Sword of the Gods: The Chosen One (37 page)

Now that Ninsianna was
back, she was busy lightening her mother's load and had little time to spend
with
him.
  How had she managed with Ninsianna gone?  Immanu might pull
advice from the gods out of thin air, but it was Needa's blunt pragmatism which
really
guided the family … and the larger village.

Now she had a
new
responsibility
to oversee …
him.
  Her new 'son' was proving clueless about how to ply a
trade.  Mikhail was painfully aware of just how much of a burden he was on his
frazzled new 'mother.' 

There wasn't much he
could do about the poor timing of his arrival, if there was ever a
good
time
to arrive in a village where hard work was a part of everyday life, but he was
determined
not to add another burden to his new mother's ridiculously over-scheduled
plate.  He
would
pull his own weight, so help him gods, even if it
killed him!  He grabbed a handful of seed and dumped it with great conviction
upon the fertile silt.

“No!  You're wasting
it!” Needa snapped.  “If you plant the seeds too close together, they'll
strangle each other out.  They are like children!  They need room to move and
breathe.”

He tried again,
replicating Needa's scattering motion.  She grunted approval and pointed to the
next section of the field.  She was a tough task-master, with a poker face that
could rival his own, carefully schooled blank expression when the mood suited
her.  But she often broke that expression with an outburst of anger, or a rare
smile.  If he had to think of one word to describe his new ‘mother,’ it would
be mercurial.  Either she was silent and withdrawn, or barking orders like a
drill sergeant.  At the moment, she was in full drill sergeant mode. 

Her demeanor reminded
him of someone he must have known.   He could feel the memory lurking just
beneath the surface of his mind, but the elusive fragment wouldn't break free. 
Whoever the person was, his instinctive response to Needa's cajoling was to
stand at attention and shout
'yes, sir!'
  It made him feel right at
home.

“You move too slow,”
Needa grumbled.  “At this rate, we'll still be planting seeds come harvest
time.”

Mikhail was not sure
what caused the impulse to come over him, but he threw a handful of seed into
the air and flapped his wings, creating a wind that scattered the seeds into a
wide area.

“Will that do?”  He
feigned his most deadpan expression.

“That will work,”
Needa grunted.  “Now get moving.  We have a lot more field left to plant.”

Needa's grudging
approval meant more to him than if a dozen of the females who stared owl-eyed
at him every time he moved about the village waved banners to cheer him on.  At
last!  Something he could do to pull his own weight!  With a mighty rustle of
feathers, he grabbed another handful from the basket and spread the seeds far
and wide.

~ * ~ * ~
* ~ * ~

Galactic Standard Date:  152,323.04 BC

Orbit – Haven-3: 

Diplomatic Carrier
‘Prince of Tyre’

Prime Minister Lucifer

Lucifer

“What's wrong, Sire?”
Zepar asked.

“Godsdamned
migraines,” Lucifer mumbled.  He pinched the bridge of his nose between his
finger and thumb to dull the pain as he stumbled out of bed.  Everything had an
eerie halo and he was seeing double.  “When are we supposed to meet with that
representative from the Tokoloshe Kingdom?  I want to get this meeting with the
cannibals over with as soon as possible.”

Zepar shifted from one
foot to another.  His wings twitched in concern.

“What?”

“That meeting happened
two weeks ago, Sire,” Zepar said.  “We just reached orbit around Haven-3. 
You're scheduled to address Parliament this afternoon about the budget.”

Lucifer groaned.  It
had been a long time since he’d had a blackout this bad.  The last thing he
remembered was arguing with Zepar after leaving 51-Pegasi-4.

“What did I
miss?"

“You agreed to cede
certain disputed territories to King Barabas in exchange for a reduction of
hostilities, Sire,” Zepar said.

The last time he'd cut
a deal with the Tokoloshe Kingdom, they had reneged, attacking a Delphinium
colony and devouring thousands of innocent civilians.  He'd lost 632 brave
Centauri kicking the cannibals back off of that world, a number which could
never be replaced.  It had been a young Jophiel, fresh out of the academy, who
had suggested he incorporate the newer sentient races into the military to meet
the shortfall caused by their precipitously falling birthrate, the entire basis
of his Path to Citizenship program. 

What in
Hades
had
he just done?

“Why would I turn
civilians over to the cannibals?"

“King Barabas promised
not to eat them,” Zepar said.  “The colonies are lightly populated.  They can
relocate to colonies he ceded to
us
in return.  He is only interested in
the mineral rights.”

An old familiar
feeling of dread seeped through his body.  Whenever he had a blackout, he
usually found out that he'd been up to things he wouldn't necessarily condone. 
Twenty-five years.  Twenty-five years he'd been free of the accursed memory
lapses!  Why now, of all times, had they suddenly returned?

“What else was I up
to?” 

“That was it, Sire,”
Zepar said.  “You ceded those planets because the Centauri are too thinly
spread to police them.  You mentioned something about giving them a few worlds
they have a hope of defending instead of mission impossible.”

“That sounds like me.”
The headache began to fade.  “Tell Doctor Halpas to get his ass in here and
check out what in Hades is wrong with me.  I thought we cured these when we did
the surgery?”

Zepar tucked his dirty
white wings against his back, the rustle of feathers signaling his discomfort. 
For an Angelic, Zepar was rather ordinary looking, his bland, off-white
coloring enhancing the common misperception he was nothing more than an
obsequious lackey who catered to Lucifer's every whim.  In reality, it was
often Zepar who pulled the political strings and kept Lucifer's far-too-busy
life on schedule.  It had allowed him
some
leeway when he'd suffered
blackouts during the 200 years his father had been absent, but now that his
father was back, perhaps he could take some well-earned rest and get his noodle
straightened out?

“What?”

“Sire,” Zepar said. 
“If word gets out you're having blackouts, you'll be forced to resign.  Doctor
Halpas is obligated to report your condition to the Emperor.”

'Resignation will
be the death knell for–all- of the hybrids.  You must keep your illness to
yourself…'

How could he admit he
even
had
blackouts without jeopardizing his position as the Alliance's
highest elected official?  When his father had disappeared, he'd had no
choice
but to cover them up.  Now the ungrateful old fool was more likely to
abandon him to the wolves than to help him.  Hashem had already burned him
once.  Twice, if you included the trade deal he'd vetoed and forced Lucifer to
override.  The
last
thing he wanted with extinction staring his species
in the face was to be forced to resign and have one of Emperor’s non-hybrid
lackeys put in his place.

“What do you
recommend?” Lucifer asked. 

 “The same thing we
did before,” Zepar said.  “I'll run some preliminary tests to determine what is
wrong with you, and then call in a specialist who is not beholden to the
Emperor.”

“Do you think it’s
another aneurysm?” Fear clenched at Lucifer's gut.  The last time he’d had
blackouts lasting this long, he'd needed emergency brain surgery.  Zepar had
manufactured a ‘leaked’ story about vacationing with a non-humanoid mistress to
cover his ass while he'd healed.  Lucifer still had migraines, but he usually just
slept it off.

“I won’t know until we
run some tests,” Zepar said.  “I'll do it as soon as you get back from your
speech.” 

Lucifer twirled a long
white primary feather, deep in thought.  For a political aide, Zepar had a
surprising level of genetics knowledge.  Lucifer had offered to put in a good
word with his father so Zepar could pursue research he was obviously interested
in, but Zepar had pooh-poohed the idea, insisting he only dabbled in science as
a hobby.  Still … Zepar's unexpected ties to some rather unorthodox medical
practitioners and scientists had saved Lucifer's bacon on more than one
occasion.  Especially when it came to his brain-splitting migraines and the
occasional blackout they caused.  He had no choice but to trust Zepar's judgment.

“What about the crew?”

“They've been
hand-picked for their discretion,” Zepar said.  “It’s not like you did anything
you were not supposed to be doing.  The meeting with the Tokoloshe Kingdom was
a pre-scheduled diplomatic mission, we discussed exactly what was on the
agenda, and the treaty you negotiated was reasonable.  Nobody will know you
can’t remember it unless you choose to tell them.”  Zepar put a reassuring hand
on his shoulder. 

Okay.  It's going to
be okay.  Zepar always made everything okay.

“Let’s keep this thing
quiet, then,” Lucifer said.  “Hopefully it won’t happen again.”

“Of course, Sire,”
Zepar said.  “You can always count on me.”

~ * ~ * ~
* ~ * ~

End-April – 3,390 BC

Earth:  Village of Assur

Colonel Mikhail Mannuki’ili

Mikhail

Mikhail lugged home
the two buckets of water he carried home twice each day as one of the few
chores he seemed competent to handle.  He carried them into the house, where
Needa sat busily cutting part strips of an ancient piece of linen into healer's
bandages, rolling the narrow strips of cloth up into neat rolls.

"Ma'am," he
greeted her.

“Let me look at that
wing,” Needa ordered.

Mikhail stretched out
his injured wing, knocking bundles of medicinal herbs that were hanging off of
the rafters onto the packed earth floor.  The mud brick house, typical for this
village, was small.  With the space the family had carved out of one corner of
the main living area for his cot, they now had even
less
space than they
had before.  The house was so small he couldn't fully extend
one
wing,
much less
both
of them, and had to keep them tightly pinned against his
back.

“Sorry,” he
apologized.  “I'll pick those up.”

“Yes.  You will!"
Needa cuffed the back of his wings.  "Now … you … outside!  You're too
big
to fit inside my house!”  The tiny crow's feet that crinkled the edge of
her brown eyes signaled she was not
truly
angry.

Mikhail dutifully
stepped outside, surveying the tiny courtyard separated from the neighbor's lot
by a mud-brick wall.  Like most houses in the village, an overhang shielded the
front door from the sun.  A conical oven sat in the middle of the courtyard,
used for cooking outside whenever the family didn't wish to heat up the house. 
An enormous wooden bowl of ground emmet, water, salt, honey, and fermented
goats milk sat on the wooden table underneath the overhang, covered with a
cloth to keep out the flies.  Later this evening he would help Ninsianna fire
up the oven, trying not to singe too many feathers so Needa could bake flat bread.