handed her a small box containing a thumb drive.

The boy did not have a clue what the drive contained. Good. She opened the door and bid him goodnight.

An advance copy it was not. The only copy it was. The original remained safely tucked away with the original computer drives. Two techs had found it, smashed at the bottom of a forgotten salvage bin and stashed it away as a plaything to occupy their afterhours; only corrupted data inside, a perfect game. Six exciting months they had played, only to wind up knocking on Edith’s door after midnight.

She had sat in front of their portable computer, unaware of the fidgeting male and the half-awake female. Only years of studying these types of records allowed her to fill in the empty blanks. When she read enough, she turned to both of them.

“Is this all of it?”

“No ma’am, just getting started,” he choked on his replay.

“Can you retrieve more?”

“Well it all depends on...” When he saw her brow go up, he stopped. “Yes ma’am.”

Edith thought for only a moment. First, she made sure they were both sufficiently cowed. Bending forward, and louder than necessary, she sounded out the names on their ID tags. That took care of that. Jotting each name down in her small notebook was a little extra just for her.

“Do you both recognize the names on these files?”

“Yes ma’am,” they answered in unison, with no prompting from her.

“Not a word to anyone. Do you understand? All right, tomorrow morning your supervisor will summon you to her office. Once there, you will be informed your promotion to my team has come through. You have two jobs: get this information to me as fast as your little fingers can type, and find out if there are more damaged drives in that bin.”

After getting their supervisors name, she dismissed them abruptly. Only when the door closed did she allow herself to think of one Kimraig Llu. A Mating Ritual birth set aside to wait for the care of the next available wet nurse. A note on his original hospital chart said: Forward all pertinent developmental information, forth with, to Mistress Ann in Number 1 Building. The lists of births went on and on until she understood. Someone had tried to destroy any record of Kimraig Llu.

Her techs had been searching forever for old birth records like these. Now they fell into her lap courtesy of two young people playing games. She made her first call.

“Listen Tams, tomorrow morning two young techs will report to you first thing. Consider them your mission in life until you have drained them like a bathtub. Yes dear, your mission in life.” Tams would not fail. She made her second call.

“Thompson,” she asked. The praise he was heaping on her body, starting with her hips, stirred her girlish pride. “Be serious Tommie, as tempting as your offer is I am not coming down there in the middle of the night. This is about a Tech Supervisor named Lisa. Oh sorry, it will be the younger one.” She went on to explain her needs.

“Yes Tommie, confined to her room on vacation. Until I get back to you, dear. No, you do not have to watch her in her rooms. Yes I promise, but not tonight.” That man was going to be the death of her—she hoped.

Now all she had to do was meet with Missy.

Time for thanks—it was not every day she received a miracle. She would also send prayers to Kimraig Llu, nothing too big, just a little extra safety. With her votive candle and hidden cross in the palm of her hand, she imagined the beads working across her fingertips. She did not worry about what day it was she chose her favorite to begin her penance.

“I believe in...”

Chapter 14. Sweet Spot

The next morning, Kimraig Llu attacked the same building for a second time. He watched Hunter Curtis take the lead for their advance up the stairs. Kimraig preferred the second spot for himself and tried to make it happen. He made sure the field-medic had replaced the wrappings holding his ribs together, squeezing the pain away. No use, the throbbing slashed into every muscle fiber from the tips of his toenails to his sweat-drenched curls.

He had reluctantly asked LaJay for a mouthful of leaves. They were taking the edge off the pain but he was now patiently waiting for the sweet euphoria that came with constant chewing. He needed it, craved it, and willed it to happen as he become addicted to the mere thought of its comfort.

“Group one is ready, starting up the stairs.”

Breen’s sudden probe came as no surprise. He had not been able to rise from his crouched position after the planning session. She had demanded mission control.

He knew she would follow his simple objectives: until she discovered the location of his “sweet spot” and the supply cache, it held. After that, there was no guarantee.

He ceded control.

When Hunter Curtis started up the stairs, Kimraig knew he was following his mother’s orders. That second spot was not a good place for a wounded man. He motioned LaJay forward. She would not hesitate to fix any mess the inexperienced Hunter would make.

She pushed passed him without objection. The four throwing knives, two in position on each hip, were a comforting addition to her normal armament. She flashed her brilliant white fangs towards Curtis, Kimraig’s doppelganger, letting him know she had his back. If he did not make the right choices, her knifes would find him.