Children of the Kradle (Trilogy Book 1)

by Alexa Hamilton

  There were apples, strawberries, soy rice pudding packs, peanuts, and several boxes of dehydrated vegetable casseroles.

  Eli grabbed a spoon from the drawer and tore into the pudding packs. After he devoured four in a row he moved on to the apples.

  As he munched away he checked the delivery compartment for another basket but there was none. Rats.

  Eli sat back down and stuffed his face while he rationed out his meals. There was enough to last him five days if he was careful. And then what? What if NRP didn’t deliver again for a week or ten days?

  He leaned against his refrigerator and tried to push away the image of Skeet calling him a “baby” and saying the Corps was his “mama’s teet.” You never have to see that guy again. He told himself.

  Then Tony’s face appeared, and he thought about what he should have said to him before leaving: You’re right. This isn’t working. None of this is working.

  Eli supposed he should do something about it. Well, of course he should, but what could he do? Yes, returning to the Slags was an option, a horrible one, but maybe then he could at least get three meals a day.

  The truth was, regardless of everything, he didn’t want to leave the Corps, the place he considered his boyhood home. The last place he ever felt secure and childishly happy. Although he grew up in a different Corp in another state, it wasn’t so different than CorMand. It was the last home he knew before being transferred across country during the Rebuilding and then pushed through those rotting blue doors of Welling House Orphanage. Not only that, but if he left, he’d have to go back without Mevia which wasn’t just a horrible option, it was no option, not even an idea, not a possibility.

  And if he returned to the Slags with his tail between his legs he’d have to go back to his old job as manager on the drone assembly lines, and then he’d have the pleasure of spending the next fifty years of his life watching the blue collars assembling drones that he should be programming. No thank-you.

  How are you going to get her here then? Into the Corporates?

  By changing her identity of course. People did it all the time to smuggle their loved ones in, well not all the time, but it was possible. Eli could write a program or steal an ID if he had to.

  He went into the bathroom, and started a hot shower. As the steam wafted from the tub he stared, with bloodshot eyes, at his crumbling reflection in the pristine mirror. He touched the glass. This brain. These hands. They are the ticket. Don’t throw it all away. If he just worked hard, kept his head down and, above all, was smarter than everyone else, then he would get by. He was a kid from the streets. He knew how to get by.

  Getting food and smuggling Mevia inside were his only options, and at this point, nobody was helping him, so he was going to have to strike out on his own.

  Then, in that moment, it all became clear what he needed to do. Maybe it was time to stop working in the object code and get down to the source code.

  Yes, of course, he needed to go back, dig deeper. He needed to get to the source.

  Chapter 29

  Kilt

  The morning sun was coated in wet, blue atmosphere as it etched past the horizon. The leaves, still drizzled with dew, crunched half-heartedly under their feet. Birds, just waking, chirped in the distance. Up ahead on the trail, Joe and Senior were talking and gesturing but their words were muffled by the thick woods.

  Kilt followed Senior at a safe distance. He was assigned to be the rear lookout and wanted to maintain enough space to do his job yet be close enough so he wasn’t separated.

  Finally, after over an hour of walking, the group—Senior, Joe, Sam and Jep—knelt down beside a wall of brush and waited for Kilt. As he approached, Sam held his finger to his lips. Kilt looked to the rear, making sure they weren’t being stalked by anything—two legged or four.

  Senior gestured with a gloved hand for him to look over the hedge. Kilt positioned himself and peered over.

  About twenty yards away was the end of the tree line. Beyond that was a wide open field infested with Predator Drones, covering the baldness of the landscape, like fleas on a stray hound.

  Positioned in perfect, uniformed formation, their grey wings were angled toward the sky reflecting the dew off the rising sun. In spite of himself, Kilt couldn’t help but have a ping of awe at the sight of the sleeping army.

  “Over there is the tower,” Senior whispered, pointing with the side of his hand.

  About a half mile away the tower stood, tall, smooth and unassuming. Kilt could just make out the fateful ladder clinging up the side. His eyes may have been playing tricks on him but it looked a thousand rungs high.

  “So what are the details of the plan, well I should say, the potential plan?” Kilt asked.

  He turned his back to the field and they sat in a circle.

  “We’ll all start here,” Senior said pointing to the ground. “Women, children, the whole bunch. Then,” he thumbed over his shoulder, “we four will sneak over to the tower.”

  “Five,” Joe mumbled.

  “Four,” Senior said firmly. “Then, the women will watch for the signal.”

  “Signal?” asked Kilt.

  “Yeah, you know?” said Jep with a chuckle. “The explosion. BOOOM.” He mimicked a bomb with his hands.

  They all smiled. “Right,” said Senior. “And that’s when you come in, Kilt.”

  “Our plan is,” Sam said, “for you to plant the bombs like so.” He pulled a crumbled sheet of paper from his pocket, unfolded it and handed it over.

  Kilt studied the penciled in drawing. “I take it you got this from Billy.” The location where the two bombs would need to be placed were marked with an X.

  “Now,” Senior said. “After you get out and get down that ladder, you’re going to want to high-tail it outta sight because if for some reason the drones aren’t disarmed—although we’re sure they will be—then they’re going to try and sniff you out like a pack of blood hounds, but if you turn tail and head northeast, you should be all right. None of them will suspect you of running directly toward the enemy.”

  And by “enemy” he meant the Kradle. Kilt nodded. It was a good plan. “But, if the explosion doesn’t ground the drones, won’t that put you all in danger?”

  Senior became stone faced. “Yes, it absolutely would.” Everyone went silent for a moment. “But we don’t foresee that happening so we’re going to go along with this plan.” He placed a finger on the paper.

  Kilt slowly nodded. “Ok. So, I’ll run northeast?”

  “Or.” Senior smiled, his eyes warm. “You could always come with us. We’d be happy to have you in our band.”

  Kilt studied each man’s worked-over face. Their sun-squinted eyes showed hints of the crushing weight they bore from losing loved ones and the weight they would always bear worrying about losing the ones they had left.

  “Thank you,” he said, patting Senior on the back. “That means the world to me.” He addressed the group, “But I hope you understand. I’ve got to get to the Kradle.”

  “We understand,” Senior replied, “just hate to see you go.”

  They stayed behind the bush for another hour, discussing the plan, watching for any changes. During that time, nearly fifty of the Predator drones at the front of the strip powered up and flew off, one right after the other, their engines emitting that familiar buzz that still gave Kilt a sickness in the pit of his stomach. It was creepy thinking that someone far away in the Kradle was controlling these planes, becoming the eyes and ears of these killing machines.

  How does someone fight when he can’t even hide?

  Then before the sun got too hot, they snuck away and headed back to camp. Again Kilt was at the rear following Senior and Joe. Halfway home, he was surprised when Joe walked back and joined him.

  “Hey there big guy,” he said, still keeping his voice low. “You get bored talking to those old men?” He elbowed him playfully.

  He was a good kid, but already too serious for his age. He was ce
rtainly more thoughtful than Kilt was in his youth. Senior described him as being “internal,” but next to bubbly little Jack, Joe was almost somber. It made Kilt wonder what all the boy had seen in his lifetime hiding beneath the shadows of the drones.

  “Nobody’s doing much talking,” Joe said. He looked at the ground as if analyzing it.

  “Yeah. Gotta be quiet out here.” Kilt was growing uncomfortable. He knew enough to know that if Joe was talking to him, it was for a reason. “What’s on your mind, kid?”

  Joe studied him out of the corner of his eye. Finally he spoke. “What do you think of the plan?”

  Kilt sighed. For some reason he was more nervous talking to the kid than he was his old man. Maybe it was the way he looked at Kilt with those vacant blue eyes, watching him from behind strands of rebellious, mud-colored hair, or perhaps it was his stature and that he was always hunched over, thinking, or how he separated himself from the other kids, too preoccupied with worldly knowledge to take part in childish games.

  “I think it’s a fine plan,” Kilt stated neutrally. He had made it clear to Senior that he still wasn’t sure he was going to go through with it. They agreed it was his decision. The difficulty was Kilt was going to have to decide sooner rather than later. He needed to hurry and move on to find Eli before one of Maxim’s men sniffed him out of the woods and put a bullet through his head. Kilt was still kicking himself for trusting that sneaky Eurasian. But, how could he have known that when he reached across Rick’s dining room table, he was actually extending his hand to make a deal with the devil?

  “So, what do you think about it?” he asked Joe.

  Joe shrugged and after a moment replied. “I like the plan. I just wish I could come up to the tower with you guys.”

  “The fewer men up there the better. Besides, the women need you to help navigate the field crossing.”

  He didn’t say anything, but Kilt knew by his silence Joe didn’t buy into that idea too readily, but then Joe surprised him by what he said next.

  “It’s alright. I want to be close to Jack anyway.”

  Kilt studied him. Not because he was taken aback by Joe’s devotion to his brother, but because it was so familiar.

  “Yeah, I have a brother I’m trying to watch out for too,” Kilt said.

  “Dad told me.” By the tone of his voice Kilt understood what Joe was actually saying. Sorry Mister, but I rank my brother higher than yours. His daddy may have sympathized with Kilt’s dilemma, but Joe certainly wasn’t going to be that gracious.

  As if reading his mind Joe spoke, “No matter what the others tell you, we really need you to let us use those grenades.” Then before speeding up to return to his dad, he added, “Without you, we can’t do it.”

  As Kilt watched him walking away, at first he was angry. What the hell did this kid know about being the protector in the family? But, then again, probably more than Kilt realized. Despite everything that happened to his own dad, Kilt actually had a decent childhood on the farms. He never had to worry about walking softly or think about starving to death.

  It was silly getting so mad at a kid like that. He thought about all he had done in order to protect James. Lord knows he did a hell of a lot worse than ask a man to give up his fire power.

  No, in order to protect his brother, he had been more than willing to stick out his hand, smile and sell his soul.

  Chapter 30

  Months after James’ Demonstration—after he was declared the victor and taken to the island—Kilt had settled back into a routine on the Farms.

  One day he was way out in some gold-ripe wheat fields working on a combine that had died in the middle of a row. The five p.m. whistle had squelched about a half hour before and Kilt was alone. The Solars cast lazy golden rays across the open field, obstructed by nothing, stretching like a thin blanket, across the tumbling yellow grass.

  After examining the dashboard mechanics he moved on to the motor and finally, the part he wished to avoid: the cutterbar blades.

  Kilt lay on his shirtless back in the dry, scratchy wheat stalks. With his legs he pushed himself under, carefully aiming his head between the rust colored blades. His heart flipped as an image appeared of what would happen if the motor decided to roar back to life.

  He wanted to try and fix it the quick way because he was in a hurry to get home. Not only was he hungry and exhausted, but his little dog, Yella’ was waiting on him. After all, it was his dinner time too.

  Yella’ was a stray Kilt had found as a puppy and nursed into a four legged sidekick. He named him Yella’ after the mustard colored coat that covered him from tip to tail, except for the crooked white blot beneath his neck.

  It was dark under the combine and the shrinking sun wasn’t helping. The remaining traces of sleepy light snaked beneath the machine and were absorbed by the rusty segments.

  Kilt held his breath and found the problem: a large rock the size of his fist had been lodged between the blades. Kilt reached for the stone, trying to get a good grip.

  “C’mon,” he whispered through his teeth. He shimmied closer, his bare back burning with the itch of the grass, like tiny bugs attacking his hide. He strained and tried to jimmy it from a different angle. His forearm was pressed against one of the sharp edges so he proceeded carefully. It took three tugs but he finally removed the damned thing.

  Kilt dug himself out from under the machine and jolted when he saw who was standing over him.

  “Shit!” He sat up, pushing himself against the combine.

  Standing with feet shoulder length apart on top of a row of sinewy wheat, crushed and folding under his boots, was Maxim.

  “Hello,” the Euro said in his thick accent. He was smiling down at Kilt as if amused. Several meters beyond him sat his electric mini-car.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” Kilt scrambled to his feet.

  Maxim tilted his head. “Now is that a way to greet an old friend?” he said pronouncing it “ees that a vay.”

  Kilt said nothing. He tossed the rock aside and looked the Euro up and down. He was dressed in plain clothes, the kind a farm boss might wear, but he had on a black, brimmed hat that nobody in these parts would be caught dead in.

  Maxim placed his hands on his hips and chuckled. “Come now, Mr. Tillman. You act unhappy to see me. Did we not have a good exchange last time? A smooth transaction, no?”

  Kilt glanced around the open fields. If anyone saw him speaking to Maxim, questions would be raised, answers would be found and trouble would quickly follow, but the fields were as empty as a promise.

  Kilt gathered his composure. “We did. Which is why I’m surprised to see you.”

  Maxim began to walk around as if examining the combine. Kilt turned his body, keeping the Euro square to his shoulders.

  “Pleasantly surprised I hope,” said Maxim.

  “Depends on what you want.”

  Maxim lit a cigarette. “This is an interesting piece of machinery. We no longer have these in my country.”

  “No?”

  Maxim bent over and examined the tires. “No.” He shook his head. “We have robots that work for us. That way, we get rid of the human error.” He turned to Kilt, smiling. “And the human.”

  Kilt took a deep breath, expanding his chest. “Hard to imagine feeding an entire country without farmers. Robots are just so…mindless.”

  Maxim’s smile spread into a grin, his cigarette still clasped between his front teeth, the right one chipped. “Maybe in your country, but Eurasia’s technology, much like our people, is superior.” He held up his fist accenting the final word.

  Kilt clinched his jaw. “What do you want, Maxim? I know you didn’t just come here looking for a pissing contest.”

  The Eurasian took one last drag before tossing his still burning cigarette into the dry grass.

  Kilt watched the billowing smoke rising from the brush, but then he shifted his eyes to Maxim who was walking toward him.

  “You are correct Mr. Tillma
n.” He stopped and crossed his hands in front of his body. “We have a job for you.”

  Kilt shook his head firmly. “Not interested.”

  Maxim shrugged. “I’m not asking of your interest. It’s your job. The choice is not yours.”

  Kilt’s throat tightened, impeding his breath. He shook his head firmly. “Sorry. Can’t help you.” He turned to grab his shirt.

  “Yes,” Maxim said. “You can help me, and you can help yourself by not making trouble.” He and Kilt stared at one another. “This is your job. It has been assigned to you,” he said firmly.

  Kilt had thought his work with the Eurasian’s was done after he delivered those DP numbers, but he was naïve. You fool! You thought you could swim with the sharks and not get bit. Now they’re bloodthirsty. Rage flared from deep inside, but he pushed it down. This was a volatile situation and striking a match wasn’t going to help.

  He and Maxim stood face to face. “Look, Maxim, I already did my job with the DP numbers. I’m not looking for any trouble. Let’s just call it even and go our separate ways.”

  “Actually, no.” Maxim took another step toward Kilt, but he was no longer smiling. “You see, in my country, when we take a job we do not quit until it is complete. The problem with your country is,” he gestured to the empty land, “your people place far too much emphasis on ‘quittin’ time,’” he said mockingly. “Where I’m from, the job is not complete until it is complete.”

  The smoke in the grass was thickening, being fed by the wind.

  Kilt tried to subdue the burning in his chest. He forced himself to unclench his fists. “And when is the job complete?”

  The smile returned to Maxim’s square features. “When we say it is.” He shrugged. “That is my burden. That is my comrades’ burden. And now it is your burden.”

  Kilt honed in on the mounting smoke. He took a step forward to stamp it out but then Maxim’s words stopped him in his tracks.