The 6th of Six (The Legend of Kimraig Llu) (4 page)

Drinking water was king.

Solar powered
material handlers
roamed the roof—stubby, ugly, and useful. They did not have to be pretty they simply had to ferry their tank of liquid material from the elevators to the large tank attached behind the
short-boomed construction crane
. Filled, the tank provided the thick slurry that would build walls. Those two machines had other, more fanciful names provided by their all-female government.

Each material handler and the short-boomed construction crane contained a driver’s individual water reservoir in its cab, which eased the furnace heat through the long work hours. During the day shady spots along the roofline held clay urns with ladles for the support crew laborers to ease their thirst.

Everywhere, roof, walls, machines, reeked of the color gray. Here and there, an optimistic blue scarf peaked from work shirts—forbidden clothing, that scarf. Kimraig ignored them, as he did all political protests.

It was no different from yesterday. Yet he remained concerned, considering the decision he had made to send two half-trained Hunters to the elevators. These two males would protect their new Queen who led their Battle Group—the only reason males existed. Ten female Troopers completed this self-contained fighting unit.

They would not be in a fight anytime soon. At least it was not likely. The Builders hated enemy, the Crossers, would not attack this late in the year. Troops could not carry enough water to fight in the summer heat.

Kimraig would not put it past the Crossers to try. There were no Queens to command their groups, any one male or female could lead these solders no matter how large their numbers. Their loose battle groups could ebb and flow from 30 fighters to less the five in a heartbeat. With these lightning fast small clusters, a few could tie down a full Builder Battle Group while others probed for weakness. There were not enough of them to attack and occupy any of the buildings, the most they could do was harass.

Kimraig respected them.

He looked
Across the Street
to their enemy’s small battered buildings. Why fight them; their buildings would fall on them soon. Brownstone made a good funeral mound. Their four buildings were badly in need of repair. One, the old Subway Station, lay completely flattened. Not enough light yet to see, his memory giving him the image.

Around him, he remembered other scenes from the remaining expanse surrounding his buildings. Partial collapses. Buildings remained standing with upper stories torn away. Another leaned precariously, the middle ripped out and then thrown to the street. Floors remained above the damage, hanging at obscure angles to the whole. There was rubble on top of rubble, with Choker weed encroaching from every quadrant. The green-black creepers undulated over debris, then covered it like a blanket, consuming chunk after chunk, leaving only small mounds underneath.

The first sunlight made it a stark reality.

He chose to ignore his own buildings that were chaffing away as fast as theirs were. Filthy gray concrete turned to powder as he watched. Window frames corroding, rust on salvaged solar plates, all threatening to eat away their support and drop the whole to the crumpled street far below.

Turning back, he knew why he worried about his young women and men. There was no time to train them to his standards, only to government specs.

Minimum training was good enough for the Wicca Council. These kids did not exist for them. He made sure that those not meeting the minimums, received training as personal guards. There would be no transfers back to their buildings with the stigma of failure. No male or female under his command ever languished in Lower Level—hell of all hells—where that stigma would lead them.

His government’s request for additional Hunters went unfilled; they would have to wait.

These new trainees must have the benefit of all the experience his instructors could provide. Then the Wicca would see true Hunters, killing machines loyal only to Kimraig. Protecting their Queens, they waited for his call.

Here, in his world, the basic challenge was lack of space—their breeding program produced more females who required personal living quarters. Adding this space took forever. He did not have forever. His supervisor, Breen-3, would balk at the move he had made this morning. Mechanically beautiful as she was, unless the benefit was hers alone, she would not allow...Well, she would have to live with his decision or he would die with it, depending on her mood that day.

If she had been on site at first light, instead of networking with the politicians, she could have stopped him.

Kimraig had squandered his people last treasure, the
short-boomed construction crane,
dubbed “Long Pencil.” He called it a peashooter because of its ability to spray thick liquid building materials from a nozzle fastened above the lifting pulley. This nozzle connected directly to an expanding and contracting hose, fed by the supply tank fastened behind the operators cab. Feeding the tank constantly were
material handlers
, dubbed “Short Pencils,” which hauled thick building slurry from the elevators supply tank in the back of the Long Pencil.

He watched the Long Pencil move scant inches in bum-jumps as her operator maneuvered the crane into position. When set, it sprayed thick foam directly from the nozzle, onto wire webs strung between bare supports struts—salvaged subway rails. Walls quickly formed and hardened.

Long Pencil...Short Pencil...fanciful names stuck on his tools long ago.

Long Pencil
, he thought. No matter how many times his direct supervisors explained and sketched their machine, his peashooter did not fit that description. “Imagine the Long Pencil as a paintbrush daubing walls against a canvas sky,” they would say. He would nod his head as if he understood. It was a small thing so he took no stand.
Soon enough
, he thought,
soon enough they would make their move
. For now, he would continue to recognize the names they used.

Kimraig kept the names but shortened them when he took project control. He abbreviated the machine names to SHORTS and LONGS. Only one LONG remained.

Against orders, he placed the last LONG this morning. Construction began immediately. Weeks from now, when the last strut took its place, this machine would become salvage. The stripped chassis would remain as part of the last wall. A shrine to those killed during construction. Builders loved their shrines.

Watching his machines at work, he stretched cramped muscles fit more for action than supervision. Unlike the average male born into the Builder’s society, he was taller than all females. He stood just over six-foot. The tallest female looked him in the eye, if they could get close enough; a constant black-eyed stare usually stopped them.

His square face, tinted deep russet, never showed emotion. Only a faint twinge to the tip of his hooded nose gave any signal of fires burning inside. The copper fire of his tight curls defiantly escaped his morning brush, always.

The stare, the curls, the violent package, compelled women of all ages to ignore the danger and tantalize him with their charms. Each believed their special something would win him.

None succeeded.

He had not wanted to oversee these building projects, especially for all of his people’s five buildings. Yet here he was, on Top Side of Number 4 Building, directing his machines. There was an alternative: overseeing the automatic waste additions for the compost heap at Number 3 Building. In this building, toxic fumes killed.

Arms waving slowly at the far end of the roof caught his attention. His second in command, Rat, refused to use her communication link unless there was an emergency. He motioned for her to join him and watched as she carefully worked forward using the safety wire installed along the parapet. At this height, wind brutalized humans and machines.

Her given name was Rachel. Her coarse gray and green coveralls protected her body without hiding the grace of the woman. He would never tell her that; he wanted to stay in one piece. The nickname, Rat, came from her ability with a short sword and mini-shield.

“Look at her,” their first weapons instructor had exclaimed. “Just like the top rat in the pack, leading them to a bloody dinner.” First, she was in your face, then somewhere else, the tip of her weapon licking endlessly.

He never tired of watching that curious sideways gait sliding her closer to him. Short steps on long legs in rapid formal series—then a brief pause as her long nose sniffed the air. The battered helmet that everyone wore hid her golden hair. When her hair was down, framing her narrow face and recessed chin, she made some package.

Enough for her fellow Troopers to quip: “Hide your mates, boys and girls, Rachel’s here.” Rumor claimed she still ranged the illegal 24-hour clubs to hunt. She hunted for physical relief with fists, swords or sex.

Rat continued to make her way past the working machines on his roof. Soon he must replace the fiber footings supporting the rails these machines rode on. Vibrating constantly, the old subway wheels chopped up the matting protecting the roof much faster than he predicted.

“We goin’ that new building or what?” she barked into his temporary office, slamming the door behind her.

“And a ‘good morning’ to you also,” Kimraig said.

“Not good morning. We goin’, or what?”

“I know nothing more than you. The Council’s decision takes however long it takes.”

“No answer, words for fools,” Rat said pounding her belly, “Got pain.”

Kimraig had learned to listen to that pain in her belly. “Okay, okay. As soon as Breen-3 clears the Council Chambers, I will get in contact. Satisfied?” Every day he felt lucky he had Rat’s help with these projects. Politics occupied time he could not spare.

“No.” She turned to leave. “Choker teams ready to weed. Tucker an’ Winnie be waitin’ on you.” Then she was out the door before her words died.

On the battered floor where her boots had planted themselves, lay a crumpled scrap of food wrapping, a casual discard for the cleanup squad. He knew better. The crude block letters were simple. “ROOF——DOCTOR HERE——MIDNIGHT.” No one noticed him quickly chew and swallow as he opened the door to follow.

She had been too fast for him to comment on the new souvenir pinned to the strap of her coveralls—two small lightning bolts twisted together, gold and bright blue. A trophy, he knew from a lover found in one of her nightclubs, since she was not at all political.

These bright blue lightning bolts represented the outlawed group of dissidents know to the Wicca’s clean up-squads as Others. Most of those who believed chose to hide a bright blue scarf instead. A few years back, the clean-up squads killed them on sight for wearing either of these symbols. Now, their creativity was more important to the Wicca Council than their political views.

Before he could leave, the communication link in his right ear buzzed. He had reserved this link for Breen-3 his immediate supervisor. He had watched her earn the right to attach the number three to her name, the number of the building where her parents nurtured her until her birth. An honor earned only in Battle.

“Yes, Miss,” he answered as the C-link opened.

“We are in recess. The Wicca’s Leader of Leaders asked questions about this morning’s delivery. Middle Level called for nine Hunters. You only sent two. Why?” Kimraig smiled. Breen-3 was always abrupt, and now it seemed she was perfecting an already perfect delivery.

“The male quarters are overcrowded. Their maturity continues to be delayed by some unknown cause,” Kimraig answered. He knew the delay was his. “There were also ten female Troopers and one Queen, a Battle Group of thirteen. Those two male Hunters are the minimum required by our Leaders for a Queen’s protection.” He left her main question unanswered.

“Remember, I do not replace Hunters because their Queen does not care for them on her sleeping mat.” That answered her question. He was not their pimp.

Left unsaid was a simple fact; there were not enough male children. “I cannot make Hunters with females,” he finished. Kimraig did not feel a bit bad for hiding a simple fact. He knew she would take a few minutes to answer so he let his thoughts roam.

“Yes,” Breen-3 jerked him back to her. “I get that, I just re-read your original report. Has the Queen finished training?”

“Yes, Miss, she is capable.” Kimraig ignored her tacit reference to the telepathy programming that only Queens and their two paired Hunters received.

She was gone again, somewhere. Her line remained open.

The fact he was hiding was simple, he certainly could make Hunters with females. A few showed excellent potential. Like Char, his friend who had fought alongside him long ago. She had joined him in training a few females whom politics had barred from a Queen’s training.

He wanted so much more with Char. Perhaps...but now was not the time for this. No, both of them had a bigger job to do.

Everywhere in Old Manhattan the number of females born, had advanced past ten births for each male. Last year, twenty months had gone by without a male birth. It made sense to make Hunters with females. Only lack of upper body strength remained a problem, and new weapons might be the answer. He had one in mind, tried and proved by an ancient civilization.