Author: Anna Erishkigal
Date: 2012-04-16 04:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fantasy; Science Fiction; Angels; Paranormal; Romance; Fiction; Science Fiction Fantasy; Space Opera; Historical; Epic Fantasy
Description: At the dawn of time, two ancient adversaries clashed over control of Earth. One man rose to stand at humanity's side. A soldier whose name we still remember today...Mikhail awakens, mortally wounded, in his crashed ship. The young woman who saves his life has abilities which seem familiar, but with no memory of his past, he can't remember why! With his ship destroyed and a shattered wing, he has no choice but to integrate into her village, a task made difficult by her jilted lover. Ninsianna's people have prophecies of a winged champion, a Sword of the Gods who will raise armies from the dust
Publisher: Seraphim Press

Back Cover Synopsis

At the dawn of time, two ancient adversaries battled for control of Earth. One man rose to stand at humanity's side. A soldier whose name we still remember today…

Angelic Special Forces Colonel Mikhail Mannuki'ili awakens, mortally wounded, in his crashed ship. The woman who saves his life has abilities which seem familiar, but with no memory of his past, he can't remember why! With his ship destroyed and a shattered wing, he has no choice but to integrate into her village.

Ninsianna's people have prophecies of a winged champion, a Sword of the Gods who will defend her people against an Evil One. Mikhail insists he's no demi-god, but her dark premonitions and his uncanny ability to kill say otherwise. Even without the technology destroyed along with his ship, the sword he carries is a weapon of mass destruction to a people who still throw sticks and stones. When young women start to disappear, Mikhail must organize her people to fight back.

Evil whispers to a sullen Prince. A dying species seeks to avoid extinction. Two emperors, entrenched in their ancient ideologies, cannot see the larger threat. As intrigues roil the heavens, a tiny Mesopotamian town becomes ground-zero for this fantasy fiction retelling of mankind's most epic story about the battle between good and evil, the clash of empires and ideologies, and the greatest superhero to ever walk the Earth. The Archangel Mikhail.

Sword of the Gods:  The Chosen One

Anna Erishkigal

Published by Seraphim Press, P.O. Box 440, East Sandwich, Cape Cod, Massachusetts 02537-0440, (508) 888-5392

Electronic Edition

Amazon Sub-Edition

Copyright 2012 Anna Erishkigal
v.6

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of adult fiction. All similarities to any persons or places in this book, whether living or dead, are purely coincidental.

ISBN-13: 978-09854896-0-1

This book is also available in print at:

https://www.createspace.com/3777041

Cover art: ‘Michael.' Copyright © 2011 by Rochelle Green aka Caelicorn. All rights reserved. No part of this cover art may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the artist.

http://caelicorn.cgsociety.org

This is a work of adult fiction. It touches upon subject matters which may be inappropriate for some readers, including war, death, violence, foul language, explicit sex, scheming, back-stabbing, conniving, political intrigue and creative re-interpretations of religious mythologies some people may find offensive or blasphemous.

This book is NOT religious fiction!!!

If this were a movie, it would be rated 'R'

Dedication

I dedicate this book to all the brave men and women who serve in the armed forces. To you I dedicate the biggest, baddest superhero to ever walk the earth. The Archangel Michael. A soldier … like you.

You are the wind beneath our wings. Thank you!

Contents

Back Cover Synopsis. 1

Dedication. 4

Cover Art 10

Acknowledgements. 11

A note about time…... 13

THE CHESS PIECES. 14

Prologue. 16

Chapter 1. 18

Chapter 2. 20

Chapter 3. 26

Chapter 4. 32

Chapter 5. 34

Chapter 6. 40

Chapter 7. 41

Chapter 8. 45

Chapter 9. 52

Chapter 10. 67

Chapter 11. 72

Chapter 12. 75

Chapter 13. 79

Chapter 14. 85

Chapter 15. 88

Chapter 16. 92

Chapter 17. 101

Chapter 18. 109

Chapter 19. 112

Chapter 20. 119

Chapter 21. 124

Chapter 22. 126

Chapter 23. 137

Chapter 24. 143

Chapter 25. 149

Chapter 26. 153

Chapter 27. 163

Chapter 28. 170

Chapter 29. 179

Chapter 30. 183

Chapter 31. 188

Chapter 32. 192

Chapter 33. 197

Chapter 34. 201

Chapter 35. 203

Chapter 36. 206

Chapter 37. 210

Chapter 38. 213

Chapter 39. 225

Chapter 40. 230

Chapter 41. 235

Chapter 42. 244

Chapter 43. 247

Chapter 44. 251

Chapter 45. 255

Chapter 46. 259

Chapter 47. 262

Chapter 48. 271

Chapter 49. 274

Chapter 50. 276

Chapter 51. 289

Chapter 52. 291

Chapter 53. 311

Chapter 54. 316

Chapter 55. 319

Chapter 56. 324

Chapter 57. 327

Chapter 58. 330

Chapter 59. 338

Chapter 60. 343

Chapter 61. 346

Chapter 62. 350

Chapter 63. 353

Chapter 64. 355

Chapter 65. 362

Chapter 66. 368

Chapter 67. 372

Chapter 68. 384

Chapter 69. 387

Chapter 70. 388

Chapter 71. 390

Chapter 72. 398

Chapter 73. 408

Chapter 74. 411

Chapter 75. 417

Chapter 76. 420

Chapter 77. 424

Chapter 78. 428

Chapter 79. 437

Chapter 80. 440

Chapter 81. 451

Chapter 82. 456

Chapter 83. 459

Chapter 84. 465

Chapter 85. 469

Chapter 86. 474

Chapter 87. 484

Chapter 88. 493

Chapter 89. 500

Chapter 90. 504

Chapter 91. 507

Chapter 92. 513

Chapter 93. 516

Chapter 94. 524

Chapter 95. 532

Chapter 96. 534

Chapter 97. 539

Chapter 98. 543

Chapter 99. 546

Chapter 100. 548

Chapter 101. 553

Chapter 102. 561

Chapter 103. 568

Chapter 104. 571

Chapter 105. 584

Chapter 106. 586

Chapter 107. 590

Chapter 108. 597

Chapter 109. 604

Chapter 110. 606

Chapter 111. 610

Epilogue. 612

PREVIEW – ‘Prince of Tyre’ 614

PREVIEW: Angel of Death:  A Love Story. 619

A Moment of your Time, Please…... 621

About the Author. 622

Other Books by Anna Erishkigal 623

List of Species. 624

Cover Art

Rochelle Green aka Caelicorn is a freelance artist out of Palmerston, New Zealand.  She has a law degree from Victoria University and a black-belt in Bujinkan ninjutsu. You can see more of her breathtaking artwork at:

http://caelicorn.cgsociety.org/gallery/

Or like her on Facebook:

https://www.facebook.com/pages/Caelicorn/261144120697421

High-resolution 8x10 prints of the cover art are available for purchase directly from the artist at:

http://caelicorn.deviantart.com/art/Michael-252772522

Acknowledgements

I’d like to thank the people without whose support this novel would have died a plot bunny hopping around on a hard drive.

To my wonderful husband … who tolerates my nocturnal writing bouts and strange musings about ‘I can’t talk now … my bad guy is talking to me…’

To my lovely children … whose mommy answers their blood-curdling screams about who stole whose toy with ‘not now … I'm in the middle of a battle scene…’

To my oldest daughter, who serves our country in the Army National Guard Reserves. I re-watched your Fort Leonard Wood basic training video and think you’ll see scenes that are familiar. Yes … I did use that blackmail tear-gas training … but you’ll have to wait until Book 3 to read it.  I'm so proud of you!

To Rochelle Green aka ‘Caelicorn’ who was kind enough to let me borrow her beautiful artwork ‘Michael’ for my book cover. I hope readers will visit her digital gallery at http://caelicorn.cgsociety.org

To Sensei Donna and my talented fellow karate students at Donna Marie's USA Urban GoJu Karate studio in Wareham, Massachusetts, who’ve tolerated my conscripting karate classes into live re-enactments of fight scenes so I can reality test the action. Especially the scenes containing real weapons!

To my patient friends, who tolerate my launching into conversations about fictional characters that don't really exist and don't call the police when I fade off mid-sentence and mumble ‘excuse me … I have to go home and kill somebody off now…’

To Anna's Angels who helped me exterminate a few pesky possessive plurals and other post-production problems - Cindy Leppard Green, Jun Lyn, R.M., and all the other sharp-eyed readers … thank you!

And to my very first fan, who faithfully read through the earliest draft of this series as it was being written … Michelle Koller … aka ShellyStark. To you I dedicate your favorite Fallen general, Abaddon the Destroyer.

A note about time…

All times in this novel occur chronologically or concurrently unless specifically stated otherwise (i.e., three hours ago, or the present time). Because the story is told through the point of view of different characters, sometimes there may be a minor time-overlap to get the reader caught up, but all times should otherwise be treated as sequential.

Both the Galactic Alliance and the Sata'anic Empire compute time from the day the Eternal Emperor ascended to the Alliance throne and signed the current Galactic Agreement which divides the Milky Way between the two empires (i.e., 152,000+ years). A.E. stands for 'After Emperors.' The decimal point after the year is the month, i.e., 02=February. All Galactic Standard dates run concurrently with time as it occurs on Earth unless specifically noted otherwise.

152,323.02 = February 2, 3390 B.C.

THE CHESS PIECES

Prologue

Ascended Realms

Emperor Shay’tan

Shay’tan

“You're out of pawns!"

The old red dragon moved a black pawn into position; flaring his wings like a predator waiting to pounce. He caught himself showing his ‘tell’ and tucked his leathery wings against his back, forcing his long, toothy snout to assume an expression of purest innocence as he waited for his adversary to make his next move.

“Court pieces are worth more than pawns!" The Eternal Emperor Hashem moved a white rook to overtake the black pawn. “They can outmaneuver them.”

“Ahhhh…." Shay’tan's smile transformed into a predatory grin. “You don't have enough respect for your pawns." He moved a second black pawn to overtake the white rook he'd just set up for a fall. “No matter how powerful your court pieces, you will never have enough of them, especially if you keep throwing them away on trivial moves.”

“I'm using superior pieces to employ a superior strategy!” Hashem said. His wild white hair and bushy eyebrows gave him the aura of a mad scientist as he feigned an indignant expression. “Really, Shay'tan. You think too short-term to grasp the subtleties!”

“Winning is all about the numbers!" Shay’tan dropped the unfortunate white rook into his growing pile of conquests. “He who has the most chess pieces, wins."

Hashem's bushy white eyebrows bunched together in concentration as he scrutinized a group of black pawns clustered suspiciously in the uncharted territories.

“What are you up to, you old devil?"

Shay’tan gave his most innocent smirk, his long red tail twitching like a cat stalking a mouse.

Hashem picked up a white knight and considered his next move. Shay'tan's grin disappeared as he recognized just which chess piece his opponent intended to bring into play. His wings jutted outward as Hashem moved the white knight towards the middle of the clustered black pieces.

“White knight to Zulu Sector Three…" Hashem said.

“Oh no you don't!" Shay’tan grabbed a black rook and reached to overtake the white knight before it could upset his game!

The spinning map of the galaxy flickered, and then blinked out of existence, along with the room as She-who-is interrupted the match before either old god could complete their move.

'It is time….'

The neutrinos which allowed them access to the ascended realms dissolved as the two old gods were sent back to the material realm to see how their manipulations played out in the empires which they ruled.

Chapter 1

When men began to increase in number

On the earth

And daughters were born to them,

The sons of God

Saw that the daughters of men were beautiful,

And they married any of them they chose. […]

The Nephilim were on the earth in those days—

And also afterward—when the sons of God

Went to the daughters of men

And had children by them.

They were the heroes of old, men of renown.

Genesis 6: 1-4

February – 3,390 BC

Pain.

The first sensation he recognized was metal piercing flesh. He gurgled in agony as his lungs scraped against the steel rod which had pierced his breast, pinning him to the deck of his ship like a butterfly. He couldn't even scream. The best he could do was pant small, shallow breaths.

Blood welled in his throat, burning and gagging as he exhaled. The stench of blood filled the air; the scent of his own impending death. One dark wing lay shattered beneath him, bone piercing skin and feathers, while the other had no sensation whatsoever. He tried to move his arm, but the agonizing stab of pain told him it was broken. His other arm and wing lay pinned beneath the collapsed bridge and he could not feel his legs. He had no idea whether they were trapped, broken, or severed completely from his body.

His head throbbed as though someone had just hit him with a club. He tried to remember his name, who he was and how he had gotten here, but his mind drew a blank. It didn't matter. No living creature could sustain these kinds of injuries and survive.

‘So this is it,’ he thought. ‘The end...’

A single tear escaped; the sting of salt as it passed over a cut oddly sharp even through the pain of his other injuries. Alone. He had always known that he would die alone.

He closed his eyes and prayed to pass quietly into the void, to feel his life slip from his body so his pain would end, but he didn't. Even close to death, some part of him, the part that remembered who he was, whispered for him to fight. Survive. Live another day. Smite those who had done this to him, even though he had no recollection of who he fought or what he was fighting for.

Long after he should have passed from this world, he continued to fight for each and every breath.

Chapter 2

February – 3,390 BC

Earth:  12 hours earlier

Ninsianna

They were still looking for her. She could feel the clutch in her gut of someone attempting to force her to do something she didn't want to do. But … no. The sensation was not close. The chit-chit-chit of a squirrel reassured her she'd left no trail for the search party to track her. Exhausted, she dropped her satchel and sank to her knees.

“Mother of All-That-Is…" Ninsianna, whose name meant She-who-serves-the-goddess, raised her palms in a universal gesture of supplication. "The Chief has ordered I am to marry his son or no man at all!"

Curvaceous and tawny-eyed, with a magnificent mane of hair which cascaded down her back like a chestnut waterfall, Ninsianna had always been pursued by boys, but this was the first time one refused to take 'no' for an answer. The chief's son was persistent, and far too used to getting his own way to listen when she'd told him 'I just don't love you.' What did he think she was? A simpleton? Jamin only sought to increase his prestige by marrying the shaman's daughter!

"If I had been born a man, they would not dare treat me so!" Ninsianna implored. "Mother, I want a husband who will cherish me the way that Papa does my Mama! Not a servant to cook his food and bear his sons!"

She stared at the slender brook which only flowed because they were still within the rainy season. Whatever had possessed her to run away? Although her skills as a healer would be welcome no matter where she traveled, Jamin was known for his fierce skill as a warrior and also his temper. Without a protector, he would simply drag her back to Assur.

To her west the burning orange sun reunited with an ochre horizon, reminding her that refuge amongst the Halifian tribe would be even less desirable. The people of the desert took many wives and would make her cover her face and keep her opinions to herself; if they didn't sell her right back to Jamin for a hefty fee! Or worse … the enemy tribe might sell her as a concubine just to spite the Chief!

What other options were available to a runaway bride?

She rifled through the supplies she'd pilfered from her father, her mind whirring as she prepared to perform the ritual of divination. In a circle she placed a sack of bones to divine the future and dried parrotia to symbolize the spirit. Her hand trembled as her fingertips found the last item; a small, clay flask containing a tincture of belladonna berries and poppy pods. Ninsianna had never paid any heed to the prohibitions against women performing magic, but even she, who had never been a particularly obedient daughter, had always shied away from the potion which freed a shaman's mind to travel directly into the Dreamtime.

Oh, it wasn't like she could make the situation any worse! With false bravado she placed the flask into the center of the circle. Why should men determine the fate of women when it was a goddess who was the architect of All-That-Is?

She unwrapped her long fringed shawl and stepped into the brook, picturing the cool, clear water cleansed her spirit-light of her worries. Suitably purified, she dug soft yellow ochre out of the stream and smeared it all over her body to symbolize her willingness to return back into the Great Mother's womb.

"Papa says you favor this marriage because I'll stabilize Jamin's hot temper," Ninsianna said. "But Mother! Jamin has a terrible temper when he doesn't get his way! What will he do if I displease him?"

She felt the flow of energy shift as at last she piqued the goddess’ interest. Papa said the secret to using magic was to figure out what the goddess really wanted and then offer her a solution which would give her the same result. But what? How could she convince the goddess to spurn her favorite son?

The sun slipped beneath the horizon, casting the land into terrifying shadows. She gathered some twigs and fished out her firestone, anxious to fight back the impending dusk. The desert grew cold at night and hyenas prowled the wilderness, searching for an easy meal. Her lips moved in prayer as she thwacked the firestone against the striker. At last the desiccated leaves ignited. She fed the hungry red tongues sticks until the fire had grown enough to beat back the darkness like rays of a tiny sun.

Listening to it crackle, she contemplated solutions to her sorry predicament. Betrothed! To a man she did not love! All because she'd been foolish enough to believe Jamin would take her on future trading missions!

“Couldn't you make him fall in love with somebody else?" Ninsianna suggested. "He -is-, after all, the son of the Chief! Why not send him someone better so he forgets all about me?"

Her own brilliance lit up like the crackling fire. That was it! She would perform a love ritual for him! But who? Who would want the most eligible … and arrogant … man in the entire village?

Why not make him fall for Shahla? The jealous strumpet had pulled a fit when Jamin had proposed to her. Ninsianna stared into the fire, picturing within her mind the consequences of such a union. Her intuition told her 'no.' Jamin only used the village trollop to satiate his baser appetites and while Shahla coveted Jamin, Assur would become the laughing stock of the larger Ubaid confederation if their future chief took to wife a bride so well-used.

Perhaps her cousin, Gita? They were, after all, descended from the same warrior-shaman. Ninsianna contemplated her peculiar, black-eyed cousin with disdain. That wouldn't do. Not only was Gita as plain as dirt, but it would garner their village no prestige if the chief's son married the daughter of the village drunk.

How about Yadidatum? Her parents were well-off, at least as well-off as any in the trades. Soft-spoken, curvaceous and a talented weaver, Yadidatum would be a prize for any man to take home. Her intuition told her 'no.' Her friend was betrothed to Tirdard, one of the warriors, and everybody considered them a suitable match. Besides … for all his talk about submission, Jamin would never fall for someone who wasn't as strong-willed as he was.

Ninsianna placed another bundle of twigs into the fire, poking at the embers with frustration. Why did she have to find somebody else for him when it was She-who-is' plan?

"It would serve Jamin right to wed somebody powerful enough to put him into his place for a change instead of the other way around!" Ninsianna stabbed a stick at a log. "But who? Who would be tempting enough to get him to stop obsessing about me?"

A thrill of mirth welled up in her psyche. Ninsianna could almost feel the goddess laughing at her musings.

'Ninsianna … trust…'

A burst of white light radiated out from the fire, indicating the goddess found favor with her wager. Wind giggled through the soft fronds of grass which had not yet dried up for the summer. Moths danced around her like butterflies as laughter welled up from Ninsianna's lungs, but the amusement was not her own. The goddess would decide Jamin’s fate and bring her somebody formidable enough to make even Jamin back off.

'Come child … I wish for you to see…'

She pried the stopper out of the flask and gave the sacred beverage a wary sip. Immediately, she began to choke. Ugh! It tasted like dirt mixed with goat urine! She had watched Papa only ever take a sip, but Ninsianna was determined to find a solution to her problem. Pinching her nose, she forced herself to gag down the remainder of the bottle.

A fist clenched at her gut with revulsion. Feeling quite ill, she stared into the fire, clutching her blanket, not certain what should happen next.

“Death would be preferable to life as a brood goat!” Ninsianna said. “Please, Mother! I'll do anything you ask! Just don't ask me to marry him!”

A paralyzing numbness crept through her limbs. Night fell. The sky turned black, plunging the desert into total darkness. The chirp-chirp-chirp of crickets took on the eerie percussion of a shamanic rattle. Her body shivered, but she could no longer feel the cold. A jackal howled and was answered by its mate, but instead of being afraid, Ninsianna felt as though she were part of the pack, relishing the thrill of the hunt. Grass and shrubbery glowed with an internal spirit-light, but never before had she seen All-That-Is this clearly.

She reached up to touch stars which whispered secrets older than the universe, wishing she could dwell amongst them instead of being stuck down here on earth. She whispered the heartfelt plea she'd made every night to the deity who felt more like a mother than her own flesh-and-blood mother for as long as she'd been alive.

"Mother … when will you let me join you?"

'Soon, my Chosen One. But first you must do something for me…'

Ninsianna slipped into the flow of information, relishing the feel of the goddess' thoughts flowing all around her like the brook which gurgled at her side. Time and space became meaningless as she watched creatures fly between the stars in strange enclosed canoes, every kind of creature that could walk or creep or crawl. Her eyes were drawn to one of the sky canoes, the one She-who-is wished for her to see. A man unlike any she had ever seen battled a cancer which seeped into a vortex of spinning stars like pooling blood. As she watched, a blade of darkness reached out and smote his sky canoe, casting it out of the stars towards a round, blue stone she understood was her home. She sensed a query.

'This man can carry you out into the stars. Will you help him?'

"Yes, Mother," Ninsianna said. "I will help him."

A sensation not unlike a hug caressed her thoughts and carried her back to her own body. She and the goddess had reached an agreement. Whoever this man was, her fate was now tied to his. Content that her prayers had been answered, Ninsianna snuggled into her blanket and fell asleep.

Bathing in the stream the next morning to remove the sticky yellow ochre from her hair, she was not surprised to see an enormous ball of fire hurtle out of the sky and slam into the earth not far from where she'd just spent the night. Belting her shawl around her waist and flipping the end over her shoulder to cover her breasts, she gathered her things and headed in the direction it had gone.

Chapter 3

February - 3,390 BC

Earth:  Village of Assur (present moment)

Jamin

The moment the spear left his hand, Jamin knew his aim was off by a good hands-breadth.

“Hah!” Firouz laughed at him. “You missed the target!”

The chief's son gave his elite band of warriors a sullen scowl. Tall and olive skinned, with black eyes and hair the color of a raven's wings, Jamin was in no mood to arbitrate the petty quarrels the villagers kept bringing to him to resolve while his father was out of the village. He stared at the south gate like a lion cordoned off into a canyon, unable to escape because his father had ordered him to stay here.

"I told you this was a mistake," Jamin said. He took back his spear from Siamek, his second-in-command, and stared at the target his friends had set up to distract him from his worries. "I should be out there, searching for her before the goat-headed fool gets herself eaten by a lion!"

"We shall search for her again," his tall, serious friend Siamek said, "as soon as your father returns from his trading mission. But for now, your father ordered us to stay here."

Jamin pressed his palm into his forehead, unable to block his worries from his mind. "What if the Halifians capture her and try to use her against me?"

"We searched for her and she evaded us," Siamek said. "And now she has traveled beyond our lands. We don't even know in which direction to hunt. If the village is attacked while we are out there, searching for a faithless woman, there would be no one left to keep our people safe."

"We don't know that she's faithless," Jamin snarled at him. He glanced once more at the south gate of the village, the one where three days ago Ninsianna had stormed out, vowing she would rather become hyena meat than be forced to marry him. Why, oh why, had he dared her to try and let her go? He'd had no idea she would actually do it!

Siamek threw his own spear and buried the shaft into the target, his expression intense, as though he was angry about something. "Why else does a woman break things off suddenly?"

"Ninsianna was angry at me," Jamin said, "that is all. I should not have insinuated my father would take us along to the regional meeting of chiefs!" He lowered his voice so that only Siamek could hear. "I should have talked to her, not used my position to tell her she didn't have a choice."

Siamek snorted and gave him a look that communicated, 'who are you, and what have you done with Chief Kiyan's son?'

Jamin stiffened. One by one, the other warriors took turns throwing their spears, earning exclamations of delight and cat-calls from the young women who'd gathered close to the well to watch the warriors practice, shirtless. Jamin adjusted his kilt and prepared to throw again. Siamek gasped and pointed at the horizon.

“Jamin?” Siamek asked. “Look to the east. What -is- that?"

Jamin stared at the second sunrise which had suddenly appeared in the cloudless cobalt sky. The fireball hurtled towards them, streaking white smoke behind it like the tail of a shooting star. Fear gurgled in his belly as he realized the object was headed straight towards the village of Assur. As it grew closer, an enormous, silver spearhead grew visible at its point.

“That’s no shooting star!” Jamin said.

The fireball grew so large it dwarfed the horizon. Jamin had been left behind to protect the village, but never had a threat come hurtling at him from the sky. His disbelief was only momentary. When one was charged by a predator, one did not need to know that predator's name to have enough sense to get out of its way.

“Run for cover!” Jamin shouted. “Order the villagers to hide inside their houses!"

The warriors scattered, every man for himself. Jamin tackled a little boy to the ground and yanked him behind the spear target, squealing. With a roar like an avalanche of rocks, the fireball shot overhead. An ear-splitting boom shook the mud brick houses after the object passed, causing him to yelp and cover his ears. A cloud of fire and dust erupted into the air far out in the desert. The villagers remained hidden until Jamin gave them the all-clear.

The warriors ignored the villager's mutters about incompetence as they brushed the dust from their kilts. Jamin picked out a clump of goat-dung, trying his hardest to appear chiefly in the face of a threat which had turned out to not be so dangerous after all.

“What was that?" Siamek asked.

Jamin stared at the pillar of smoke which had appeared on the horizon, two days walk, perhaps a single day at a run.

“It's an evil omen," Jamin said. “A star has been cast down from the heavens to signal the god's displeasure.”

“Who has displeased the gods?” Firouz asked, another warrior and one who was prone to be a trickster.

“Who do you think?" his sidekick Dadbeh elbowed Firouz in the ribs. “A certain woman who said ‘I love you, but I'm just not in love with you anymore.’”

The women gathered around the well snickered at Jamin's misfortune. From their midst he could hear whispers that it was about time he had gotten his comeuppance, for many of those women he had lain down with over the years, including the woman who whispered the loudest, Shahla. A vein throbbed in Jamin's forehead, unaccustomed to being ridiculed.

“You will not disrespect me so!” Jamin stepped towards the two tricksters, furious they would air his dirty linens in front of the entire village.

"Knock it off, guys," Siamek scolded them. He gave Jamin a sympathetic look that was far more humiliating than the cruelest taunt of the villagers. "Forget about her. You'll find somebody better."

Jamin gave Siamek an ironic snort.

"Somebody better? Where will I find somebody better than the shaman's daughter?"

Siamek paused, and then feigned fascination with the head of his spear. Not only was Ninsianna the most beautiful woman in all the Ubaid tribes, but as a gifted healer, it was critical they entice her to marry a man from within this village. It had been a cocky wager, one to see which one of them could lure the aloof maiden into a warrior's bed, but the harder Jamin had tried to impress her, the less impressed Ninsianna had always seemed to be! All his life women had thrown themselves at his feet, hoping to garner the prestige that would come once he ascended to be the Chief, but not Ninsianna! No! The shaman's daughter had always wanted nothing to do with him.

Then one day he'd been gored by an auroch and not been expected to live. Like a golden-eyed goddess, Ninsianna had appeared at his death-bed and laid her hands upon his broken body, alleviating not only his suffering, but also the mud-brick wall he had built around his heart to protect it. Desperate to prolong her visits, he'd finally stopped trying to convince her how smart it would be to marry him and started telling her things he'd never told anyone else; tender things, unmanly whispers, dreams of building and travel and adventure. Ninsianna had started to visit more often, and this time, when he had asked her to marry him, Ninsianna had finally said yes.

For six months he had been the happiest man alive; but then three days ago, Ninsianna had inexplicably broken off their engagement. Could Siamek be right? Could there be another man? But who? Ninsianna had always been worried about increasing her prestige. Who would she consort with who was a better catch than him?

Black smoke billowed to fill the horizon, every bit as dark as the hurt which gnawed at Jamin's heart. The wind shifted, blowing the ominous substance towards their village like the advancing edge of a sandstorm. The villagers twittered like frightened little ducklings, that maybe the fireball hadn't been so innocuous after all.

“Maybe we should we ask the shaman to read the signs?” Siamek asked.

Normally the shaman would be summoned, but Ninsianna's father was less than pleased Jamin's clunky ultimatum had caused his only child to run away. With his own father out of the village, it was up to him to take charge.

“No,” Jamin said. His black eyes glistened deep in thought as he considered the distance and how long it would take him if he ran straight through the night. “We shall go investigate this phenomenon ourselves.”

The other warriors nudged one another and laughed.

“That's just an excuse," Dadbeh teased. "You know Ninsianna will be drawn to it like a bee to a flower.”

"The women in Immanu’s house have always worn the kilts," Firouz laughed. "Ninsianna is just angry because your father wouldn't let her boss you around in front of the other village's chiefs."

The muscle beneath Jamin's cheek twitched as he glanced down at the short wool kilt belted around his waist, its elaborate four-layered fringe demarcating him as a person of prestige. It was an insult to insinuate a woman wore the kilt, especially to a chief's son.

“Perhaps that's why you find her so attractive?” Dadbeh teased. “Maybe you like the idea of a wife who is more outspoken than you are?”

Firouz and Dadbeh proceeded to play-act an obscene little scenario they role played whenever they teased someone about being too henpecked to stand up for themselves.

“Oh, Jamin,” Dadbeh said in a high falsetto voice, “you must service me with your tongue. And then I want you to empty out all the chamber pots and cook me dinner." Dadbeh held a small pottery bowl upside down near his groin to simulate female genitals.

“Oh, Ninsianna,” Firouz said in a false bass voice, “I am your slave. I shall pleasure you." Firouz got down on his hands and knees and pretended to lick the bowl like a dog.

“Oh! Oh! Oo-oh!" Dadbeh groaned with fake pleasure. He grabbed a length of rope and whipped Firouz over the back with it. "Don't stop, don't stop, oh! Jamin! Next you shall kiss my toes!"

“Harder! Harder! Oh … harder!” Firouz yelped with mock passion.

The women gathered around the well pointed at the two tricksters and then pointed at Jamin, jabbering about the stud-bull having finally gotten corralled for castration. Jamin's face turned purple with anger. It was no longer simply a matter of finding her, but rectifying a blow to his very honor.

“Ninsianna will marry me!" Jamin grabbed the bowl from Dadbeh's hands and shattered it upon the ground. “I will not allow her to undermine my authority to rule this village!”

Grabbing his spear, he stormed out the gate and towards the black smoke which billowed on the horizon like an unearthly demon, not caring if his absence put the village in danger. Dadbeh was right. If Ninsianna had seen the fireball, it would beckon to her like honey.

Gathering up the remaining warriors, Siamek ordered them to follow Jamin to the place something had been cast down from heaven to burn in a fiery hell.

Chapter 4

February 3,390 BC

He had no idea how long he'd lain there before he became aware that a presence had entered the ship. He reached for his sidearm, but daggers shot up his arm. Gasping like a fish, he panted small, painful breaths, trying to get enough oxygen into his brain to clear the fog. He couldn't remember his own name, but if he didn't extricate himself from this wreckage, he knew he was a dead man.

Sparks crackled in the smoke, giving everything an unearthly, hellish appearance. The rod which had impaled him scraped through his chest, threatening to drown him in his own blood. Without the ability to inflate his lungs, he couldn't even scream.

Crepuscular rays of golden sunlight streamed down through a crack in the ceiling, the entrance to the dreamtime, the place he needed to go. Through that light stepped a beautiful, dark-haired spirit; the rays reflecting off of her skin and giving her an ethereal, translucent appearance as she climbed over the rubble. She kneeled next to him, choosing to assume the form of a creature of legend. The root race? A disembodied sense of awe flitted into his mind and was gone before he had time to contemplate what ‘root race’ meant.

"O-kim-olduğunu yardım etmek için beni buraya gönderdi ise,” the spirit said. “Ben sana zarar demek.”

He tried to focus, but her voice sounded very far away. Darkness clouded his vision as he struggled to get himself free. The hand which touched his cheek and sympathetic look in her tawny-beige eyes was understood. There was no surviving such a wound. This spirit had come to guide him into the dreamtime.

An overwhelming sense of relief flooded his body with warmth and dulled his pain. Not alone. His worst fear had just been alleviated. Despite his pain, he smiled as he placed his fate into the spirit's hands.

The pain was too great to endure. He slid back into the darkness.

Chapter 5

February - 3,390 BC

Earth:  Crash site

Ninsianna

Ninsianna followed the scorched vegetation to the shallow valley where the sky canoe had slammed into the earth. The peculiar vessel was three times bigger than her father's house and so shiny it reflected the cloudless blue sky like the reflection off of a pool of water. Terrible black smoke poured out of an oven at the end which faced towards her, but the sky canoe itself did not burn even though it radiated more heat than a midsummer day. Had She-who-is not shown her a vision, Ninsianna might have run away in terror, but within this vessel lay the answer to her prayers. Wearing false bravado like a winter cape, she wiped the smoke out her eyes as she searched for a way inside.

At last she found a jagged tear which stretched from the ground all the way up into the rooftop. She reached to touch the reflective silver surface, but it glowed so hot she was forced to yank back her hand. It was, she hoped, not so hot inside. Squeezing gingerly through the crack so it did not burn her flesh, she groped through some rubble to gain entrance to this temple which had fallen from the stars. Sunlight shone down through the cracked roof like a golden beacon to illuminate a broken, bloody man who struggled to extricate himself from a spear which had pierced his breast.

A cry of horror escaped from Ninsianna's lips. "How can any creature sustain such injuries and still be alive?"

Sharp edges tore at her hands and knees as she scrambled over the debris. The copper stench of blood mixed with smoke filled her nostrils with the scent of impending death. Even in the dim light, she could see his chances were slim.

"How can I heal such a wound?" Ninsianna cried out to the goddess who had sent her. "Mother, I am only an apprentice healer! Even if I was close enough to the village to summon my Mama, by the time I get her back here, it will be far too late to help him!"

She placed one trembling hand upon the man's cheek, praying he didn't see the fear in her eyes. Their eyes met in the murky light, a frightened, dying creature and a stranger.

“She-who-is sent me to help," Ninsianna said. "I mean you no harm."

The man's eyes lost focus and slid shut.

Panic gripped her gut as she placed her fingers at the base of his throat. "No! Please don't die!"

She held her breath, praying the man was still alive. A weak, steady, throb fluttered against her fingertips. Oh, thank the goddess! She still had a little time. She forced her mind to recall the words to the sacred songs.

“Mother of All-That-Is,” Ninsianna chanted in a sing-song voice. “Please guide my hands."

She followed the whisper of intuition which warned her to attend to the most deadly object first. A long, slender spear had pierced his chest and pinned him to the floor. She fumbled with his strange, foreign clothing, using her obsidian blade to cut it away from the spear. She stared at his shattered ribcage with dismay. How could any man be impaled so close to his heart and still have it beat? It appeared that the spear had staunched his blood, but once removed, the man would bleed out in a matter of heartbeats.

Rummaging through her satchel, she pulled out a bone needle and hair from the tail of a wild horse, laying out the objects on the man's trembling abdomen. In her lifetime she had helped her Mama tend to many serious wounds, but never had she treated such an injury without the benefit of Mama's guiding hand. Her preparations ready, she grabbed the shaft and yanked it with all of her might. It made a horrible sucking noise as his flesh clung to the spear which staunched his blood. The stranger moaned as the shaft slid reluctantly from his chest.

Throwing it aside, she kneeled and poked at his wound. Bad. This looked really, really bad. She needed to know where, exactly, she had to stitch. Wincing as she pushed aside his clothing to expose the gaping wound, she pressed two fingers into the hole, past his ribs until she hit a hollow cavity. Ninsianna grimaced. The shaft had pierced his lungs. If she did not stitch this up, the hole would steal his breath and drown the man in his own blood.

Something pulsated against her fingertips. Ninsianna paused, awestruck as the man's heart fluttered through the delicate lung tissue to caress her fingers. No one, not even her mother, had ever touched something as sacred as a man's still-beating heart. Was this what it felt like to be a goddess?

“Thank you, Mother,” Ninsianna whispered in awe.

With each beat the man's life-blood seeped out of the wound. Ninsianna shifted closer and slid on a bloodied, feathered cloak which lay crushed beneath the man's body. Jamming her knee into the feathers, she grabbed her bone needle and rammed it through the tender tissue which covered his lung. Out, in. Out, in. Draw it closed just like the laces of her pampooties. As she stitched, the stranger reopened his eyes.

“An bhfuil tú ag seoladh isteach spiorad chun treoir a thabhairt dom an t-am aisling?” His expression was strangely calm given the precariousness with which he clung to life.

"Don't be afraid," Ninsianna said. "She-who-is sent me here to help you.” Since both of her hands were busy, he kissed his cheek, hoping he would understand the gesture of comfort.

“Ní raibh mé riamh eagla an bháis, ach amháin a chaitheamh ar an saol mar a n-aonar i ndiaidh huile gan maité mar atá mé ag éigean a chaitheamh i mo shaol. Bháis mé sásta go bhfuil spiorad álainn teacht chun gabháil mé isteach sa saol atá romhainn. Beidh mé ar turas lúcháireach le leat."

Chills tingled throughout Ninsianna's body as though she should recognize the language, even though she was certain she had never heard it uttered. The man gave her a look she could only describe as relief before he lost consciousness once again. Ninsianna resumed her stitching. Once she finished, she moved down to extricate his legs. Beneath her feet his feathered cloak caused her feet to slip and robbed her of her footing.

“Darn cloak!" Ninsianna exclaimed as she nearly fell. “How will I free you if I keep slipping on these bloody feathers?"

She yanked out several handfuls trying to move the accursed garment, noting the way they were tightly sewn into the fabric. The man groaned as she ripped out the next double-handful of feathers. She shrieked like a frightened little girl when one side of the 'cloak' suddenly twitched upwards. With a shock, she realized that not only was the garment warm, but it was also attached firmly to the stranger's back.

“You have wings?"

The man opened his eyes. One of the small lightning-sparks illuminated his irises and showed her they were the color of the winter sky. The moment stretched between them as she realized she'd been sent to save a living god. She glanced at the handful of dark feathers she'd just ripped out of his living flesh and placed them back down, as if she could simply reattach them.

“Uhm … I'm sorry?” She gave him her most sheepish expression, the one she used whenever her Mama caught her doing something naughty. "We don't, uhm…"

The man did not appear to be angry at her, but rather confused, as though he wished to figure out why she would both help and hurt him. With a whispered prayer she touched his cheek to convey she hadn't meant to cause him any pain. The spirit-light she could sometimes see revealed he drifted between the world of the living and the dead. A sense of urgency pushed her to work more quickly!

Ninsianna used her hands to accentuate her words as she touched the spot where his legs disappeared beneath the wreckage. “I will pull, but you must pull out your own legs. Okay?"

She felt relieved when the stranger nodded his assent.

“Is ea."

She positioned herself behind his head and threaded her forearms through his armpits. The man groaned in agony and his one good wing trembled as she pulled using every ounce of her strength. Goddess! The man was heavy! Moving his legs of his own accord, he shifted just far enough to free himself from the wreckage before he lost consciousness once again. She rolled him onto his side to gain access to the exit wound on his back and marveled at the reality of the appendages which had gotten in her way.

“Mother! He has the wings of an eagle!"

Protruding from his back was a pair of enormous, muscular wings, blackish-brown to match his hair and streaked at the tips with darker plumage. One wing bent backwards at an ominous angle which signaled a horrific break, but the other wing appeared to be intact except for the handful of feathers she had just ripped out.

“When you sent me a vision of a man with wings," Ninsianna said to the goddess, "I thought you wished to convey this man is blessed by the gods. I had no idea you were being literal!”

Grabbing her needle and thread, she stitched the exit wound where the shaft had come out the other side, and then she moved on to attend to the next most critical injury. Just below the knee joint of his wing, the bone had snapped and part of it stuck though his skin. Ninsianna carefully slid the delicate bone back under the skin and manipulated it until it slid into place. She grabbed the spear she'd ripped earlier from his chest and used it to splint his broken wing. His left wrist was also bent at an unnatural angle, signaling another break.

“It's a good thing you're unconscious," Ninsianna said, "or I do not think you would let me do this to you!”

She braced her feet against the side of the man's chest to gain leverage and rammed his elbow between her knees, yanking his arm until his wrist made a cracking noise. She twisted it until it snapped it back into place, wincing as the bone made a horrible grinding noise.

“Not that you have a choice!"

She grabbed some of the peculiar, colored spiderwebs which hung from the ceiling to bind a splint to his wrist, yelping as one of the spiderwebs bit her fingers, and then moved on to examine the nasty gash in his skull, speaking to him the entire time as she stitched him up to anchor his spirit so he would not pass into the dreamtime. Papa swore it was the intent in a shaman's voice which mattered while Mama insisted it was touch which anchored the badly injured. Ninsianna used both gifts, speaking with no expectation of an answer, the same way she always spoke to She-who-is. At last she had done all she could. The rest was up to him.

“It's an all-day run back to my village," Ninsianna stroked his cheek, "and it will be getting dark soon. I don't wise to leave you alone with your spirit so close to crossing into the next realm. I will stay with you until you are strong.”

The man's skin felt cold and clammy. She pressed her fingers to his neck and noticed his heart beat unevenly and too light. She used a piece of debris to prop his legs up higher than his head so the blood would flow where it was needed just as Mama had taught her. To fend off the death-sleep, you must keep the injured warm. She grabbed the blanket she'd brought with her in her satchel, covered him, and curled against his side to share her warmth.

Exhausted, Ninsianna fell fast asleep.

Chapter 6

Galactic Standard Date:  152,323.02 AE

Earth Orbit:  SRN ‘Jamaran’

Lieutenant Kasib

Lt. Kasib

The SRN Jamaran orbited the blue resource planet which Shay'tan (a thousand blessings upon his name) had sent this battle cruiser to secure. Sata'anic Royal Navy Lieutenant Kasib stared at ship's communications console, scanning through the reports which scrolled in from the planet's surface.

General Hudhafah's dark balsam dorsal ridge rose in irritation as he dug his claws into the captain's chair.

“Any sign of that scout ship, Kasib?”

Kasib eyed the reports with his gold-green serpentine eyes.

“There are no energy signatures discernible on the planet except for ours, Sir,” Kasib said. “The Angelic scout ship appears to have been completely destroyed."

Kasib flit out his long forked tongue to taste the air for the pheromone's indicating his commanding officer’s level of irritation. Like any low-ranking male who served in Shay'tan's armies, the lizard-man was hyper-alert to the slightest reddening of his commanding officer's dewlap.

“Good!" General Hudhafah bared his fangs. “The last thing we want is the Alliance knowing what we've found.”

With a genuflection to his forehead, his snout and his heart, Kasib relayed the general's order to resume rolling out annexation of the blue resource planet which had their Emperor so excited.

Shay'tan be praised!

Chapter 7

February - 3,390 BC

Earth:  Crash site

Pain … but duller than before. Hadn’t a spirit come to guide him into the dreamtime? He found her soft, warm form nestled into his side, her cheek resting on his bicep as her chest rose and fell in the gentle rhythm of a peaceful, mortal sleep. His lungs hurt like Hades, but he took a deep breath and realized he was still alive. Who was this woman? Was she a spirit or his mate? He touched the long, dark tresses which had fallen across her face and fished a strand out of her lush, full lips, fascinated by its color and its length. He recalled she had kissed him as he had stood at the entrance to the void.

He lifted his arm and found it had been splinted with debris wrapped tightly with fallen bits of wire. Moving his legs to reassure himself he still possessed them, he turned his head to examine his broken wing. It looked bad, but at least the bone no longer stuck out through his skin. Would he ever be able to fly again? That depended upon this planet's gravity. He tried to grab the tidbit of information as it flitted through his mind, something urgent about the planet, but the image departed as fleetingly as it had appeared.

Who was he? What was his name? He couldn't remember. All he knew was that this woman had taken heroic measures to save his life and now she lay curled up beside him in a manner that felt both alien, and yet heart-yearningly familiar. His skin tingled wherever her body came into contact with his. She had covered him with a blanket, but was herself uncovered and shivering. Curling his good wing so as not to wake her, he pulled her closer, wrapping the limb around her like a blanket before allowing himself to drift back to sleep.

* * * * *

“O-kim-hayatını bağışlaması için uygun gördüm.”

He awoke to find the woman kneeling at his side. Her hands accentuated her words as she poured droplets from a water skin onto a rough cloth and dabbed blood off of his skin. He gradually came to understand that she explained to him his injuries. She was beautiful, exotic by the standards of his people with her wavy black hair, olive skin and unusual tawny beige eyes. Eyes that seemed … familiar.

Root race flitted through his mind along with a sensation he had just won a wager. Damantia! He grabbed the elusive thought, but it went as quickly as it had appeared. He knew things, but he just couldn't remember them!

He tried to sit up, but the woman pushed him back down, communicating with her hands that she wanted him to remain immobile. He strained to translate, but no part of her language sounded familiar. A mission clawed at his belly, screaming for him to communicate something to somebody in authority, but he couldn't remember what he felt so compelled to finish or who he was supposed to communicate that information to. The spin of the room convinced him to obey.

As the woman worked, every nuance of her behavior gnawed at his subconscious like drunken glee. Why did he find her so fascinating? Was it because he found her attractive? She wore a shapeless beige dress that appeared to be little more than a length of cloth belted around her waist and thrown over one shoulder to barely cover the lush fullness of her breasts. The fabric was crude, as were the implements she used to tend his wounds; the tools of a stone-aged culture.

By gods! How had she saved his life? His lungs hurt, but the dizziness finally subsided enough that he dared attempt to communicate with his savior.

“Who are you?"

The woman smiled. She said something unintelligible in reply.

“Who?" He crossed his hands palms-up in the sign of asking a question. “Are you?" He pointed to her chest.

“Nin-si-anna. Who … are … you?" She repeated, word for word what he'd just asked in a heavily accented voice.

He wracked his brain. Nothing came to mind. Ninsianna asked the same question again. How could he explain to someone who didn't speak his language that he couldn't remember who he was?

“I don't know." He covered his eyes and made a gesture as though something flew out of his head.

“Ninsianna,” the woman smiled and pointed to her own chest. “Idonno,” she pointed at him.

“No." He shook his head in frustration. “I don't remember.”

“Ninsianna,” the woman pointed to her own chest and frowned. “Idonrememba,” she pointed at him.

“No, I don't know who I am!" he said. "I can't remember!" He hit his own forehead to emphasize it wasn't working properly and groaned as the stitches holding together the reason he couldn't remember shot pain into his skull. The room began to spin. He closed his eyes until the vertigo subsided.

The woman frowned until it dawned on her what he was trying to say. She touched his head near the stitches and nodded to indicate she understood his head injury was muddling his thoughts. Silently resuming her ministrations, she dabbed dried blood from his scalp, pausing occasionally to pat his wings as though she had never seen such a thing before.

He avoided wincing, not wishing to see her expression of dismay every time he flinched. When she got to his chest wound, she noticed the silver tags strung around his neck. She pointed and asked a question. Pulling the slender chain from beneath his shirt, he read the information etched into the dog tags in boxy cuneiform.

“Colonel Mikhail Mannuki’ili, 352d SOG, Angelic Air Force." Although the information failed to jog any personal recollection, he understood what it meant.

“You, Ninsianna," he pointed to her chest. "Me … Mikhail."

“Mikhail,” Ninsianna repeated and smiled, speaking a line of gibberish before saying again, “Mikhail.”

Although the name didn't ring any bells, it pleased him to hear her say it aloud. He assumed it was his name because the only reason he would wear dog tags was so his fellow soldiers could retrieve his body for burial. He was a soldier. A soldier who had achieved the respectable rank of Colonel. It wasn't much, but it was something.

She held out her water skin and gestured for him to drink. He nearly emptied it before he realized he should have left some. Ninsianna signaled she was leaving to fetch more water. She gave him a stern look, pointing to the floor and pulling the blanket to his neck, and made the universal hand at the side of her head to signal sleep. The fact they shared the same underlying body language felt oddly reassuring.

"Okay," Mikhail nodded.

Ninsianna touched his cheek, her tawny beige eyes filled with compassion before she rose and exited the ship. As she left, he realized how very vulnerable he was. She would be back … he hoped.

His head hurt. Everything had a surreal glow. Sleep gladly overtook him once more.

Chapter 8

February - 3,390 BC

Earth:  Crash site

Ninsianna

Ninsianna crawled over the rubble which blocked the crack out of the great sky canoe and worked her way down to the stream which tumbled down from the hill into the bowl-shaped oasis where Mikhail's sky canoe had partially buried itself. As she walked, she spoke aloud her thoughts the way one might speak to her closest friend.

“He's so emotionless, Mother, as though he possesses no fear!”

Free! She was free! Her gait turned into a girlish skip as she saw the goddess had brought the sky canoe down into an oasis. A small shadow fell across her path, its outstretched silhouette indicating which animal cast it. Ninsianna glanced up, just in time to see an enormous golden eagle swoop into the stream which widened out in front of her. It was a positive omen, for eagles were sacred to her people. The eagle dove beneath the surface, wings splashing water as it came up carrying a nice, fat fish. Ninsianna laughed as the eagle effortlessly carried its squirming dinner up into the sky.

"Yes, mother! I agree! He must be a formidable warrior! Now if only he could remember his own name!"

Ninsianna wracked her brains for what little she knew about amnesia. Mama had spoken of such amnesia after a warrior had suffered a blow to the head. Usually a few hours passed and then the memories would return, although Mikhail (she said his name several times and decided she liked the way it rolled across her tongue) appeared to be unusually lucid for someone who couldn't remember his own name. Perhaps he'd misunderstood her question? Or was he withholding information? She reached the brook, swollen with water from the late winter rains, and kneeled.

“Thank you, Mother, for giving me this pure water,” she sang, for in a land with scant rainfall, all water was considered sacred. She scooped up a handful, faced the east, and offered her first drink to the earth as an offer of gratitude before filling her water skin.

Her own reflection shone back at her from the pool, her face and shawl smeared crimson with Mikhail's blood. Leaving on her shawl so it would get clean, she waded waist-deep into the stream and kneeled in the spot where the eagle had snatched the fish only moments before. Swollen with the winter rains, the stream was just deep enough to sink up to her neck if she sat down. Ducking beneath the surface to wash her hair, she did not hear the sound of approaching feet.

“Ninsianna … come here!"

She flipped back her wet hair and frowned at the sight of Jamin and his entourage of warriors. So … her jilted fiancé had found her at last? Well … it was too late! The goddess herself had sent someone better to take his place! She jutted out her chin with defiance.

“I will not marry you!" Ninsianna said. "So leave me alone and I shall take up residence here!" The will of the goddess filled her with bravery. She luxuriated in his wounded expression as she turned her back on him as no other woman would dare do to the chief's son, signaling she wished to have nothing more to do with him.

Jamin made a sound like a duck who was having his neck wrung.

“I don't think she likes you anymore,” Dadbeh teased him.

Firouz began to slurp like a dog. Ninsianna didn't know what the gesture meant, but it made Jamin shake with anger. He pointed at her, his expression grim.

“I'll show you, woman, who is in charge of this tribe!" Jamin waded into the water after her, he the hunter and she the prey.

Ninsianna trembled, but stood her ground. The goddess would not allow herself to be bullied by a man, so neither would she! The power of the goddess surged through her veins like a bolt of lightning as she imagined she was like She-who-is. Never before had she felt so powerful, so bold.

“You are NOT the chief of this tribe, yet!” Ninsianna shouted. “And I will not obey you!”

The other warriors cat-called and made jokes about recalcitrant goats. Jamin splashed towards her; a tall, dark god; his black eyes filled with anger as she crossed her arms and glowered right back at him.

“You will come away from this accursed fallen star before you get yourself hurt!" Jamin grabbed her arm and tugged her towards the shore.

Ninsianna slapped him.

The warriors burst out laughing.

Jamin grabbed her by the hair.

"How dare y…."

Her words were cut short as he shoved her face beneath the water. Ninsianna fought to break his grip, but he kept his fingers wrapped securely in her hair. With an ungentle yank, he pulled her back above the surface. Ninsianna gasped for breath.

“Do you yield?”

“How dare you!" Ninsianna sputtered. Her blood boiling, she hit him as hard as she could. The other warriors laughed as Jamin shoved her face beneath the water a second time. Water came rushing up her nose. She kicked and hit with all of her might, but Jamin was taller and more than twice her weight. She gasped for breath as he pulled her head back above the surface a second time.

“Do you yield?”

"Never!"

Ninsianna kicked backwards and landed her heel in Jamin's testicles. Jamin yowled in pain.

“I will teach you some respect, woman!"

He shoved her head beneath the water a third time. This time, he held her there until she had no choice but to breathe the water into her lungs. The sound of her own heart pounding in her ears muffled the sound of Jamin's voice filtering through the water.

'Help me…' she prayed to She-who-is. 'Help me, please. I am not strong enough to fight him on my own…'

Jamin suddenly loosened his grip. She popped back above the surface, vomiting water until she realized the warriors all gaped at something on the shore. Walking towards them from the shattered sky canoe, one wing outstretched, the other dragging uselessly behind him, came Mikhail.

'Thank you, Mother…'

“He is my protector,” she shouted aloud, hoping to panic them before they noticed how badly injured Mikhail was. “Run, before he smites you where you stand!”

A bolt of blue lightning erupted from Mikhail's hand and exploded the rocks at the warrior's feet, tossing them backwards as though they'd just been rammed. Smoke and a scent like a thunderstorm wafted up from the place where the lightning had struck. With a shout, the warriors ran away.

Jamin, however, had never been one to back away from a fight, especially when it was over something he viewed to be his. He grabbed her arm and shoved her behind his back, his dark eyes flashing with defiance.

“Stay behind me and I'll protect you from the demon," Jamin hissed. He stood frozen between her and Mikhail, eyeing the spear he'd left on the banks of the stream, no doubt calculating his best chance to regain the high ground.

"Níor mhaith liom a dhéanamh má bhí tú mé," Mikhail gestured towards them with the strange, black firestick he held in his hands.

A second bolt of lightning landed perilously close to Jamin’s side, showering them both with water and also a strange sensation as though they'd both been stung. Jamin yelped, but he did not let her go. Mikhail pointed the firestick at Jamin’s chest and gestured for her to come to shore.

"Ninsianna, teacht anseo!”

“Over my dead body!"

Jamin broadened his stance so he appeared as threatening as a man could possibly appear whilst standing waist deep in water with no weapon and nowhere to run. His grip tightened, twisting her arm as he stood between her and Mikhail. Ninsianna realized he thought he was protecting her! His possessiveness was about to get him killed!

The two alpha-predators stared one another down, both of them eager to claim her to be their prize. Mikhail had the higher ground, but he was badly wounded, while Jamin was in top physical form. She needed to break his grip and distract him before he realized the dark coloring of Mikhail's shirt was not dye, but dried blood. Making a fist, she punched Jamin in the face and yanked away.

"Get away from me!" Ninsianna shrieked.

Jamin's look of surprise as she broke free was precious!

"Ninsianna?"

Splashing water everywhere, she skittered up the banks of the stream and froze as she recognized Mikhail's grip on consciousness was tenuous at best. If he passed out now, Jamin would positively kill him. She ran into his arms and snaked her arms around his waist as though she embraced her lover to prevent Mikhail from toppling over, wedging her shoulder under his broken arm so his firestick remained free.

“Téigh ar!” Mikhail growled. “Faigh an ifreann as anseo!”

“Leave!!!” she shouted. “Before he smites you for your insolence!”

Jamin looked from her to Mikhail, his black eyes filled first with dismay, and then hatred as he jumped to the conclusion Ninsianna intended for him to jump to.

“You told me that you loved me," Jamin shouted at her, "and now you betray me for a demon?"

The chief's son stepped towards her, his hand outstretched as though he was a common beggar. Ninsianna lifted her chin and hugged Mikhail, a universal, feminine symbol of mine. Jamin stiffened, pride subsuming hurt as he finally understood what she'd been trying to tell him for the last three days. She did not want him. She wanted somebody better.

His fists clenched, Jamin bolted out of the opposite side of the stream and grabbed his spear. He stalked off in the same direction his more cowardly compatriots had just gone, his expression so dark it gave Ninsianna chills.

As soon as Jamin climbed out of the bowl of the valley, Mikhail collapsed, dragging her down along with him, for he was so heavy there was little she could do but slow his descent. Wiggling to extricate herself from beneath his enormous wings, she spat out a mouthful of black-brown feathers. The ground here was hard and rocky, so she sat back down and cradled his head upon her lap.

She touched the base of his throat. Although Mikhail was deathly pale, a steady throb greeted her sensitive fingertips. With a sigh, Ninsianna shut her eyes as the energy she'd felt earlier suddenly abandoned her, leaving her feeling tired and weak.

“You're too large for me to drag back to your sky canoe,” Ninsianna said. “I'm afraid I would reopen your wounds if I even tried. We shall just have to wait until you wake up so we can do it together."

In the dim confines of the shattered sky canoe, there had not been enough light to get a good look at her patient, but out here in the daylight, she could see how enormous Mikhail truly was. Ninsianna was average height, while Jamin, who was tall for her people, stood two hand-spans taller than the top of her head, but when she'd stood next to Mikhail, her head didn't even reach his chin.

She studied his magnificent, twenty-cubit wings, even bigger than the mated pair of golden eagles who circled above the Hiddekel River. His plumage was brownish-black, with golden sable stripes the closer you got to his skin. She ran her fingers through his feathers, relishing the contrast between the stiff primary feathers and his soft downy under feathers with a smattering of grey speckled feathers on the underside of one wing, but not the other.

Wings! The goddess had sent her a man with wings! Ninsianna could not help but giggle like a little girl.

She ran her fingers through hair the color of roasted acorns, a sharp contrast to his flesh which was as pale and pink as the clouds which trailed across a morning sky, not the light brown complexion that graced all but a few of her own people. Her fingers memorized each exquisite detail of the creature the goddess had placed into her care. Mikhail's chiseled features were not those of the Ubaid, but the flint warriors shaped to adorn their spears: sharp, beautiful and deadly. She ran her fingers over his muscular chest and relished each striation, the body of a warrior in peak condition.

Her very own demi-god!

“Thank you for rescuing me." Ninsianna touched the hairless skin above his lips and wondered about the absence of a beard. “I don't know how you even heard me, much less got up and walked with all of your injuries. No wonder the goddess wanted me to save your life!"

She closed her eyes and focused the healing light of She-who-is through her hands to speed his recovery the way that Mama had taught her to do. Her hands tingled; warmer, even, than when she had prayed to heal the Chief's son. Thankful. Oh, goddess, how very thankful she was! Mikhail was the answer to her prayer!

“Can I keep him?” Ninsianna slipped her fingers through the soft under-feathers of his wings and lifted her face up towards the sun.  “Please, Mother? I'd really like to keep him!”

Chapter 9

But you said in your heart,

I'll ascend to heaven;

I'll raise my throne above the stars of God,

And I'll sit on the mount of assembly

In the recesses of the north.

I'll ascend above the heights of the clouds;

I'll make myself like the Most High.

Isaiah 14:13-14

Galactic Standard Date:  152,323.02 AE

Haven-3:  Alliance Hall of Parliament

Prime Minister Lucifer

Lucifer

“The Prime Minister will now address Parliament.”

Lucifer ascended the central podium, his niveous white wings draped artfully behind his back like the Eternal Emperor's mantle. Balcony after balcony cascaded upwards towards the dome; each delegate representing a homeworld in an empire which spanned almost half the galaxy. The delegates were as varied as the worlds they represented: mammals, insectoids, amphibians and other life forms. Each species had a homeworld where they'd evolved naturally under the protection of the Emperor until they'd achieved a level of sentience sufficient to earn their species membership in the Galactic Alliance. Each species had a voice to assert their rights; every species except for one…

His...

The delegates chattered, cutting deals as elected officials were wont to do. Lucifer pressed his sensual lips together, waiting for the General Assembly to quiet down. The cacophony continued; a feeding frenzy of back-room deals; this vote for that one; cast your vote for this pet project and I'll release your bill from committee. Lucifer closed his eyes and focused on the flow of self-interest which, due to the gift of empathy bestowed upon him by a half-Seraphim mother, allowed him to visualize the gist of the delegate's desires.

Enhanced Angelic senses registered the sybaritic tickle of expensive aftershave, aged brandy, and the lingering scent of todóg. His eerie platinum eyes scanned the coliseum; perceptive, cynical, reflective as he put a name to the strongest of those desires and noted the places he might bring persuasion to bear. At last he signaled the Speaker to begin the show.

"In the name of the Eternal Emperor," the tall, serpent-like Speaker pounded his gavel, "I hereby call this joint session of Parliament to order!"

The delegates stared down from their lofty balconies, their multifarious eyes glittering with resentment at having been summoned to do their job. Lucifer hid his contempt beneath a politician's smile, beneficent, brilliant and fruitful with the promise of better days to come. He made eye contact with each of the major players, and then spoke into the cameras which broadcast his image to the public.

“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” Lucifer said. “I have summoned the General Assembly to discuss the free trade resolution currently being debated for an override.”

The acoustics were such that the slightest whisper carried across the chamber. A rumble of dissent rippled through the great hall; expressing dissatisfaction, expressing doubt of his ability to enforce his will. Once already this year he had passed this measure by the slenderest of margins. It had ignited such a firestorm that the Eternal Emperor himself had intervened to slap it down with a rare imperial veto.

Determination stiffened Lucifer's spine as he ruffled his feathers to appear more imposing. He turned his good side towards the cameras which broadcast these proceedings to every television network in the Alliance.

"Today I come to you not as the adopted son of the Eternal Emperor," Lucifer said, "a man who by virtue of an accident of fortune had a voice bestowed upon him because my father appointed me to represent your interests." He lowered his wings into a gesture of humility. "But as an Angelic, a species whose only purpose is to lay down our lives to protect you, the naturally evolved races."

He moved to position himself before an enormous, golden Leonid and an even burlier Centauri who he'd appointed to stand guard just at the edge of the stage. He turned back to face the cameras which panned like greedy vulture's beaks to follow him, cognizant of the fact their refractive lenses would make it appear the two hybrids stood directly behind him.

“For as long as the Alliance has existed” Lucifer spoke into the cameras, “the Emperor has relied upon the stick of military might to keep the Sata'an Empire in check." He gestured towards the lion-man and half-horse-human hybrid. "To achieve this end, he created four species of genetically engineered super-soldiers to protect the races who make this Alliance their home. For 150,000 years, our military superiority has kept an uneasy balance between the Sata'anic Empire and our own Galactic Alliance.”

He made eye contact with the delegates he'd tagged earlier as impressionable, the ones who stared down from their lofty perches like the ascended beings who forever dabbled in the affairs of mortals. Sunlight streamed down from the atrium like an omen from She-who-is, creating a brilliant golden halo around his white-blonde hair and framing the perfection of his too-symmetrical features, reminding the delegates he was the adopted son of their emperor and god.

“But now a new threat has dawned against our Alliance." Lucifer said. "Not the external threat of Shay’tan, but one of our own making." He paused to make eye contact with a delegate to his left, and then to his right, before turning back to face the cameras. He lowered his voice as if he revealed a secret, just low enough to force the delegates to all lean forward to hear.

"The armies that defend us, ladies and gentlemen, are a dying species."

A gasp rippled through the general assembly to hear him speak their shame before the cameras, making it official, making their weakness real. The perpetual cacophony of self-interest began anew: 'My constituents were angry I voted to outsource our jobs.' 'Who cares if the hybrids die?' 'What does that have to do with -me-?'

A feisty young Spiderid Lord stood up, a freshman delegate, one who had not yet learned that when there were cameras present, it was always prudent to exercise restraint.

“YOUR race is dying!” the Spiderid shouted. “Our race is doing just fine!" He turned to the delegates on either side of him as they chortled back a snigger, his sharp chelicerae broadening into an expression of glee. "Tell Shay'tan he can take his trade deal and shove it up his scaly tail!"

The discord grew chaotic as Parliament twittered like magpies coveting a shiny golden trinket. Such forthrightness on the record was a political blunder, but the freshman lord voiced a sentiment which many not-so-secretly shared.

Lucifer's eerie silver eyes bored into the Spiderid's compound ones as he brought both hands to his heart and allowed his expression to soften.

“Yes," Lucifer said gently. “My race is dying. My race, that protected your race until it evolved enough to join this Alliance, is dying."

He drew his hand into a fist and stared at it, as though he were making a decision. In the pause, the cameras shifted, zooming inwards, zooming outwards, placing the dispute between himself and the sentiment the Spiderid lord had dared voice into the public eye of billions of television viewers.

"My race, who kicked Shay’tan off of your planet when he tried to annex it, and you came running to us for help, is dying!" He raised his voice into a shout as he shook his fist at the mouthy Spiderid lord, "and now that millennia of constant warfare has reduced our numbers so low that we now have more pieces of equipment than hybrids in existence to man that equipment, my race is coming to your race to beg for help so we don't all go extinct!”

He slammed his fist onto the podium, his eerie silver eyes flashing in fury. The Spiderid delegate squirmed in his seat while the others who only moments before sniggered now glared at the young lord, publicly distancing themselves from the foolish upstart. Lucifer gave the mouthy Spiderid a smile that did not reach his eyes.

“It is good that the Spiderid species is thriving," Lucifer said. "It means the hybrids didn't sacrifice their lives in vain."

He stared up at the delegates perched upon their balconies like vultures in a tree, species which had all benefitted from the protection provided by his species and their three sister-races of half-human, half-animal hybrids: Angelics, Merfolk, Centauri and Leonids.

"For 150,000 years our species has protected your species," Lucifer said, "but systematically been denied the benefits of citizenship that every other sentient species in this Alliance enjoys. Your armies have been denied the right to vote or voice dissent because, under the law, we are all considered manufactured people."

He curled forward one beautiful white wing, the wing which meant he could never have a voice as anything other than the Emperor's mouthpiece because that wing had not evolved naturally.

"In the beginning," he said, "hybrids were excluded because people feared what would happen if we abused the genetic enhancements grafted onto our DNA, so when the Emperor created us, he declared our only purpose was to serve you."

The grumble of dissent came not, this time, from the newer sentient races such as the young Spiderid lord who had stuck his palps into his maw, but the ancient races that had been in existence longer than there had been an Alliance. Their base of power depended upon maintaining a slave army. There were too many business interests involved, too much money, all tied up in the military-industrial complex. Lucifer was too savvy to fight a losing battle. He had deliberately narrowed the issue to a single battle he could win. He held out his hand as though he offered something precious.

"We are here today," Lucifer said, "because Shay'tan has come bearing an peace offering. One which, if accepted, might stave off the pending extinction of the hybrid armies who defend you. Before we, as my Spiderid brother so aptly put it, 'tell Shay'tan to go stick his trade deal up his scaly tail,' we need to look at all of the costs and benefits of that trade deal. Including the cost of replacing our dying armies."

The grumbling from the ancient races died down. If he put the plight of his species in terms of currency and political gain, and not just the tragedy unfolding before their eyes, they would sell out the Emperor in a heartbeat. But the old moneyed interests were vastly outnumbered … he had seen to that when he'd manufactured excuses to hasten the incorporation of newer sentient races into the Alliance. Before he appealed to them to grant a two-thirds override, he must first win them over, the newer sentient races which were inclined to care.

He looked up at the species he had personally shepherded towards inclusion, not mammals like the older races, but insectoids, amphibians, and even a form of bacteria that only became sentient as a hive mind. These species remembered a time before the Alliance had come to free them. These delegates would support him, but only if he guaranteed it would not decimate their chance for re-election.

He turned to stare into the cameras, the ones which broadcast his speech to the masses seated in their living rooms.

"Once upon a time," Lucifer said, "the root race which spawned our species still walked amongst us. Because they saw us as their children, they watched out for us. But 74,000 years ago, an asteroid hit Nibiru, and just like that," he snapped his fingers, "all of humanity was destroyed."

He gave his deceased progenitors a moment of silence.

"The Emperor tried to reseed the few survivors into colonies on other homeworlds," Lucifer said, "but each of those colonies withered on the vine because humans had evolved beyond their baser impulses; without those instincts, they lacked the willpower to survive.

He reached up to the newer sentient races seated in the nosebleed seats despite the fact their species were more populous.

"When humans went extinct," Lucifer said, "they took with them the closest thing with them we hybrids had to a homeworld."

He spread his arms in the T-like posture of a victim strapped to a Tokoloshe feeding pole. His wings drooped as though too heavy to lift and he bowed his head, a martyr offering himself as a sacrifice for the greater good. He held the pose and milked it until it made them squirm.

“This lack of a voice was not a problem," Lucifer said, "when hybrids walked amongst the races the Emperor hoped to shepherd towards inclusion. A hybrid base meant Shay'tan would not dare attack. The newer sentient races got to know the hybrids that protected them, and in return they made sure our species didn't languish without a voice."

He walked over to a delegate who represented a colony on the Sata'an/Alliance border; one which had incurred great loss of hybrid life in the eternal battles which were waged between the Eternal Emperor and Shay'tan.

“But as the Alliance expanded,” Lucifer said, “and the galaxy looked to us to police their problems for them, our races were taken off of your worlds and put into ships in space. Each species has benefited from hybrid protection, but because they rarely see us anymore, they forget what it was like before the Emperor created four species of genetically engineered super-soldiers to keep the evolved races safe. "

“Citizens began to take for granted the reason they were being left alone,” Lucifer said. “So long as there was no draft to reach into households and draw any citizen, from any walk of life, into the military to fight Alliance battles, it was of no concern to them. They paid their taxes, and they were kept safe. End of problem."

Lucifer gestured as though throwing a ball into the air.

“To meet the shortfall,” Lucifer said, “we then told hybrids they had to serve 500 years in the military, not just 20 years like the volunteers, because if we don't get killed in battle we can live that long.”

“But it didn't end there!" Lucifer's voice rose. "So when hybrid birthrates dropped even further, we pulled our females off of your planets and made them start fighting, as well!"

He whirled back to face the moneyed interests; the ancient species who'd always blocked inclusion.

"There was no surprise when our birth rate took a plunge into the toilet!" Lucifer said. "You can’t shoot your enemy when you're carrying your toddler!"

He glared at them, white wings flared like a raptor as, just for a moment, he allowed himself to lose his politician's smile and showed them the fury which perpetually raged within.

“And then 600 years ago you told us it was forbidden for us to form relations except to begat offspring to perpetuate the glory of the Emperor,” Lucifer shouted at them. “Or even sire offspring with the same partner twice, because we've become so inbred that now genetic diversity is an issue!"

All because the genetic modifications the Emperor gave us to maintain these…"

He yanked out a snowy white feather with contempt and held it aloft for all to see.

"These … wings. These wings and the other genetic modifications which enslave our species to serve the rest of you are a recessive gene!"

He threw the feather into the air. A ray of sunlight caught if from the atrium far above, as though the goddess herself wished to say see! It floated down amongst the sparkles of dust, only the shuffling of feet and an occasional cough breaking the silence as the feather hit the ground.

"These improvements," Lucifer flapped his wings so the crisp snap echoed throughout Parliament, "require so much selective breeding to maintain so they don't simply disappear from our backs that we have INBRED OURSELVES INTO EXTINCTION!"

He walked over to an Electrophori delegate and stared down a conservative religious leader from an ancient world of sentient eels which loathed all hybrids as 'manufactured abominations.'

“You can get married?” Lucifer shouted at him. “But we can’t? Because you need us to make lots of babies who have these for your enemies to shoot at without the inconvenience of voting rights or families?"

Lucifer flapped his wings again. The wind they made blew the delegate's paperwork off of his desk.

"What are we? Animals you can breed for slaughter?”

A blue jolt of electricity lit up that section of the chamber as the Electrophori's deadly tail sparked with fanatical indignation. The delegates on either side of the eel hissed at him in disapproval. Several delegates whispered ‘hypocrite' just loud enough to be picked up by the cameras.

Lucifer slammed his fist down upon the railing. “Even Shay’tan doesn’t do that to his own citizens!"

He glared at the delegate who bad-mouthed hybrid females for being ‘promiscuous’ when hybrids weren't given any choice.

“And now…" Lucifer's voice choked up as a lump rose into his throat. “Now, the moment a hybrid baby is born, before his umbilical cord is even cut, a representative from the Emperor’s youth training academy is there to whisk him away from his mother, whether or not she agrees.”

The delegates leaned forward in their seats, hanging off the balconies like vultures who had settled into a dead tree, waiting for something to finish dying so they could feast upon the carrion.

“Babies." The sob in Lucifer's voice was audible as tears rolled down his cheeks. “We indoctrinate babies less than a minute old to defend you because we can't afford to have their parents take a few years off to raise their offspring.”

His white wings drooped, trembling with emotion. He turned, eyes shut, away from the cameras and tried to quell the raw emotion which threatened to overtake him. The hall was so quiet you could have heard a pin-feather drop. He coughed and rubbed his cheek, determined not to let them see him weep. His legislative aide rushed out with a glass of water. Lucifer gulped down the liquid and composed his features back into the mask of a professional politician.

“We give all these great speeches about free will,” Lucifer's voice was weary, "but from the moment a hybrid takes their first breath, we brainwash them into believing their only purpose is to die supporting the Emperor. And now we can't even give you that anymore, for our species has grown weary and lost the ability to reproduce.”

Total silence reigned in Parliament. A nervous cough broke the silence. Lucifer made eye contact with key delegates from the old block that would otherwise oppose him and watched them squirm. Money. It all came down to money. He'd just laid out a moral justification the younger delegates could take back to their constituents and justify voting for the override. Now he needed to spell things out in terms the older delegates cared about. Money.

“Only consider this question, ladies and gentlemen," Lucifer said. "If the hybrids die out and are no longer here to protect you, then who will? Who? Who will protect the Alliance when all of the hybrids are gone?"

He let the question hang before them like a bad odor before reciting a famous Alliance slogan. “As the hybrid races that defend us go, so shall the Alliance.”

'Guilt. Guilt. Guilt.'

'Fear.'

'Just like a well-crafted television commercial.'

He could practically hear violins which played in the background as that small, sarcastic voice which had whispered to his subconscious for as long as he could remember began to egg him on. It whispered for him to ram this veto override through Parliament and overrule his immortal father's objections; to end the stranglehold the eternal bickering between the two ascended emperor-gods had upon the citizens of both empires. It whispered for him to save his species.

“Never-ending war is not the answer." Lucifer said. He stood up straighter and held out to them his hand. “I am here today to offer you a better way to achieve peace."

He lifted his wings from their dejected slump. His demeanor shifted from sorrowful repentant to television preacher peddling absolution to a circus-tent full of sinners. He'd pointed out the ugly reality. Now it was time to sell redemption.

“Over the past decade,” Lucifer's wings fluttered, "border skirmishes in certain sectors are down. The Sata'an Empire has left those sectors alone, not because we patrol them with warships, but because those planets trade with the Sata’an Empire. Shay’tan’s people desire Alliance goods. They view them as superior to their own.”

Lucifer paced, looking each delegate in the eye. He was selling a solution to an ugly problem that nobody wanted to face. He was a contact team sports coach cheering on his team.

“To appease his people,” he spoke quickly so they wouldn't interrupt him, “Shay’tan allows trading partners to import goods without charging tariffs. If the Alliance expanded this partnership, everyone would win. We win, the manufacturers win, and the Empire wins. Win-win-win. Everybody’s happy. Everybody’s rich. And nobody will go to war because their economies are too closely tied to risk upsetting the fruit cart.”

The Spiderid who had interrupted him earlier heckled him from his balcony. “That’s the rhetoric Shay’tan gave the 51-Pegasi-4 colony! And look what it got them. Shay'tan slaughtered the whole planet!!! And the entire race of Seraphim Angelics along with it!”

Lucifer's white wings shuddered with anger and loss. The Seraphim… He hid the emotion behind a wall, the mask he had built to hide his true self from the world.

“That was 25 years ago." Lucifer spoke solemnly. "It was not Shay’tan’s doing. Hashem himself verified it was pirates acting on their own accord.”

“So claims Shay’tan!!!” the Spiderid lord rebutted, his eight legs gesturing with glee. “From eye witness reports, soldiers wearing Sata’anic uniforms invaded the planet. Not a disorganized band of pirates.”

That small, quiet voice whispered into his mind:  'He is drunk with power at the thought of snatching the vote. You must treat him like the child he is…'

“So said one frightened 9-year-old boy!" Lucifer said. He turned his back on the Spiderid and appealed, instead, to the ancient races who were so close to genetic perfection that they identified more closely than any species with his father. He filled his voice with a mocking tone. "Are we to believe the ramblings of a child too young to understand what he saw over our own Emperor’s investigation?”

The Muqqibat delegate hit his staff against the floor. The block of ancient races immediately grew silent. The power brokers would not allow a silly upstart to steal the show. The ripple of silence which moved through the great assembly was unspoken, but it was complete. Lucifer had spelled out the tragedy in terms they cared about … money and power. They would allow him to finish his speech.

“Shay’tan won't cede territory," Lucifer said. "But he will give peaceful trading companies access to sell products his people need. All he asks in return is that we do the same." He paused to let his words sink in. "Fair … is square." The notion of fundamental fairness was one of the basic underpinnings of Alliance society.

'They don't -really- care about fairness. Spell it out in the only terms they'll understand. What it will cost them if they -don't- vote for this trade deal…'

“It's either that,” Lucifer's wings swept upwards like a raptor swooping in for the kill. He gestured towards the cameras as though he was the Devourer of Children come to snatch something small and helpless, “or we need to figure out whose children we'll draft into the military to defend us. Because at the rate the hybrids are dying out, within ten years there won't be enough of us left to defend you anymore."

He pointed at the ancient races.

"It takes six naturally evolved humanoids to fill the shoes of a single hybrid," he said, "and those species all have voting rights. So compute those numbers when you figure out how much it will cost to reject Shay'tan's peace offering. It's trade agreements … or the draft. Your choice.”

Lucifer waited until the delegates who'd been blocking his trade proposal made eye contact. The Muqqibat dragon took his staff and thumped it solidly upon the floor. He had won them over.

“I hereby make a motion for Parliament to expand the existing Free Trade agreement to all Alliance territories,” Lucifer said. “I move said motion to an immediate vote…”

The young Spiderid lord leaped up. “Shay’tan doesn't play by the same rules as we do! We already see this in the existing trade agreements."

"What Shay'tan does within the confines of his own empire is irrelevant," Lucifer said. "We are ratifying a trade deal, not submitting to Sata'anic Rule."

"Shay’tan conquers newer sentient planets and conscripts their citizens to be his labor force so he can undersell us," the Spidered shouted. "It's little more than slavery!”

The other delegates began to waffle. Lucifer twitched his wings with irritation. It was convenient how the citizens of this great Alliance called what Shay'tan did slavery, but conveniently overlooked the 500 years of forced military service they required of all hybrids.

“If we move to a policy of trading with the Sata’an Empire,” Lucifer said. “Border skirmishes will go down. We can use the threat of trade sanctions to force Shay’tan to capitulate."

That small, sarcastic voice warned: 'You're losing the newer sentient races. You must promise them something they can take back to their constituents and say they did the right thing…'

"It will give our besieged hybrid military a chance to replenish their ranks," Lucifer said. “It will send a message that this Alliance values the contribution hybrids have made to our well-being for hundreds of thousands of years.”

He could feel the moment the energy shifted in the room, but his victory rang hollow because death in battle was not the problem, but pure inability to reproduce. But fewer wasted lives would buy the hybrids time, and time was what he desperately sought.

The Spiderid lord shouted a losing challenge.

“If you open Alliance markets to unfettered trade, money will flow into Shay’tan’s coffers. He will use it to build up his military. Our industry will be decimated and our standard of living will be reduced to poverty."

"Shut up!" several delegates hissed at him. "Do you think we want our kids to be Hashem's cannon fodder?"

"Shay’tan won’t have to defeat us in battle. This resolution will allow him to simply bankrupt and buy us!”

Lucifer interrupted him before things could get out of hand.

“We have a choice,” Lucifer said. “Are we going to tell our hybrid soldiers we don't care if they go extinct so long as they continue to protect us while doing it? Or will we take charge of this situation and say NO MORE WAR!!! Who wants to vote for peace?”

“Ay!!!” the delegates shouted, voting heavily in favor of the resolution.

“Any opposed?” the Speaker of the Commons asked.

“Nay!" The young Spiderid Lord's voice rang alone. He was not the only delegate who opposed the measure, just the only one naive enough not to simply abstain.

“The Aye’s have it!” the Speaker of the Commons shouted, banging on his podium with his gavel. “The free trade agreement passes!”

Lucifer bowed, thanking the legislators as they filed out past him, including the Spiderid lord who had concerns he wanted addressed. He could feel the positive energy flowing off of the crowd, making his head buzz with power. This was what his father had trained him from birth to do, creating the position of Prime Minister and putting him in charge of the day-to-day politics of running the Alliance. Lucifer snorted with disgust. Hashem wouldn't deign to muddy his godlike consciousness dealing with the lesser affairs of mortals! Making small talk and clapping the young lord on the back, he excused himself and moved outside.

“Sire,” his Angelic Chief of Staff Zepar asked. “Shall I ask the Party to cut off all funding to that little Spiderid pain in the ass before the next election?"

'If you don't get rid of him, he will keep raising this point until people begin to listen to him...'

“Do it." Lucifer waved for the cameras. “Oh … and see what dirt you can dig up on him. Even if you have to make it up. I want negative reports leaked to the media by nightfall.”

“Yes, Sire,” Zepar clasped his hands together like a spider pulling an insect into its mouth. “Consider it done. Now … your next appointment is at 3:00 p.m. A cadet right out of the academy...”

Chapter 10

February - 3,390 BC

Earth:  Crash site

Colonel Mikhail Mannuki’ili

Mikhail

Something was wrong.

Mikhail’s eyes shot open. Reaching to his hip and finding the reassuring bulge of his sidearm, he groaned in agony as he lurched to his feet and wobbled unsteadily, fighting the urge to pass out as his punctured lung tore against the stitches. Clutching at his ship's control console to remain upright, his broken wing dragged uselessly behind him as he moved towards the crack in the hull.

Still blinking as his eyes adjusted to the sunlight, a high, shrill voice made his heart beat faster. The scene flashed before his eyes as though he watched it via strobe light, his injuries giving everything a surrealistic, distant feeling. Urgent images whispered into his brain. Men laughing. Water splashing. A half-dozen dark-haired men wearing kilts had their back turned towards him, facing a rocky stream. A seventh dark-haired figure held Ninsianna’s head beneath the surface of the water, shaking his finger at her as though he scolded a child.

Mikhail in no condition for a fight, so he fired a warning shot, startling the man in the water enough to get him to release Ninsianna's head. She popped back above the surface, gasping for breath, but the olive-skinned man grabbed her arm and shoved her behind him, defiance glittering in his angry black eyes.

“Why not pick on somebody your own size!"

The other men shouted and ran away, but the one who held Ninsianna did not intimidate quite so easily. Mikhail noticed the way the swarthy-skinned man positioned himself in front of Ninsianna, both protecting her, and also refusing to let her go. Whoever this man was, he viewed her as his property. Where he came from, he vaguely recalled that treating a woman like that would get you your tail feathers handed back to you on a metal cafeteria tray…

“I wouldn't do that if I were you." Mikhail fired a warning shot at the water inches from the man’s abdomen. “Ninsianna, come here!"

Ninsianna struggled to break free, and when that didn't work, formed a fist and punched the man right in the face. With a yelp of surprise, the black-eyed man let go. Ninsianna bounded up the banks of the stream, intelligent enough to realize he could barely stand. She propped herself beneath his armpit so he wouldn't fall over, leaving his right hand free to still hold his pulse rifle, and screamed something that left a pained expression on the olive-skinned man's face before it hardened into an expression of hatred. A lover’s quarrel?

Blood roared in Mikhail's ears. A dark tunnel closed in around his field of vision and made everything sound very far away as he fought to remain conscious. He had no choice but to lean on Ninsianna for support.

“Go on! Get the hell out of here!” Mikhail said.

His furious black eyes glittering with hatred, the man skulked out of the stream, grabbed his spear and disappeared in the direction the other men had gone. The moment he was out of sight, Mikhail had no choice but to let the blackness claim him.

*****

The pleasant tingle of fingertips caressing his cheek was the first sensation he registered sometime later, along with the hypnotic sound of Ninsianna's voice as she chattered into the air as though a third person had arrived to carry on a conversation with her. Gods, it hurt to breathe! But so long as it hurt, he knew he was still alive.

Mikhail opened his eyes. The harsh, golden rays of the sun had shifted to sit upon the western rim of the valley, the lengthy shadows indicating he'd been unconscious for quite some time. The scent of fresh-crushed leaves wafted up from the wound in his chest. Medicinal herbs? Yet more proof the root race was fully sentient.

Damantia! The thought flitted through his mind and left before he could grab hold of it. Root race. Root race. What in Hades did that mean? He had the urgent feeling he was supposed to communicate that piece of information to somebody, but he couldn't remember who, or why it was so important! He looked up into the face which stared at him upside down.

“Hello?" He searched her unusual tawny-beige eyes.

She murmured something which could be hello, or thank you, or I want to smash your skull in with a rock, but by her smile, it appeared to be gratitude.

“Who was that?” he asked, knowing she couldn't understand him.

“Who?” she repeated, recognizing the word. “Jamin."

She pointed in the direction her assailant had run away and muttered a string of words. By the way she wrinkled her nose, he guessed this Jamin was a disgruntled former boyfriend.

“Who … Jamin?" He pointed in the direction the man had disappeared.

Ninsianna nodded yes. “Jamin."

Mikhail studied the way her entire body became animated when she spoke. It appeared she shared the same underlying non-verbal body language as his species. Not wanting to make any assumptions, he nodded his head up and down and said “sua" [yes], and then he nodded side to side while he said “aon" [no]. He did this several more times until she understood.

“Yes, sua, Jamin!" She pinched her nose as if blocking out a bad smell, and then she laughed, a delightful, musical sound. Definitely somebody she knew.

“Let’s get back to the ship,” Mikhail said. He grimaced in pain as he attempted to sit up and groaned.

“Up,” she said in her own language, pointing up.

Mikhail repeated the word and then said it in his own language, “suas."

Ninsianna helped him to his feet, laughing with delight as she experimented with the unfamiliar words. She propped herself beneath his armpit like a crutch, wrapping one arm around his waist to stabilize him as they made their way back to his ship. Pleasant warmth tingled throughout his body; wherever she touched him, he could feel a lessening of pain.

She helped him duck through the crack in the hull, over the shattered components of his ship's tiny bridge and into the less damaged galley.

“Back here." He pointed towards the sleeping quarters. “I can't remember my own name, but for some reason I remember the layout of my ship." His fingers automatically found the light switch built into his bunk. By the size and number of bunks, he guessed his ship could transport four crew members and a modest cargo. He appeared to have been the only person on board at the time of the crash.

Ninsianna helped him maneuver so his splinted wing would fit between the narrow aisle between the bunks.

“I need to sit down,” he said, “before I collapse.” With a pained sigh, he lowered himself to sit on the lower bunk.

Ninsianna pursed her lips, her expression intent as she examined his injuries. His chest wound still seeped blood, but otherwise the stitches had held despite his recent adventures. She reached into her crude, brown satchel and pulled out more leaves, crushing them so they leaked a pale, green liquid and then rubbing the leaves against the hole in his chest. The leaves contained a faint astringent odor, somewhat reminiscent of alcohol. Some type of medicinal herb, perhaps?

He studied the unguarded expressions which crossed her face as she gave him water from her water skin, the one that had started all the trouble when he'd thoughtlessly drained it. This time, he only took enough to quench his thirst.

She pulled dried jerky and berries from her satchel. The meat was chewy and salty and the berries tasted sour, but they were all he'd had to eat in two days and he was so ravenous he didn't care. Taking a draught of water for herself, she put the rest away. Pulling back the covers, she pointed to his bed and barked an order he clearly understood despite the language barrier.

“Up … suas?” Ninsianna pointed towards the ceiling. She then pointed down and muttered something in her own language. She had to repeat the gesture a second time before he realized she asked him what the word for ‘down’ was.

“Down,” he said, pointing down to the floor. “Sios.”

“Sua, sios [yes, you down]." By her stern expression, she wouldn't take 'no' for an answer. Having just witnessed her punch that Jamin fellow in the face, he decided it was wise to do as he was told.

“Yes, Ma'am. Down." He arranged his broken wing to minimize his discomfort. Pointing to the opposite bunk, he said, “you, sios, down.”

“Sua, sios [yes, down]." Ninsianna pulled back her covers and kicked off her crudely laced animal skin shoes.

She slipped off the shawl which served as her dress, leaving herself naked except for a loincloth fastened around her hips. Mikhail gaped at her lush, firm breasts as she slid beneath the covers as if he had never seen such a thing before. With a smile of pure innocence, she said something he assumed meant “good night,” and promptly fell asleep.

He stared at the trusting woman asleep across the aisle. With a sigh of resignation he reached up to click off the light. Closing his eyes, he filled his otherwise empty brain the memory of what she looked like, the woman who had saved his life. Olive skinned, with wavy dark hair, long dark eyelashes and full, red lips, he felt she would compare favorably to women of his species.

Drifting off to sleep, he dreamt of travelling through the stars with his bossy little savior in tow.

Chapter 11

February -  3,390 BC

Earth:  Crash site

Ninsianna

Such a pleasant dream, being carried back to the place She-who-is had shown her during her vision; that lofty perch where she could look down upon the stars and watch them sing as though they were overjoyed to be reunited. It felt as though she were floating in a river, the warm water carrying her weight as the sun streamed down upon her face, drifting wherever the goddess willed her to go. Oh, how she wished she could stay in this current forever! The goddess directed her back towards her body.

"Mother, please let me stay?"

She-who-is whispered a promise. As soon as she'd completed her great task, the man SHE had sent to help her people would carry her out to see the stars.

"No! Máthair!"

She awoke to the sound of a man's voice crying out in terror.

"Ná gortaítear sí! Le do thoil!"

Her heart raced as the unfamiliar soft bed and strange, lifeless scent gave her a moment of panic. Memory of the last two days came filtering back to calm her. Mikhail. Sky canoe. Sleeping chamber. The magic lantern must have burned out.

"Mhamó! Cén fáth nach léi bogadh? Cá bhfuil Gabriel?"

Mikhail flailed at the phantasm in his dream, whimpering as he struck at the air as though he was just a boy. It was completely dark within the chamber, but thanks to the faint blue outline of his spirit light which she was sometimes privileged to see, she could see his outline just as clearly as though the lantern had not run out of tallow. Moving to Mikhail's side of the chamber, she felt for a place to sit without crushing his wing.

"Máthair?" Mikhail called plantitively into the darkness. 'Máthair, múscail. Ní féidir liom a bhraitheann tú níos mó.'

She did not understand the words, but whatever evil hunted him in his dreams, it pressed against his spirit-light, keeping him trapped within its ferocious grip.

"Mikhail, wake up," she shook his shoulder. "An evil spirit has come to give you a nightmare."

Mikhail whimpered, not the brave winged man who had rescued her from Jamin, but a frightened little boy. Something in his voice caused her to choke up; horror and grief, disembodied emotions. Banishing nightmares was the province of the shaman, a type of magic she'd seen her father perform for those ridden with a fever. Caressing his cheek, she began to sing the ancient song.

"Go away spirit," she sang, "go away spirit and come back no more. Go away spirit. Go back where you came and torment this man no more."

Closing her eyes to enter the dream-state, she coaxed her mind to slip into his dream. The images she could receive this way was not the clarity she'd experienced when She-who-is had sent her the vision, for her father had refused to teach her to discipline her mind to see, but her recent adventure with the sacred beverage had allowed her to peek into forbidden realms. His mind was closed to her as though somebody had sealed it shut, but she found a crack where she could peek at what was happening inside.

"Máthair! Máthair! Tá siad mharaigh tú!"

Terror! Blood splashed upon her cheek. Crushing darkness and the scent of burning flesh! Ninsianna cried out in horror, unable to put herself into his dream. All around her, she could feel a darkness so powerful it felt as though it would crush the universe within its maw. No! She could not do this! Not even for She-who-is!!!

'Ninsianna … please... Don't be afraid of the dark.'

Ninsianna trembled. She didn't want to touch this evil. She didn't want to see the evil which pursued the boy she'd caught a glimpse of in his dream!

'This memory causes him great pain. He won't allow me to erase it as he feels it is part of who he is, but he placed his fate into your hands when you saved his life. Perhaps he will allow -you- to alleviate his suffering?'

Ninsianna felt the thread of She-who-is' mind grow stronger, whispering what she must do. The light throb of his temple pulsated against her fingers as she moved her lips with exhortations to trust her. He thought she was a spirit come to guide him into the dreamtime and was not yet convinced his continued existence was anything but a dream. Invoking the goddess for protection, she slipped into his nightmare.

Inside, a boy filled with a dark force was kept at bay by a slender eggshell of blue light. A howling, black emptiness spilled forth from his heart like blood, causing her to shudder as a terrible hunger clutched at her and threatened to annihilate her very existence. She-who-is instructed her how to wipe the accursed child from Mikhail's memory so he would be plagued with nightmares nevermore.

Ninsianna then placed her hand over his chest and sang songs of happy times to come with her and her people; songs of belonging, songs of never being alone. His hand moved up to cover hers, clutching her hand to the wound above his heart.

"Ní hamháin," he whispered. Not alone. She could sense he wanted this more than anything in the world. The child trying to force his way through the block She-who-is had put on his memories faded and receded behind that cold, blue eggshell of light she sensed protected him from the evil child.

Mikhail's breathing deepened into the rhythm of a restful sleep. Once she'd reassured herself the spell would hold, she kissed his cheek and went back to her own side of the chamber.

Exceptionally proud of herself for exorcising her very first demon, Ninsianna fell back asleep.

Chapter 12

Galactic Standard Date:  152,323 AE

Command Carrier:  'Light Emerging'

Border between Zulu and Tango sector

Colonel Raphael Israfa

Raphael

The Light Emerging was smaller and sleeker than other command carriers in the Angelic Air Force, built for stealth and deep-space intelligence gathering. Colonel Raphael Israfa was her commander, and also the de facto leader of the 42nd Intelligence Division even though, technically, that job should have gone to a general. It was his job to figure out what the old dragon was up to in Zulu Sector, or that's the excuse their Supreme Commander-General had given when she'd given him this command and then banished him into the uncharted territories. With nothing better to occupy his time, Raphael had spent the past nine months tracking a pattern of suspicious shipping activity.

“Where did Mikhail's distress call originate from? Raphael asked his second-in-command, a Mantoid by the name of Major Glicki.

“All we received was a truncated data burst, Sir,” Glicki touched her voice modulation box which helped her enunciate the non-insectoid sounds. “I didn't receive enough data to triangulate the signal."

“Narrow down the search parameters,” Raphael frowned. "This is my best friend who's just gone missing!"

With golden hair, cobalt eyes, and buff-gold feathers the color of a phoenix, what set Raphael apart was not just his golden plumage which, in a species prone to inbreeding, even the slightest variation from white was a cause for celebration, but the rare dimple which marred his otherwise perfectly engineered Angelic features. That dimple flashed now, but it was not because he smiled, but grimaced. When Mikhail had gone to the ground two weeks ago, he'd been running his scout-ship black-ops. He could be anywhere in the galaxy right now. Anywhere!

“According to Mikhail's last report, he tracked a Sata'anic merchant vessel somewhere up into the Orion-Cygnus spur." Glicki's green, heart-shaped head tilted to regard him with her compound eyes. “Other than that, we have no way to narrow down his location. The signal was extremely degraded."

Raphael rose and paced over to the vast, spinning hologram of the galaxy which blinked at them in varied, multi-colored lights. Each light represented a red giant, brown dwarf, yellow sun or other stellar body; all teeming with planets, all teeming with moons and asteroids where a ship could go down and never be heard from again. The Orion-Cygnus spur was the remnant of a dead galaxy swallowed up by the Milky Way so far in the past that even Emperor Shay'tan was fuzzy about when it had happened. While tiny compared to the major spiral arms, the area it encompassed was still vast in mortal terms.

“Damantia!” Raphael ruffled his reddish under-feathers. “Even if we launch an armada, it will take a hundred years to search that spiral arm. Orion-Cygnus is almost completely uncharted!"

“Two hundred twenty-seven years, Sir,” Glicki tapped her command module as she calculated the odds. “Based upon the number of known stars multiplied by the likely percentage we don't know about in an area this size. That’s how long I estimate it would take to search all habitable planets, not including asteroids and moons." Glicki paused her tapping and met his gaze. "Unless Mikhail rigs a homing beacon, Sir, we shall never find him.”

Raphael's golden eyebrows came together in worry. “Play me the distress call again?"

Glicki slid her prayer-like tibia slid across the console which served as the Light Emerging's nerve center with its dozens of communication feeds, her gossamer under-wings humming with concern. With the click of an armored fingertip, she boosted the audio signal, ran it through a series of data sequencers to enhance the audio quality, and then replayed it loudly enough for the entire bridge to hear.

---“Raphael … I’ve been hit! Shay’tan has found the godsdamned Holy Grail!!! This planet is crawling with enough Sata’an to…”---

“I'm afraid that’s all we received, Sir,” Glicki said. “I boosted the signal and traced the source as best as I can.”

Raphael's wings drooped. “Do you think Mikhail survived?”

Glicki enlarged the hologram to focus only on the likely search area, silently running calculations to narrow it down to where a scout ship could travel in the amount of time since Mikhail had last given them his position. Large swaths of the known scans of that sector bore black, spotty static. Glicki tilted her heart-shaped green head with worry as the Light Emerging's long-range sensors pulled up the most obvious stellar bodies, but the tags which marked those stars were only labeled 'unexplored.'

“Mikhail is tough as hell, Sir,” Glicki finally said. “Shay’tan's too cheap to terraform an entire planet. If it's crawling with Sata'an, we can assume the world is probably marginally habitable." Glicki flared her hard outer wings and fluttered her softer, gossamer under-wings to make a light ‘whirring’ noise, the Mantoid equivalent of a nervous sigh. Colonel Mannuki’ili was her friend as well.

“What do you think he meant by Holy Grail?" Raphael pondered the message. “I can hear the surprise in his voice, and Mikhail doesn't surprise easily. If Shay’tan stationed a substantial military presence around it, it must be valuable.”

“It could mean almost anything, Sir,” Glicki said. “All we can do is keep doing what we were sent here to do. Monitor shipping traffic, communications signals and energy signatures and hope we can get another scout ship in to track whatever Shay’tan is up to.”

“Nobody is as good at stalking prey as Mikhail,” Raphael said. “He can stalk a Leonid stalking a cat stalking a mouse. That’s why Jophiel sent him in to investigate in the first place.”

“He was trained by the Cherubim themselves," Glicki said. "If he could survive … you know…." Glicki didn't finish what she hinted at because the information was classified and there were other ears about, but Raphael knew what she referred to.

“Anybody who could survive that could survive anything," Raphael agreed.

He thought back to their journey together through Basic Training. Mikhail had always been a man possessed by tightly leashed internal demons, and as they had honed their fighting skills, Mikhail fought ferociously like a demon made of ice. He had fought, and won, as if he possessed no emotion at all.

It was an illusion Raphael knew to be false…

It wasn’t until he'd made the rank of Lieutenant-Colonel that he'd been granted access to view his friend's pre-academy history. Mikhail was the sole survivor of the 51-Pegasi-4 genocide. The then nine-year-old boy had been found clinging to the bodies of his parents in the ruins of their home, buried alive for days before a rescue crew had found him. The report claimed he'd survived by pulling a Sata’an sword from his dying mother's body and killing the three pirates who'd murdered his entire family.

Mikhail kept that sword at his side. Always. A silent, chilling reminder of a past he refused to discuss.

“We'll keep looking for him, Sir,” Glicki said. “Shall I put out an informational bulletin to other ships that we are looking for suspicious shipping activity into this sector? If Shay'tan has a base, at some point he'll need to resupply.”

“Please do that,” Raphael said. “And put in a request to Major Klik'rr that we are interested in any intelligence reports that may come in related to the shipment of any goods that might be used to roll out Sata’anic Rule. Supreme Commander-General Jophiel needs to know about this.”

Chapter 13

February - 3,390 BC

Earth:  Crash site

Ninsianna

Ninsianna sat alongside her quiet, watchful patient, sharing a meager lunch of dried meat, sour berries and water. Mama had schooled her to never scrutinize a patient directly, but to gaze sideways at them through lowered eyelashes, a behavior Jamin had always accused her of being flirtatious, but which she simply regarded as being polite enough not to stare. Mikhail wore an inscrutable expression, quiet, watchful, and direct; studying everything she did as though it fascinated him. She was in the process of watching him pretend not to grimace each time he bit into the sour berries when a sound filtered in from outside the great sky canoe.

'Ninsianna?' She recognized her father's voice calling her name. 'Ninsianna? Are you in there?'

Ninsianna stiffened. Mikhail's wings jutted outwards as he moved his hand to grab the handle of his firestick.

“Who … Papa." Ninsianna put her hand on his knee to reassure him they weren't in any danger. “It's okay. Papa … Immanu. My father.”

She knew he didn't understand what she'd just said, but they'd reached an understanding that “who” meant something along the lines of “I am” or “it is." She gestured for him to remain seated in the tiny room he called a 'galley.' Studying her face for signs of fear or distress, he decided to trust her while she went outside to speak to her father.

Her mind raced as she stood just inside the crack they'd been using as an entrance and exit. Had her father come to drag her back to Assur? Ninsianna listened for other voices and, when she heard none, stepped cautiously through the exit.

As she'd hoped, her Papa was alone. Well-built and muscular, with a shock of salt-and-pepper hair that jutted out at odd angles, if not for his tawny-beige eyes, it would have been difficult to tell that Immanu was her Papa. His tawny-beige eyes were round with wonder as he ran his hand along the shell of the silver sky canoe.

"Papa," Ninsianna gave him an insincere smile. “Why have you traveled all the way out here?"

Papa pulled her into his embrace, his grip too tight as unwept tears caused his chest to shudder.

“Jamin said you were captured by a demon!"

“Jamin is the only demon!" Ninsianna's voice dripped scorn. “I'm fine, no thanks to him!"

She jabbed her finger at her father's bulbous nose as no other daughter of Assur would have dared to do.

"Or you! Now please leave! Because I will not marry Jamin, not even if it means I have to spend the rest of my life banished from the village!”

Ninsianna turned to escape back into the safety of the sky canoe before Papa could prevail upon her to do something foolish, like trust he would not entice her back to the village only to turn her over to the chief. Her father grabbed her hand.

“Ninsianna, is it true?" Papa shook with an almost religious fervor. “Has one of the winged demi-gods returned to grace our village?”

Ninsianna glanced back at the crack which now served as an entrance.

“I have never heard you speak of such a thing,” Ninsianna half-lied. It was only a half-lie because she didn't deny she'd seen a winged man, only questioned the fact that Papa had never spoken of them before.

“You must tell me the truth!" Papa said. "We have legends about a time the winged ones shall return.”

Ninsianna neatly side-stepped the question. “You have never told me such tales before?”

“You must show him to me." Papa pointed at the crack where she'd emerged. From past experience, Papa wouldn't leave until he'd done what he'd come here to do.

“Alright," Ninsianna sighed. "But first let me tell him you're coming.”

Ninsianna ducked back into the crack, explaining with sign language that someone wished to meet him. Mikhail agreed … she thought. She wasn't really certain as they didn't speak the same language, but he seemed to trust her. Going back out through the crack, she led her father inside.

“Gods be praised, it's true!" Papa exclaimed. He fell to his knees and bowed his face all the way down to Mikhail's feet.

Mikhail shot Ninsianna a look that communicated 'why has this man thrown himself on the floor in front of me?'

“Up, suas, le dol thoil,” Mikhail said in the pidgin language they'd been using to communicate. Although Mikhail was not prone to displays of emotion, he appeared uncomfortable at being apotheosized.

“Papa, you're embarrassing him! He bid you to get up!”

Still kneeling, Papa began to recite in a sing-song fashion a shamanic song she'd never heard before. It was sung not in her language, but what she recognized to be the language spoken by Mikhail.

In Ki’s most sorrowful, desperate hour,

When all was lost to blight,

She sang her Song of Creation,

And enticed Darkness to protect the Light.

Primordial Light, the architect,

Ki’s daughter, She-who-is,

Spun the darkness of He-who’s-not,

To create life, All-That-Is

But then one day, the sickness returned.

Moloch. Enemy of Ki.

The Evil One. The ex-husband spurned.

Collapse. Entropy.

He spread his evil, throughout the worlds,

Undoing all in his path.

Devouring his own children,

To make Ki feel his wrath.

But He-who’s-not, the Guardian.

Lord Chaos. The Dark Lord.

Sang the Song of Destruction,

To protect the Light he adored.

She-who-is wept bitter tears,

To see her playthings broken,

The Dark Lord couldn't bear her grief,

And offered his mate a token.

To keep the balance so he could protect her,

They would play a game of chess.

She-who-is would create new pieces.

He-who’s-not would reclaim the rest.

But both must remain ever-vigilant,

Against Moloch’s eventual return,

He sends forth Agents to pave the way,

To escape the hell whence he burns.

When Moloch gains a foothold,

And desires to be fed,

She-who-is shall appoint a Chosen One

To warn of Moloch’s spread.

SHE shall send a winged Champion

A demi-god fair and just,

A Sword of the Gods to defend the people,

And raise armies from the dust.

As Moloch corrupts Agents to do his work,

So shall Ki appoint Watchmen to do HERS,

From the ashes of despair,

When all appears lost,

Hidden Agents shall choose to serve HER.

True love will inspire the Other One,

To pierce her heart upon a thorn,

And bring back hope where there is none.

For agape can access Ki’s Song.

When all the players have made their moves,

And the Morning Star shines bright,

He shall light the way through the darkest hour,

And restore the path of Light…

And if these measures should someday fail,

And Ki’s protections fall,

The Dark Lord shall seize his vessel,

And protect the Light by destroying them all.

“An féidir leat tuiscint a fháil dom?” Mikhail asked in his own language, one eyebrow raised in surprise.

“Roinnt,” Papa replied.

“Cár fhoghlaim tú a labhairt mo theanga?" Mikhail used his hands to accentuate his words. He leaned forward in his chair, anxious to hear what Papa had to say.

“Tá sé tugtha síos trí na glúine a lán,” Papa ground out each word, painfully slow, as he paused to search his memory and articulate properly each word he translated.

Ninsianna realized what she was seeing. Not only had Papa memorized a song in Mikhail’s language. Shamans memorized many old songs handed down from the time legends said a great canoe had carried her people across the ocean to the fertile banks of the Hiddekel River, secret songs only shamans were allowed to learn. But Papa actually spoke Mikhail’s language?

When had Papa learned to speak the language of heaven?

Chapter 14

February – 3,390 BC

Earth:  Crash site

Colonel Mikhail Mannuki’ili

Mikhail

Mikhail scrutinized the man Ninsianna had brought onto his ship. The song he sang was a very old dialect, but if he listened carefully, he could understand every word. The song seemed familiar, as though it was a variation of a song he must have heard many times as a child. It was like a lullaby, half-remembered from the cradle and hummed subconsciously over breakfast.

“Can you understand me?” Mikhail asked.

The man listened intently, translating the words in his mind. In heavily accented Galactic Standard, he answered. “Some.”

“Where did you learn to speak my language?" Mikhail used his hands to accentuate his words as Ninsianna did to get his point across.

“It has been handed down through many generations,” the man said. “The highest level shamans are taught these songs so they can help the winged ones once they return.”

“How many of you are there?"

"Only a few of us remember the oldest songs.”

Middle aged, the man had the sturdy build of someone who did more than simply sit around studying arcana. A shock of chestnut hair, peppered with the same color titanium steel as the exterior of his ship, jutted helter-skelter out of the man's head, as though he ran his fingers through it often. The man's eyes niggled at his subconscious, but for the life of him, he couldn't pull up the memory about what he found familiar. Perhaps it was the family resemblance? Although the man was not handsome, he had the same tawny-beige eyes as Ninsianna.

“What is your name?”

“I'm called Immanu," the man said. "I am shaman of my village, Assur." From the elaborate bone necklace the man wore around his neck and fringed kilt made of animal hide, if ever Mikhail was ever to point to someone and say 'this is a shaman,' this man would be the person.

While they were speaking, Ninsianna moved to stand at his shoulder, and placed one hand upon his broken wing. Was she protecting him? Showing him off? Or hiding behind him for protection?

“Who is Ninsianna to you?"

“Ninsianna is my daughter." Immanu's mouth parted in a proud smile. "When she didn't come home, I was worried."

Ninsianna perked up at the words “who” and then her name. “Papa?”

Immanu reassured his daughter in the unknown language, and then translated it so Mikhail could understand what he'd just said. “This creature has been sent to protect us by She-who-is.”

Ninsianna replied in her own language, which Mikhail only knew a handful of words. By her expression as she spoke and her father’s reaction, Mikhail gathered she said something along the lines of “I know.”

Immanu looked at his daughter with an odd expression. “Ninsianna is rather … special.”

“She saved my life." Mikhail pointed to the bandages wrapped around his chest. “Do all of your people possess such talent to heal?"

“Some." Immanu shook his hand in a gesture of 'so-so.' "Not many are as talented as Ninsianna is. Or her mother, for that matter." The shaman seemed to be turning something over in his mind. "I don't know if she is the Chosen One whom you seek. I will not tell you something unless I know it to be true.”

“I can’t remember what I'm supposed to seek!" Mikhail pointed to his head wound. "I know I'm here to complete a mission, but ever since I got this, I have trouble remembering the simplest things."

“Ninsianna?" Immanu switched to his own language. Mikhail couldn't understand what he said, but by the way Immanu pointed to his own head, he assumed the shaman questioned his memory loss.

Father and daughter bantered back and forth. As they did, Mikhail studied their non-verbal language, much less subtle than the carefully controlled body language he assumed his own species must be taught from birth. The fact somebody spoke his language was not puzzling. Even without his memory, he had the feeling many people spoke his native tongue. What amazed him was the fact the shaman spoke such an ancient dialect of his language.

“Please, Immanu,” Mikhail interrupted them when Ninsianna started poking at his injured wing as though he were a prize rooster. “Do translate. I wish to understand what your daughter has been trying to tell me.”

“She said the goddess sent her a vision of you before you fell from the sky,” Immanu said. “It's why she sought out your sky canoe."

Mikhail raised one eyebrow in surprise. Shamans? And visions or prophecy? Although he couldn't remember who he was, he did have a gut feeling that the song the shaman sang was little more than a fairy tale. However, with no memory to guide his judgment, he had no choice but to take Immanu’s assertions at face value.

“I have suffered serious injuries,” Mikhail pointed to his broken wing, “and I can't remember who I'm or how I got here. Although you may have legends about my people visiting your planet at some point in your past, I do not think I am your sword of the gods.”

Chapter 15

For in the resurrection they neither marry,

Nor are given in marriage,

But are as the angels of God in heaven.

Matthew 22:30

Galactic Standard Date:  152,323.02

Command Carrier:  'Light Emerging'

Colonel Raphael Israfa

Raphael

“Colonel Israfa,” Major Glicki announced, “we have a hail from the Eternal Light. Supreme Commander-General Jophiel would like to converse with you in 10 minutes."

Jophiel was the Alliances highest ranking military authority, second only to the Eternal Emperor himself, and the social equal of Prime Minister Lucifer, the highest ranking elected civilian authority.

“Thank you,” Raphael said. "Send it right through."

He glanced in the mirror and straightened out his uniform, fussily tucking a few stray golden feathers into alignment so that his wings appeared glossy and smooth. It felt as though he had a mouth full of pinfeathers, his hands growing clammy as he broke out in a cold sweat. He practiced first his most serious expression, and then a welcoming one, trying to decide which would best communicate what he really wished to say. Neither felt right. He gave his reflection a wistful smile, an expression he'd been wearing a lot lately, and not simply because his best friend had gone missing.

The video conference monitor beeped at precisely the appointed time. He made a panicked grab for the photograph he kept prominently displayed on his desk and shoved it into a desk drawer just as Major Glicki sent through the hail.

“Colonel Israfa,” Supreme Commander-General Jophiel's ethereally beautiful face was professional and cold as she got right to the point. “What have you discovered?”

“He was scouting reports of Sata’anic incursion into this sector when his ship was hit." Raphael masked his disappointment that this would be another one of those conversations. “We can take that alone as an indicator the intelligence has some basis.”

“You have a week to find him,” Jophiel said without emotion, “but I can't justify the deployment of resources to hunt down one man any longer than that. Not even for your friend."

Raphael frowned, and then grinned with pride as Jophiel shifted uncomfortably in her seat. The bulge in her midsection was so large it was impossible to hide, even in the head-and-shoulders only video transmission.

“Jophie, how fares our son?" Raphael allowed the tenderness to register that he knew he should hide, but couldn't.

“He fares well." Jophiel's expression softened. “It won’t be much longer."

She was beautiful under any circumstances, but when she let the icy mask of a general slip, Jophiel took his breath away. Wavy white-blond hair, cerulean blue eyes, porcelain skin, ruby lips, high cheekbones, straight nose, and snow-white wings, if ever the Eternal Emperor were to point to a single specimen of his genetic tinkering and say, ‘this is perfection,’ it would be Jophiel.

“I want to be there with you!" Raphael tried to make it come out as an offer of support rather than the pathetic plea it really was. “Let me come to you when our son makes his appearance into this world?”

“You know the laws of our people." Jophiel's features composed back into the controlled mask of a general. “Besides, we can't spare you. You're needed there." She abruptly ended the transmission.

Raphael’s wings drooped. He hoped the limited range of the monitor had hidden the traitorous appendages from the view screen. His kind was not supposed to care that marriage was forbidden and sexual relations for any purpose other than to replenish the Emperor’s ranks discouraged. They were artificial life forms, created solely to perpetuate the glory of the Emperor, but damantia! He was disappointed!

He pulled the photograph out of the drawer and gave it a wistful caress. Jophiel had made it clear from the outset that she only entered into a five day union to fill the Emperor’s ranks. Once he fulfilled his duty, she would have nothing more to do with him. All offspring were to be deposited in the Emperor’s youth training academies hours after birth to be raised, as all hybrid children had been reared for hundreds of years. Including him.

Mikhail, who knew her well, had warned him that she meant it, but Raphael had not listened. He'd been … star struck.

A sad smile tugged down the corners of his mouth. For one so icy and distant, the general had thawed during her heat cycle. He'd pulled out all the stops not to just contribute the necessary genetic matter, which was all that was expected of him, but to imprint himself upon her very soul so she would never be satisfied with anyone else. And she'd appeared to respond. Right up until the test had come back positive. A successful mating!

She'd instantly banished him to the remotest sector of the galaxy, giving him command of the Light Emerging as a consolation prize, and had not had any in-person contact with him since. Just as Mikhail had warned him she would do! A command carrier was a high honor for a mere Colonel, but he would have much rather have had her.

“Major Glicki,” Raphael called up to his second-in-command. “You get off shift in half an hour, right?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Who’s up there on the bridge to take over?”

“Lieutenant T’trk should be here in twenty minutes.”

“Good,” Raphael said. “Meet me in the officer’s lounge in forty-five minutes. And bring the good stuff.”

“That bad, huh?” Glicki knew Raphael only ever imbibed the potent Mantoid beverage when Jophiel had shot him down. Again.

“That bad,” Raphael said.

Chapter 16

Galactic Standard Date:  152,323.02

Haven-3

Prime Minister Lucifer

Lucifer

“What's her name and who is she stationed under?"

Lucifer paused, one hand on the door knob to the chamber where these particular types of ‘appointments’ were kept. Depending on his schedule, sometimes he spent more time in this office than his real one.

“Hemaniel." Zepar rattled off the particulars. “She is under the command of Colonel Gavreel on the battle cruiser Emperor’s Eye."

“Is this her first mating attempt?”

“She is fresh out of the academy." Zepar peered at the smart board he always carted about with exaggerated obsequiousness. “She claims to be a virgin, although we don't verify the veracity of the pre-mating questionnaire. All we care about is that she is coming into heat.”

“The Emperor has them all so brainwashed they can only form relations to bear offspring that she probably is a virgin." Lucifer's wings flicked with irritation. “It will take extra time to break her in. How long do I have?

“I scheduled one hour." Zepar tucked his dirty white wings against his back. “You'll need to use your gift to get her to perform within the allotted time. You have an important meeting with the Ministry of Defense at 4:30 and you need time to get cleaned up beforehand.”

For all but the first fifteen years of his existence, Chief of Staff Zepar had run every aspect of Lucifer's 240-year life. He was the one in front of the cameras, but it was Zepar who really ran the show. But wasn't that the way things always were for men of power? Zepar got the dirty work done for him the same way that he performed all of the dirty for the Emperor.

He spied a senior Ramidreju delegate walk out of an adjacent chamber with his arm around his wife's shoulders, the disheveled nature of their pelts indicating they'd taken advantage of the temporary sleeping quarters to have a little 'appointment' of their own. The wife smiled up at her husband, chattering about their latest litter of kits. A feeling of jealousy clenched at Lucifer's gut.

“Just once I would like to have enough time to get to know some of these females instead of these constant, meaningless fucks." Lucifer gave a bitter sigh. "If you ask me, that's why our species is dying out.”

“You know that's forbidden, Sire,” Zepar reminded him. “You're the highest ranking civilian authority in the Alliance, and also the Emperor’s adopted son. You must produce an heir. The example you set is followed by the rest of your species.”

“Like I give a crap about what my father forbids?" Lucifer closed his eyes and pressed his forehead against the door, allowing the coolness of real wood to sink into his skin. With his genetic enhancements, his hearing was far better than most naturally evolved creatures. He could hear the anxious rustle of feathers from behind the door as the nervous female paced.

“You know the consequences of forming an emotional attachment during sexual relations,” Zepar warned. “You're one quarter Seraphim. The Emperor has refused to disclose whether or not you inherited their defective genome.”

That small, sarcastic inner voice that Lucifer hated, but which was always maddingly, irritatingly right all the time, parroted his Chief of Staff's warning.

'It will kill you. Just like it did your mother...'

The Seraphim! Lucifer's wings trembled with the anger and sorrow that very word inspired. With a genome spliced together from two monogamous species, full-blooded Seraphim Angelics took one mate, for life, a genetic defect which had resulted in losing two Angelic super-soldiers every time one of them had died in battle.

Long before Lucifer had been born, the Emperor had segregated out the worst offenders and banished them to their own planet, far from the Alliance so they would stop muddying up the gene pool of his armies. Since then, Hashem had done everything in his power to eradicate the troublesome gene and discourage close interpersonal relationships so he would stop losing mated pairs.

Only Lucifer knew it was the real reason for the law against fraternization for any purpose other than to fill the ranks. Despite the Emperor's best efforts, Hashem had only been able to weaken the instinct to bond, not eliminate it. A bonded hybrid was reluctant to take any action which would result in not only its own death, but also the death of its mate, rendering Hashem's armies useless the moment they got married. By the time hybrids served their mandatory 500 years and were honorably discharged, freeing them to settle down, they were too old to bear offspring. He glanced down the hallway towards the disappearing back of his Ramidreju colleague and sighed.

“Remember what happened to your mother,” Zepar said. “It didn't matter that she was only one-half Seraphim, or that she had not seen your biological father in more than fifteen years. She bonded with him when she conceived you, and when he died, it killed her.”

'Asherah abandoned -you- that day as well…'

“This isn't fun anymore," Lucifer sighed. "Maybe it's time I admitted it just wasn't meant to be and adopted a child? Like the Emperor did when he adopted me?"

"The Emperor's edict was bequeathed upon a bloodline," Zepar said. "If the child is not of your loins, the charter becomes null and void."

Lucifer's wings settled into a weary arc. What had at first been an exciting perquisite of the job had turned into a never-ending chore. Zepar scheduled appointment after appointment with Angelic females who were only too willing to throw away one of their precious biennial heat cycles on a futile attempt to bear the Eternal Emperor's adopted son an heir.

"Can't we just pick one out of the academy and bribe somebody to say the kid is mine," Lucifer half-joked.

“The stability of the Alliance depends upon your producing an heir,” Zepar gave him an unsympathetic look. “Do you want the Emperor to revoke Parliament's charter upon your death?"

"No," Lucifer sighed.

"Our species is dying," Zepar said, "and your genetic profile is too unique to simply throw away. The Emperor himself has decreed that you must keep trying.”

'And you –do- so enjoy the conquest. You know you do…'

A sultry image of an Angelic female, her back arched in ecstasy as she cried out his name, danced through his mind. Lucifer squirmed as blood rushed to a certain part of his anatomy. As much as sexual conquest had long ago lost its luster, he had a reputation to uphold. Males of every species aspired to be like him, while females swooned at his feet. He was duty-bound to set a good example.

“Lucifer, we have had this talk before." Zepar put a fatherly hand upon his shoulder and gave it a squeeze. "Sometimes it's necessary to sacrifice a little personal happiness to obtain the greater good. Especially you. Like it or not, you're a symbol of the vitality of our great Alliance." Zepar's voice was warm and hypnotically reasonable.

'Are you so selfish that you would abandon your species to die out?'

“Of course." Lucifer's wings trembled as Zepar gave him the one thing his adopted father never had. “You're right. You're always right. I must ensure the survival of my species before I start thinking of myself." He curled his wing around his crotch so Zepar wouldn't see him 'adjust' himself. "What was her name again?”

“Hemaniel,” Zepar said. “And you've just wasted ten minutes of your hour. You don't have time to break her in naturally.”

“Knock five minutes before I need to be out of here for the post-sex niceties." He resumed the fake persona he assumed for the rest of the world, the charismatic leader who could give everybody their heart's desire. Zepar gave him an approving nod.

It had been the Emperor who had taught him to always show his 'good side' to the world. The habit was so deeply ingrained that he automatically projected whatever his audience expected to see without even thinking about it. As soon as his wings cleared the door, he flared them like a raptor swooping in for the kill, a pose female Angelics found irresistible.

“Prime Minister Lucifer,” Hemaniel stammered. “It's an honor." The pretty blonde Angelic's hands clutched at her chest, her eyes wide with awe at the privilege of being this close to the Eternal Emperor's adopted son. She realized she'd forgotten to salute, as all enlisted military were supposed to do with the Alliance's highest-ranking civilian authority, and did so belatedly, nearly poking out her own eye with her thumb. Everything about the young woman broadcast inexperience.

“Have you ever attempted a mating before?" Lucifer inhaled the subtle pheromones of an Angelic coming into heat. His olfactory nerves relished the scent of lutropin, a heady drug to a species bordering on extinction. He reached out to tuck an errant strand of golden hair behind her ear, a level of familiarity few Angelics ever exchanged.

“N-n-no." Hemaniel looked out of place in the lushly furnished temporary sleeping quarters, the rich burgundy and black décor clashing with her sandy blonde wings.

Lucifer cleared his mind so that he could use his ‘gift’ to receive images of the subconscious longings all sentient creatures projected beneath their words; telepathy gifted not from his adopted father, who had inadvertently bred the ability out of his armies in an effort to eradicate the pesky bonding gene, but from his half-Seraphim mother. He pushed gently into Hemaniel's mind to find out what she secretly desired. Images of a Mantoid soap opera, a certain actor she had a crush on, came into his mind. Lucifer adjusted his posture, his voice, his demeanor to mimic the archetype of her ideal lover.

“It can be quite pleasurable." Lucifer drew close, moderating his voice to the husky pitch her archetype possessed. “If you allow me to make it so." He didn't touch her, but formed an image of himself kissing her neck and projected it into her mind as he spoke.

“I’ve only been told…” she stammered. “I don't…." She shuddered as he followed through on the projection by exhaling upon her neck, just below her ear. He didn't touch her, but goose bumps of anticipation appeared upon her flesh.

“What have you been told?” he whispered into her ear, his body inches from hers as he encircled her in his wings. He projected an image of taking her into his arms without actually making physical contact. Over the years, he'd discovered that anticipation of being touched was often more erotic to the females he fucked than the reality of it. “What do you fantasize about when you touch yourself?”

“I have always wanted …” she said, embarrassed.

“Then do it." His voice was a leonine purr as he projected an image into her mind of unbuttoning his shirt and admiring the taut muscles that rippled beneath. “I'm here to make your wildest fantasies come true."

Her hand trembled as she fumbled each button out of its buttonhole, helped along with the images he imprinted into her subconscious. Two hundred and twenty-five years of non-stop practice had honed his ability to seduce others down to an art form, the ‘power of persuasion’ he jokingly called his gift.

"Touch me," he whispered. "I like to be touched."

Closing his eyes, he soaked up the feel of her touch, tentative and filled with awe. Touch … the gift hybrids were forbidden to give one another for any purpose other than to create offspring. It was he who trembled now, his need to be touched far greater than others of his species because he'd been raised in a home, by a half-Seraphim mother who had cuddled him every chance she got. Asherah had refused to farm him out to one of the Emperor's youth training academies as was done to every other hybrid child to condition the instinct to be touched right out of them.

He reached tentatively into her mind, hoping that this one would see him. Not that he made it easy to get to know him! The Emperor's abandonment after his mother had died had taught him to be wary. If you let people inside, they would thank you by tearing out your heart. The one time he'd ever foolishly let down his guard, the female had spurned him after the test had come back negative, refusing to answer his three beautifully hand-written missives!

He projected the same thought he had asked of every woman he had ever fucked, the same heartfelt yearning which only a true mate would ever answer.

'Can you feel me? Can you look into my eyes and see my soul?'

He saw Hemaniel's thoughts as clearly as though he were inside a movie. His cheek twitched with disappointment as he picked up the image which had caused her to become aroused. It was not him she saw, but the archetype of the movie star she'd spent half her adolescence worshipping. They didn't ever see him, or if they did, it wasn't the real him, but one of the bullshit publicity stunts Zepar filmed depicting him doing something 'manly' such as riding a land-dragon shirtless through the tundra with a miniature pterodactyl on his wrist to hunt.

"Is this … okay?" Hemaniel's hands slid down to touch his slacks. In her fantasy, she was the aggressor. Words from the movie which was her entire basis of what it meant to have sex came into his mind; words he sensed that if spoken aloud, would transform her into a bold temptress.

"Your touch is like the rain upon my flesh." He whispered the poetic words she longed to hear. He touched the underside of her chin to look into her eyes before kissing her. It was not him Hemaniel saw as he slid his hand up to cup her breast, but the actor of her dreams. He gave her what she wanted. "Touch me, Hemaniel. I want to feel what it's like to bathe in your touch."

She trembled as he expertly slid the pretty dress she'd worn for today's appointment down from her shoulder, bending to nip the base of her throat and leave his mark. He could tast the lutropin. The scent of fertility was so strong it made him dizzy with the urge to mate. But not for the brainwashing instilled from birth, unattached hybrids would become aggressive and fight one another for the privilege of mating with an unattached fertile female. His wings flapped involuntarily, slapping against her smaller beige ones as that small, aggressive voice which forever lurked in his subconscious egged him on, whispering promises that this time the union would bear fruit.

"Touch me," his voice filled with hunger. "Touch me, please. I need to be touched."

That small, vicious voice taunted him, teasing him for the yearning no amount of conditioning had been able to eradicate from his psyche, the need to have somebody touch him; not because they needed something from him, but because they loved him. The images his gift enabled him to see within her mind showed him Hemaniel did not touch him, but the actor who he showed her.

'See! It's not -you- she wants! But prestige you can bring to her if she bears your child. She is only after your position of power...'

His touch grew rougher as he sensed this was what she wanted, their wings knocking the pictures off the wall as he allowed her to get the better of him and shove him down upon the bed. Yes! This one desired to be the aggressor, a different flavor than the endless stream of females Zepar lined up for him to fuck.

Feathers flew as he used his gift to egg her on and urged her to take him forcibly. For all the propaganda about Angelics being icy and unemotional, the fact was, if not for the conditioning they received to subdue the animal half the Emperor had endowed them with when he'd spliced together their genome, hybrids would be rutting in the streets like beasts every time a female came into heat.

Projecting image after image into her mind, when she finally pinned his shoulders to the bed and impaled herself upon his cock, she was so aroused that she barely felt the pain of her hymen tearing. He withheld his seed until he heard her cry out with pleasure, helped along by his projections into her mind as he taught her how to satisfy her own desire, before giving her what she'd come here for.

Release caused his eyes to roll back into his head, giving him just for a moment that feeling of oneness with the universe he'd yearned to feel again ever since his mother had used her Song to heal him as a little boy. The Song reached into emptiness, finding nothing to attach to, for how could you bond with someone who didn't feel you? No sooner had Hemaniel collapsed, panting, on top of him, when the knock came upon the door. They were out of time.

"Thank you," he murmured as he gathered his clothing and gave her a kiss goodbye. "You will let me know if things were successful?"

The female nodded, her hand moving to touch the womb they both prayed he'd been able to fill. He gave her a wistful smile, knowing in his heart the answer would be the same. But these trysts were not without some benefit beyond the momentary release he felt each time he spilled his seed. So deeply had he imprinted the subconscious connection between her deepest desire and him that she would fantasize about their union for the rest of her life. Every male who came after him would fall short. With the mere whisper of another tryst, if he ever needed anything, she would deliver.

Lucifer had long ago learned the secret to getting what he wanted. Figure out people’s darkest, most secret desire. Encourage them to fantasize about it. Convince them it was their own idea. And then give it to them.

Chapter 17

Galactic Standard Date:  152,323.02

Command Carrier:  'Light Emerging'

Colonel Raphael Israfa

Raphael

The sub-light impulse engines of the command carrier Light Emerging vibrated reassuringly through the deck as Raphael commiserated with his second-in-command. The sparsely decorated officer's lounge was where the higher-ranking members of his crew met to eat, play cards, and yes, get stinking drunk, away from the gossiping eyes of the enlisted men.

“We all warned you this would happen.” Major Glicki tipped a slender, green antenna in his direction, the feathery green tip trembling with suppressed amusement. “The fact this was offspring number twelve she asked you to sire should have been warning enough, if the five-hundred page waiver didn't get that through your thick skull."

Glicki lifted her glass and downed the fluorescent green liquor in a single gulp. Raphael followed her example, grimacing as the potent liquor burned its way into his gullet. Come morning, he knew he'd seriously regret the indulgence, but at the moment, all he cared to do was eliminate the ache which had taken up permanent residence in his chest. While most Mantoids could drink every species in the galaxy under the table, the Eternal Emperor had seen fit to bequeath upon the Angelic species a woefully low tolerance to alcohol.

“I had hoped I would make a good enough impression that Jophiel would want to keep me around.” Raphael stared down into his now-empty glass. "She definitely seemed pleased with my performance during the … um … you know …"

Raphael trailed off. He didn't wish to go into detail about just how many stops he'd pulled, or just how pleased Jophiel had appeared to be while he'd been servicing her.

“The Emperor should have pulled other races into the military millennia ago,” Glicki said. “The price you've paid for being policemen for the entire galaxy is too high!"

“Hey!" The alcohol caused Raphael to be uncharacteristically caustic. “I should be grateful. I’ve got command of my very own command carrier in the middle of east buttfuck!" His golden feathers rustled with irritation.

“Shhhh….” Glicki hushed. Several lower-ranking officers leaned their way, pretending not to listen. Glicki leaned back, and then spoke louder than was necessary to be heard. “Jophiel doesn't promote people to positions they can't handle. She chose you because you were worthy of promotion, not the other way around.”

“I think I liked Prime Minister Lucifer’s proposal better." A mischievous pucker appeared on Rapael's left cheek, making him look far younger than his 36 Galactic Standard cycles. “Keep the little woman confined to a homeworld, barefoot and pregnant, like Shay’tan does with the Sata’anic females."

Glicki clicked her two furthest legs together; the sharp, disapproving crack communicating better than any words just what she thought of that proposal. In Mantoid culture, it was usually the larger, stronger females who typically went to war.

Raphael scoffed at her expression of disbelief. "Hey! I'm not greedy. I don't need three wives. Just her.”

“You saw how fast Jophiel shut down that cockamamie scheme!" Glicki whirred her under-wings in disgust. “It was the one time Jophiel ever defied the Emperor and skipped a mating cycle."

“As Jophiel goes,” Raphael raised his glass to toast a common saying about their Supreme Commander-General, “so goes the hybrid fleet."

“Here, here.” Glicki clinked Raphael’s glass before downing it. “Every female hybrid in the fleet refused to show up for their mating appointments until Parliament shot Lucifer down. Including Lucifer's!”

“I think it was the only time the alpha-stud ever experienced a dry spell,” Raphael laughed. The Alliance Prime Minister was both an example, and a caricature, of what their species had devolved into. The brightest and most beautiful of all the Angelics, in his desperate attempt to perpetuate his own bloodline, had become a symbol of their pending extinction.

“Jophiel showed him who was boss!” Glicki laughed. She leaned forward and whispered, “there's some sort of history between those two, if you ask me…”

“You’ve been watching too many of those Mantoid soap operas again.” Raphael took another sip of the potent green beverage. “Though she sure has a way of sweet-talking others around to her way of thinking.”

“Females are better commanders then men,” Glicki's heart-shaped head tilted to one side. “That’s why Mantoid females leave the males home to rear the mantids.”

“And bite their heads off after mating with them.”

Raphael kicked her hard exoskeleton under the table in a Mantoid gesture of joking.

“Urban legend!" Glicki's under-wings hummed in a Mantoid laugh. “Our females haven't done that for millions of years." She held out her glass in a mock-toast. "Unlike Angelic females, who still regularly indulge in the practice."

Glicki kicked Raphael right back.

“Ouch!" Raphael protested. His smile, and his dimple, disappeared. He stared down into the potent green liquor which swirled at the bottom of his half-empty glass. “Though perhaps it's an apt description of the way I feel right now. Perform … and be cast aside. As far as the Emperor is concerned, all hybrids are expendable.”

“Jophiel is the best commander the Alliance has ever had,” Glicki said. “And very beautiful. It's only natural that you're smitten with her.”

Raphael toasted Glicki and downed the rest of his shot. Glicki immediately poured two more.

“Unfortunately for our poor, beleaguered race,” Raphael's buff-gold wings drooped, “forcing hybrid females to join the military only made our numbers go down, not up. Our females can only conceive one offspring at a time and it takes our young many years to mature. It's too bad the Emperor didn't engineer us to lay eggs like your species does.”

“Poor planning on his part, if you ask me!” Glicki said. “Probably why Shay’tan chose the Sata’anic lizards to be the basis of his armies. They possess all the benefits of humanoids, but none of the problems!”

“At least the lizards get to see their own hatchlings,” Raphael said. “-If- Shay’tan lets them live long enough to be gifted a wife. Or three. Now there’s a temptation worth putting your rear-end in the line of fire to receive! A home. Three wives. And a few hundred hatchlings to perpetuate the glory of your name.”

Glicki swirled her glass, her bright red compound eyes focused downwards on the swirl pattern.

“The Eternal Emperor has done the best he could to solve a problem,” Glicki said. She downed another shot and poured herself another glass, her antenna tilted in a thoughtful angle. “You always speak fondly of your days being raised at a youth training academy?”

“I didn't mind.” Raphael ruffled his feathers. “At least not until I went to basic training and they paired me with Mikhail. He was raised by a real family, you know? Even though he refused to speak of it, it always made me wonder…”

“I know,” Glicki said. “And see what it got him? He refuses to let the shipboard Angelics even touch him, much less reproduce with one of them.”

Raphael donned a mock emotionless expression as he mimicked his best friend. “Seraphim only take one mate for life!"

They both laughed. Raphael's laughter died as that hollow, aching feeling in his chest reminded him of why he was here.

“Personally, I think he has the right idea," he spoke more softly this time. "The older males say that’s the way it was for us until the Emperor made his ‘be fruitful and multiply’ decree to save our species from extinction.”

Glicki touched his forearm with an armored limb.

“At least one of your mating attempts is bearing fruit. I hear the number of younger hybrids who've been unable to produce even a single offspring is now up to eighty-nine percent."

“Everything the Emperor tries has failed,” Raphael said miserably. “If the Emperor doesn’t pull a coinín out of a hat soon, within my lifetime our race will cease to exist!”

“I hear the Leonids are fewer than 3,500 now,” Glicki said. “And the Centauri aren't too far behind them. It's rumored that even if every single one of them were to start bearing offspring tomorrow, it'd still be too late.”

“Three thousand, four hundred and sixty-two,” Raphael said. “They've become very secretive lately, refusing to deposit their cubs into the youth training academies. It's said they've been quietly getting married and rearing their cubs on board their ships in prides like their ancestors used to do."

“If I was going to pass into the dark night,” Glicki said, “I would want to do it as a family, too. Who can blame them?”

“The Emperor splices our genes together to make super-soldiers no fighting force could ever hope to defeat,” Raphael grumbled, “and then he inbred us right out of existence. We've been defeated … by our own genome!”

“The Emperor needs to get your people off these damned ships,” Glicki leaned in and whispered, “and let you raise families naturally on a planet. Not make you engage in this ridiculous breeding program where every child needs a different father and gets shuffled off to a training academy so you can try again. If you ask me, that’s the problem. Sentient creatures aren’t meant to live that way.”

“Mikhail’s people tried that,” Raphael said. “And look where it got them? The Emperor gave them their own planet, and then he disappeared for 200 years and did nothing to protect them."

Raphael stared over Glicki's shoulder at one of the monitors that streamed live video footage of the launch bay. As he watched, a long, silver arrow of a ship glided into the flight hanger and, before it had even set down, an orange-jacketed flight-crew scurried out to refuel it so it could go right back out again to man the search grid. Jophiel had given him one week to search for Mikhail, and he'd sent every spare ship he had out to search for the last living full-blooded Seraphim; a man who had chosen to remain celibate rather than subject himself to the same heartbreak Raphael experienced right now.

“In a few years I'll retire on a full pension and find a mate to hatch a clutch of mantids,” Glicki said. “It isn’t right … what the Emperor does to you. You should have the same rights as every other species in the Alliance. Not be ordered to bow down to the naturally evolved races simply because the Eternal Emperor tinkered with your DNA in one of his laboratories!”

Every pair of eyes in the officer's lounge turned in their direction as all conversation stopped.

"Lower your voice," Raphael hushed her. "The direction of this conversation is considered treason."

Glick's wings buzzed an angry, warning sound. Mantoids were used to speaking their mind, and eighteen years' service had done little to temper Glicki's forthright nature.

"For all the Emperor's talk about free will," Glicki said, "it goads me that hybrids are forbidden to even protest their fate!"

"Free speech has no place in the military," Raphael said. "If it did, the chain of command would break down."

"You mean your species would stop allowing yourselves to be used as cannon fodder," Glicki said with disgust. "You serve from birth until you're disgorged in a coffin."

"Some of us survive to retire," Raphael said.

"A lot of good that will do you in 500 years!" Glicki said. "By the time you get out, Jophiel will be too old to bear you another child."

Raphael rubbed the center of his chest, his expression wistful as he remembered the feel of Jophiel's soft flesh yielding beneath his. She had not been the Supreme Commander-General the five days he'd been allowed to be near her. The way she'd risen up to meet him, her cries as he'd brought her to climax again and again, and the tears that had come into her eyes as they'd lain entangled together the last time they had made love had seemed too genuine to be faked. No matter how much it hurt now that she'd banished him to the opposite end of the galaxy, Raphael wouldn't give up that memory for anything in the universe.

He sucked down the glass that Glicki had just refilled. It did little to alleviate his pain, but at least he could blame the fist which clenched at his heart on the burning sensation in his esophagus.

“I really wish I hadn't given her my heart.”

Glicki refilled both of their glasses. “Maybe Mikhail has the right idea?

“I wish I had listened to him,” Raphael's speech slurred. “At least the part about keeping up my emotional guard. I should act like him and avoid all females!"

“Jophiel has to set an example,” Glicki said. “Even if she wanted to form closer relations with you, she can’t. Every hybrid in the fleet would be behind her in a heartbeat.”

“She doesn't care about me,” Raphael mumbled into his glass of liquor. “I'm nothing but another one of Hashem’s pawns."

The room began to take on a distant, dream-like quality. The other officers in the room, the scent of food, even the burn of the liquor began to fade, until only Glicki, and the large-screen monitor which showed the scout ship in the launch bay take off again to resume its search for Mikhail, occupied his field of vision. It was a good thing his shift was done for the day because there was no way he could resume command of his ship. Raphael almost never imbibed … only after a call from Jophiel reminded him the ship he commanded was a consolation prize.

“She calls you every week,” Glicki said gently. “Over matters some underling far beneath her could handle. I think the reason she sent you so far away is because she knows you would break down her resolve.”

“Mmmmffff,” Raphael moaned. “You’ve been watching those Mantoid soap operas again." He went to grab at his glass and missed it, sending it clattering onto the table. "I think it's time to help me back to my quarters before I land face-down on the floor in front of my crew. The room is beginning to spin.”

“Yes, Sir." Glicki said.

Reminding him not to drag his primary feathers on the floor, she helped him back to his quarters to sleep it off.

Chapter 18

February 3,390 BCE

Earth:  Crash site

Colonel Mikhail Mannuki’ili

Mikhail

Mikhail held up his cup and repeated the word in Galactic Standard.

“Cupán,” Mikhail said. “Cupán [cup].”

Ninsianna's lush, pink lips curved up into a winsome smile as she lifted up her own cup of water up and, this time, repeated the word without an accent.

"Cupán."

Scrutinizing her body language, he took a long, sweet draught and relished the sensation as the earthy beverage slid down his throat. Perhaps it was his recent brush with death, but when had the simple act of drinking water ever brought him so much pleasure? Perhaps it was because Ninsianna had refused to leave when her father had begged for her to come home? He suspected his savior's refusal had more to do with avoiding her spurned lover rather than any desire to help him, but her excuse for staying, that she must teach him their language, would take his mind off of his injuries while he healed.

"Deoch," he said with an exaggerated sigh. He lifted the cup to his lips to pantomime the act of drinking. "Deoch."

Ninsianna refilled his mug from her water skin and ordered him to drink more using that new word. “You … deoch … drink!”

"No thank you, I've had enough," Mikhail said. He scrutinized the way she unconsciously kept glancing out of the galley towards the crack they were forced to use as a door. He'd been conserving water, wary of sending her out to fetch more until he was strong enough to defend her in case her overbearing fiancé returned.

Ninsianna's lips moved into a stern ‘do as I say or else’ expression as she gestured for him to drink the water and not simply watch her drink it. She bit her lip when he failed to comply, her thick, brown eyebrows coming together in first an expression of bewilderment, and then irritation. For some reason he found her every facial gesture to be fascinating; as if he had never seen such expressiveness before. Whenever she spoke her voice rose and fell with emotion, and the way her entire body moved placed him in an agitated state of excitement. He had no idea why he felt such an overwhelming urge to take to the sky and shout with glee.

You'd think he'd never been attracted to a woman before…  Not that he could remember.

“Ith … eat." Ninsianna handed him more dried salty meat and gestured as though she put food into her own mouth.

“Uimh … no." Mikhail shook his head.

“Ith … eat." Anger flashed in her eyes as she pointed first to the food, and then to his belly. "Nasıl sen yemezseniz iyileşmesi gerekiyor?"

Mikhail added 'willful' to his list of descriptors. He took a piece of the salty dried meat and chewed, examining her body language to take his mind off of the pungent, chewy texture. Ninsianna rewarded him with a smile, and then frowned as she noticed his intense gaze.

“Tusa anois … you sleep." Ninsianna gestured to the sleeping chamber using words she had learned only moments before.

“Uimh … no. Níl mé tuirseach [not tired]."

“Tusa anois … you sleep, now,” Ninsianna ordered again. “Ghortaigh tú … you hurt." Taking his hand, she tugged until he stood up.

Mikhail rose to his feet silently, determined not to let her hear him groan as a stab of pain from his shattered chest made the room suddenly seem very far away. He swayed forward until Ninsianna wedged her shoulder beneath his arm to help him keep his balance. A feeling of warmth made him tingle, as though she were charged with a pleasant form of electricity.

He gasped for breath, still unable to take a complete lungful thank to his punctured lung, but when he coughed, there was only a little bit of blood. Ninsianna helped him to the edge of his bunk, waiting patiently while he clumsily rearranged his shattered wing to face outwards in the too-narrow space between the beds. Mikhail glanced at the bunk opposite his and gave a regretful sigh. Ninsianna's father had exacted one promise before he'd left … that he would not defile his daughter! An instinctive voice whispered that his kind took intimate relations very seriously. He grabbed the errant thought and was frustrated when it disappeared.

“You … sleep … now!" Ninsianna pointed at his pillow.

Actually, he was pretty tired.

“Yes,” Mikhail grumbled, “sleep now.”

He crawled wearily onto his one good side and settled his broken wing to cover himself. No matter how he lay, the splints on his wrist and wing hurt, but he didn't dare remove them. Would he ever be able to fly again?

“Go raibh maith agat … thank you." Mikhail looked into her tawny beige eyes. The color darkened to an almost pure gold; a color that seemed … familiar. The urgent sensation he was supposed to report that information to somebody once again clenched at his gut. He had a mission to complete, one he could not remember.

Ninsianna placed her hand upon his cheek. “Tusa anois … you sleep, now."

Mikhail's breath caught in his chest at the unexpected feel of her touch. He didn't think he was used to the casual way her kind touched one another. It did things to him.

He ruffled his feathers to make a warm, downy blanket. Before his head even sank into the pillow, he was out cold.

Chapter 19

February – 3,390 BC

Earth:  Crash site

Ninsianna

Ninsianna couldn't help but touch the powerful wings which rose and fell against his back with every breath. Even in sleep he filled her with the impression that he wished to soar into the sky. He looked so peaceful nestled into his little bunk, one dark wing wrapped around himself for warmth. Who needed covers when She-who-is had endowed you with a natural blanket?

In sleep, the unreadable expression he habitually wore softened, giving him the countenance of an adolescent boy, although that could just be his lack of a beard. She traced the pink tint which had finally begun to come back into his pale skin, relishing the difference from the dark, hawkish appearance of most Ubaid men. She could sit contentedly in the bunk opposite him all day, just staring at him, but to do so wouldn't be polite, so she turned off the magic lamp and slipped to the entrance of his sleeping quarters.

“Mother,” she resumed her customary dialogue with She-who-is. “He is a peculiar one, and not just because he has wings! He never smiles, or laughs, or frowns. Or shows any emotion whatsoever. He just scrutinizes me as though I'm a string of numbers to add up in his head!"

She peeked back to make sure he was still asleep, and then lifted the latch of a tall, narrow cupboard where yesterday he had pulled out one of the strange, fitted garments he called a 'shirt.' Inside was another magic lamp. She pressed the symbol which made the cupboard light up as though illuminated by a miniature sun and began to rummage like an eager dormouse digging for grubs.

Hung on a bar on the upper half were five identical fawn-beige shirts, each draped on a curved piece of vine he called a hanger. Folded neatly beneath them were six identical pairs of kilts, well, not kilts, they covered his legs and Mikhail called them 'slacks.' It was a pity, really, to cover such muscular legs, but who was she to question the attire of a demigod? She caressed the fabric between her thumb and forefinger as she made a tally. Unlike the beige or brown of Ubaid kilts, these 'slacks' were dyed a dark green, the color of a date palm branch in the heat of the summer.

"He has seven identical pairs!" Ninsianna exclaimed. "I only own two outfits, and even the Chief only has five! Mikhail must be a very wealthy man."

At the bottom of the cupboard sat a second pair of the sturdy animal hide foot coverings he called 'boots.' Ninsianna peeked back to make sure Mikhail was still asleep, and then lifted one to her nose. It had a peculiar odor, neither tanned hide nor dirty foot, but that same sterile scent she affiliated with the sky canoe. She rummaged through some neatly folded, small garments. Behind them she found a small box, delicately interlay with sacred symbols. This box was different than everything she'd seen thus far within the sky canoe; warm and wooden, ornate in its simplicity. It was the kind of box someone might carve to place upon their altar. Ninsianna traced the drawings, unable to decipher them. She glanced back to make sure Mikhail was still asleep, and then opened the lid.

Upon a cloth of scarlet lay a small, brown figurine, little more than a broken branch, carved by the crudest hand. Ninsianna wrinkled her nose in disappointment. She shut the lid and shoved it back into the bottom of his cupboard.

Not finding anything of further interest, she moved beyond to rummage through the room he called a 'galley.' She was tired of eating dried meat and berries and, if she did not go outside to forage, would soon be out of food. In the cupboards she found cups, platters, and eating implements made of a strange material that felt cold, but could find nothing that looked like a cooking crock, storage baskets, or stores of food. Ninsianna's stomach growled.

“How can a man cross the stars and not provision his canoe with food?"

While this room was much less heavily damaged than the room where she had found him, the cupboards had opened and cast their contents upon the floor. Some of the items echoed items that might be found in an Ubaid kitchen: plates, bowls and spoons. Other items she could figure no purpose for them, so she set them aside, rummaging for anything that might ease her pangs of hunger. When she could find no food she set about cleaning, gingerly moving the colored spider webs he called ‘wires.' She'd learned the hard way that some of them possessed lightning and would bite her fingertips, leaving her with an unpleasant tingling if she didn't treat them with respect. Magic. Although it was a form she had never encountered before, the winged one possessed great magic!

Ninsianna chewed her lip as she cleaned, pondering how stiff and aloof the winged one acted.

“Do you think he finds me unattractive?” Her brow furrowed in worry. “This is the first time I've ever been interested in a man who has indicated no interest in me!"

She worked silently, turning over in her mind what the problem might be as she picked up each object and, having no knowledge of what its purpose was, shoved it into the nearest cupboard to get it out of the way. If he was so attractive, then what were the females of his species like? Did he find her as squat and ugly as she found most Ubaid men?

"Perhaps I ask too much of you, Mother?" Ninsianna laughed at her own absurdity. "How silly you must find my petty demands! Find me a husband! No! I don't like that husband! Find me a better one!" She-who-is had only promised Mikhail would take her to see the stars, not that he would throw himself at her feet! "I apologize for my impatience, Mother. I will do whatever you ask!"

She closed her eyes, hoping for a stronger answer, but while sometimes she could hear the voice of She-who-is as clearly as though the goddess stood at her side, most of the time She-who-is half-listened to her prattle the way a mother might let their offspring chatter while she attended to another, more important task. Ninsianna didn't take offense. A half-listening goddess viewed your requests with affection because she knew you loved her; not like the other Ubaid who only ever prayed when they needed something! Worship was meant to be an intimate conversation, not simply begging for favors!

She finished tidying up the galley, chattering as she worked, and then moved into the room he called the 'bridge.' Unlike the rest of the sky canoe, here the magic lanterns did not work, casting the room into strange, unknowable shadows except for the place where the sun streamed through the crack which spanned from the floor into the roof. It fell upon the place where she had first found him. The scent of dried blood assailed her nostrils.

“Mother,” Ninsianna stared at the brown stain that marred the floor. “How could any creature lose that much blood and survive?”

Although she knew very little about sky canoes which flew between the stars, even she realized Mikhail must repair a lot of damage before this vessel could carry them back into the heavens. That slender thread that had been half-listening to her chatter all afternoon strengthened, sending an image into her mind. Somebody needed to clear the debris before Mikhail could repair it. Why not her?

Yes … She-who-is liked those who helped themselves! Ninsianna thanked the goddess for her guidance and began to clear the debris.

“Papa said I should teach him our language," Ninsianna continued her one-sided conversation, "and then bring him back to our village to introduce him to our people. Maybe by then Jamin will have given up?"

An unwanted thought intruded into her mind; a tender thought, filled with an emotion she no longer wished to have. She pushed it away, determined to never think again of the one thing she and Jamin had always shared in common, their love of travel and ability to learn new languages.

"May some terrible, non-life-threatening illness befall him!" Ninsianna scowled. She remembered Papa's admonition to never wish ill upon another. "Okay … how about you bless him with an abundance of women throwing themselves at his feet? Or a wonderful hunt? Send him a white gazelle so he'll wander off and forget all about me."

She worked diligently, deep in thought as she channeled her worries into frenetic activity. Jamin had never been one to walk away from a challenge. Even if her father did manage to convince the Chief to order his son to stay away, she doubted he would just accept his fate.

"You need to do something about him!" Ninsianna said. "If Jamin keeps telling everyone that Mikhail is a demon, I fear how our people will receive him."

She glanced at the doorway, the one she feared to exit. If Jamin came back with a bigger raiding party, Mikhail was in no condition to stop him. The last thing Assur needed was a powerful winged being living outside of their village that bore them a grudge!

Ninsianna rubbed her temples. Until Mikhail's own people found him, they needed to be his people, something which was difficult with Jamin stirring up trouble. She was so deep in thought that when a hand touched her shoulder, she shrieked and whirled, momentarily fearful that Jamin had come back to snatch her. Mikhail towered over her, impossibly tall and pale. Ninsianna took a deep breath and forced her heart to slow by assessing the physical condition of her patient. Mikhail's his lips had lost that bluish cast and already he appeared to be much more steady on his feet.

“You … make … good.” Mikhail's brilliant blue eyes scrutinized her expression, studying her features as he no doubt pieced together what she'd been up to. He did not smile at her the way her father would have, but nonetheless he appeared to be pleased.

“Yes … good,” Ninsianna said. She pointed back towards the galley, mindful of her rumbling stomach. “You … eat … where?" She wanted to know where he kept his food stored.

“No.” Mikhail stood like a tall, stiff tree, not understanding her question.

She took his hand and led him back into the galley. “You … eat … where?” She gestured around the modest kitchen.

“There.” Mikhail pointed at the table.

“No." Irritation made Ninsianna grimace. “You … eat … where?" She gestured to her mouth as though spooning food into it. Understanding dawned on Mikhail's face.

“Anseo … here,” Mikhail pointed to a square, silver box embedded into the wall. He lifted a latch and pointed to the empty chamber inside. “Ith … eat … bia … anseo … here."

“Eat … food,” Ninsianna corrected. She peered inside the box and asked, “Uimh bia … no food. I gcás ina … where?”

Mikhail fiddled with some symbols engraved on the front of the box, saying something she couldn't understand. Ninsianna shrugged and gestured outwards in a universal expression of 'I don't comprehend.' Mikhail pointed to the box and made a gesture as though snapping a stick.

“Bia … food … briste,” Mikhail said flatly. “No food. Briste.”

“Broken,” Ninsianna corrected. “Briste. Broken. Food broken? How can food be broken?"

“Is ea … yes. Food broken." Mikhail watched her with his emotionless expression. “No food … food broken.”

All of this conversation in a language she didn't understand gave Ninsianna a headache. She sat down and put her head down into her hands, pinching her temples to suppress the woodpecker that had begun pounding a hole into her skull.

“Ninsianna, go bhfuil tú ceart go leor?" Mikhail touched her hair so she would understand he asked if she was okay.

“My head hurts." Ninsianna said. Their difficulty communicating was wearing her down. She was a physical creature, not a verbal one.

Mikhail took her hand and tugged her to her feet.

“You … sleep … now."

He led her back to the sleeping quarters, still unsteady, but except for the wing which still dragged to one side, she never would have guessed that a mere two days ago she'd been prepared to perform the death rituals for him. Her head pounded so badly he was surrounded by a halo and there were two of him. Migraine, her father called these headaches. She pressed her cheek against his chest and wrapped her arms around his waist for comfort, pressing one temple into the undamaged side of his chest until his warmth sank into her pounding head and made it feel a little better. This is what Papa did to make her feel better whenever she got her headaches.

Mikhail froze. She could feel his muscles quiver beneath his skin as though he were wracked with emotion. Fear? Desire? Revulsion? Whatever the emotion was, he did not allow it to show, but from the subtle rustle of his feathers, it was emotion. At last he put his arm around her, but otherwise stood as stiff as a tree.

Mikhail's expression was perplexed, as though nobody had ever given him a hug before. Was he repulsed by the gesture?

“Dea … good." She touched his cheek to show her appreciation. For perhaps the first time, a dark eyebrow lifted. Repulsed, no. Simply confused.

His arm lingered when she tried to pull away, as though he wasn't certain whether to hold onto her or let her go. She sighed as her body sank into the gloriously soft padding of the sleeping pallet and pulled up the covers, too exhausted to even strip off her shawl dress. The world instantly drifted very far away, leaving Mikhail to stand above her, puzzling over what had just transpired.

Chapter 20

February – 3,390 BC

Earth – Village of Assur

Jamin

The sun beat down mercilessly upon Jamin's raven-black hair, heating up his head until the sweat beaded on his forehead. They'd been summoned to the central square the moment his father had returned from his trading mission to Nineveh. The Chief had lined them up and paced in front of them, his hand clasped behind his back as Ninsianna's father pointed to the temple of She-who-is and made wild gestures with his hands. All around them the other wandered into the central square, eager to see what news the Chief had brought back from the trading delegation and what he would say when Immanu told him about the winged man who had fallen from the sky.

Immanu faded back, his wild, dark hair visible amongst the other villagers as he let the Chief handle the situation. Yes. The Chief. Everyone in the village thought of his father as The Chief, including him… The Chief asked a few other villagers questions, and then stalked over to stop in front of his son.

“Is it true?” Chief Kiyan's brown eyes bore into his. “Did you drag Ninsianna into the stream and hold her head under the water?”

Jamin squirmed under his father’s glare. His father's usual way of dealing with him was to ignore him and hope the problem would go away, but with Immanu telling the entire village wild tales about winged saviors returning from the heavens to help their people smite an Evil One, it was enough to get even Chief Kiyan interested in the dealings of his son. Jamin glanced to the warriors on either side of him and shot them a glare which warned there would be retribution if any of them dared squeal.

"What about you, Siamek?" the chief looked to his lieutenant. "What really happened up there?"

Siamek shot Jamin an apologetic look.

“She was already in the water, sir," Siamek said. “Jamin went in to … uh … talk to her.”

“Firouz?” Chief Kiyan asked. "What did you see?"

“She insulted him,” Firouz said. “She deserved it!”

“Nobody deserves to be attacked for expressing an opinion!” Chief Kiyan snapped. “We are not Halifians! We don't abuse our women!”

“But, Father…”

The gawking villagers elbowed one another and whispered furiously, eager spectators to see the Chief lambast his son. Pride caused Jamin to shut his mouth and not speak what he really wanted to say, that he'd only gone up there to find out why Ninsianna had broken off their engagement.

“But … nothing!” the Chief said. “A warrior's job is to protect the village. Not go looking for trouble! You are all to stay away from the winged one until I say otherwise! Do you understand?”

“Yes, Sir!” the warriors muttered.

“I can't hear you!!!” the Chief shouted.

“Yes, Sir!”

The warriors broke up, eager to be away from the Chief's disapproving glare. Jamin tried to skulk away with them and was intercepted by his father's voice.

“Jamin!” his father ordered like he was a little boy. “Get in the house. Now!”

The villagers sniggered. The red flush of mortification burned into Jamin's cheeks. Not only had he lost face once, when the winged demon had run them off of the crash site and kept his wayward fiancé, but now the bastard had bested him twice by winning over Ninsianna's own father. How could his father be so stupid? A shaman was more believable than the Chief’s own son?

Chief Kiyan shut the door behind him. “Sit!”

The interior of their house was far larger than most houses in Assur, with a separate kitchen and a room built off of the multipurpose room where the Chief could entertain important visitors. Their ancient housekeeper saw the fury in the Chief's expression and scurried out of the way into the kitchen. The Chief gestured for him to sit on one of the stuffed pillows that served as a chair.

“You must give up this idea of forcing Ninsianna to marry you,” the Chief said. “It was wrong of me to exercise my prerogative to deny her hand in marriage to another.”

“But Father,” Jamin's breath caught in his throat as at last he allowed his vulnerabilities to show. “I love her.”

“If there was ever any hope of her loving you in return,” the Chief sighed, “you just ruined it by treating her cruelly."

"Cruelly?" Jamin shook with anger. "She disrespected me in front of my men!"

Chief Kiyan ran his fingers through his thick, dark hair, streaked with grey from too many worries.

"I encouraged the match because I hoped Ninsianna would cool your fiery temper," the Chief said, "but I see now your pursuit of her has only inflamed those natural tendencies."

"Inflamed?" Jamin clenched his fist. "The only reason she broke things off with me was because you forced me to reneg on my promise to take her with us to the trading delegation you just came back from!"

"I couldn't allow my son to be perceived as henpecked the way Immanu is by his wife," the Chief said. "You should understand that better than anyone."

"People respect Immanu," Jamin said, "in spite of how sharp-tongued Needa is."

"People fear Immanu," the Chief said, "because of who his father was. And at one time or another Needa has been summoned to save a family member of every chief in Ubaid territory. It is a level of respect Ninsianna has not yet earned."

The Chief squatted down on the low cushion next to him and began to pull out of his satchel the goods he'd just brought back from his trading delegation. One by one, he placed the pretty trinkets onto their low hospitality table until he got to the last item, a golden torque he'd had the gold-worker in Nineveh make that would have marked him as a married man. The Chief fondled the torque between his thumb and forefinger, his eyes focused on the past as his expression softened into an all-too-familiar melancholy one.

"I want you to marry someone who will love you as much as I loved your mother." the Chief said. "Not someone who marries you because you've given them no other choice.”

Old anger boiled in Jamin's veins.

“My mother is dead!” Jamin shouted. “You look at me and you hate me because I look like her, and when you see me, it reminds you that I'm still here and she is not!!!”

“That's not true.” The Chief avoided Jamin's gaze. “You're the only reason I've been able to go on living. But you have become too arrogant. You must let Ninsianna go.”

“He is a demon who was cast down from the heavens!" Jamin gestured to show something falling out of the sky. “It's an evil omen. We must defend the village!”

“Immanu has legends of his people returning in a time of great need,” the Chief said. “He thinks we should welcome the winged one into our midst so that when his people arrive, they'll be favorably disposed to us.”

“A song no man in this village has ever heard until today!” Jamin snorted. “That's a little convenient, don't you agree?”

“Immanu is a good man,” the Chief said. “I will not tolerate you sullying his name.”

“But Father….” The muscle in Jamin's cheek twitched with aggravation.

“But nothing!” the Chief snapped. “I have made up my mind! You and the warriors are forbidden to go anywhere near the sky canoe until I say otherwise. If you do, you will answer to the tribunal!”

He turned his back, indicating Jamin was dismissed.

Jamin slammed the door on his way out, furious. A week ago he'd been looking forward to marrying Ninsianna at the summer solstice, and now he was goat dung? She was his fiancée! If he didn't rescue her, nobody would!

Chapter 21

Galactic Standard Date:  152,323.02 AE

Earth:  Sata'an Forward Operating Base

Lt. Kasib

“The package is ready for shipment, Sir." Lieutenant Kasib tucked his tail along his side and saluted his commanding officer.

“How many?” General Hudhafah squinted up from a stack of reports.

“Just one, Sir.”

“Ba’al (Lord) Zebub asked for three samples,” Hudhafah said. “Why aren’t there more?" His gold-green eyes narrowed into slits.

“Two expired in transit, Sir,” Kasib said. “Our soldiers reported the cargo reacted adversely to our presence. The native population has had no contact with our species and is unusually terrified.”

“Hmmm…" Hudhafah leaned back in his chair and scratched the soft white under-scales of his chin. “Have we formed any local trading partnerships?”

“Yes, Sir,” Kasib said. “The Amorite slavers don't care who they trade with so long as we give them gold.”

“We'll use those as intermediaries, then,” Hudhafah said. “Be sure to explain we want maximum genetic diversity. No more than two from a single target area, and they are all to be delivered to us in top condition.”

“Yes, Sir.” Kasib saluted, tasting the air with his forked tongue so he could sense the pheromones which indicated his commanding officer's mood. They were thinly staffed until Emperor Shay'tan resupplied their base and Hudhafah was in a foul mood. “What about the current package, Sir?”

“Send it to Ba'al Zebub,” Hudhafah said. “He has plans for it.”

Chapter 22

February - 3,390 BC

Earth:  Crash site

Colonel Mikhail Mannuki’ili

Mikhail

Although the scout ship had been built for Mikhail's species, it had not been designed to live upon on a long term basis, especially with the power low and all of the systems broken. No matter which way he stepped, Ninsianna hovered like an anxious dragonfly, poking and prodding him and constantly admonishing him to sit down. His wings were beginning to cramp from lack of use and he felt just good enough to be a cranky patient.

“If I have to spend another minute in this ship,” Mikhail said, “I'll go insane. Can we please finish the language lessons outside?"

“I no understand." Ninsianna said. His overprotective taskmaster tried to herd him back into his chair. “Go … where?”

“Outside." He pointed towards the cracked hull. “Outside.”

“Yes … outside,” Ninsianna said in halting Galactic Standard. “You be … careful … no … do … too much.”

He reached down and checked the power supply on his pulse rifle, a gesture which was instinctive even though he had no recollection of ever having learned to fire the weapon. It was dangerously low on power, the same as it had been the last five hundred times he had looked at it. He glanced towards the crack in the hull, and then slid it back into the holster. Ninsianna's father had assured him the Chief's son would not dare bother them once he'd had a word with their leader, but Mikhail had seen the look of determination in that black-eyed bastard's eyes.

A now-familiar vertigo made the room spin as he made his way from the galley through the crack in the hull, but if he didn't get outside, he swore he would pluck his own feathers out and eat them. He waved off Ninsianna's attempt to let him utilize her as a crutch, determined to curb his reliance upon another living creature. She orbited his every step like a moon around a gas giant, not relaxing until he found a rock under a scrubby looking tree immediately adjacent to the stream. As soon as he sat down, Ninsianna began to rummage for sticks in that same frenetic activity she'd had ever since the moment he'd first opened his eyes. Mikhail stood up to help her.

“You no … too much … do!” Ninsianna scolded. She herded him back to the rock, her lips pursed into an exaggerated pout as she pointed until he sat back down. “You … hurt. You … too much do. You … hurt more!"

Her tawny beige eyes flashed with the determination of somebody accustomed to having others follow her orders. She jutted her index finger towards the rock, her expression conveying 'stay there or else.'

"Yes, Sir," Mikhail said softly, even though she wore no insignia of rank.

Ninsianna resumed her scavenging, speaking to him as she worked even though he could only catch a word here or there. Within the valley grew some stunted, twisted trees, and the stream filled the air with a cheerful, almost musical quality as it gurgled past them. Mikhail inhaled, relishing the smell of soil carried in the wind. It had the scent of a planet teeming with life.

Ninsianna gathered the sticks into a pyramid and then rummaged through her satchel for two rocks wrapped in a piece of animal hide. With a practiced motion she struck the rocks, aiming the sparks so they landed in a small pile of dried moss she had gathered along with the wood. Her lips pursed into a delightful pink moue as she blew until the smoldering bundle ignited. Mikhail stared, fascinated with how easily she accomplished the task, as if she started fires that way every single day.

“What kind of rocks are those?” Mikhail pointed. He repeated the question in her language, “what … rocks?"

He understood the concept of starting a fire with two stones, but suspected he'd never had much cause to do so. He carried a traditional flint and steel in his survival kit. Oh! A memory! He grabbed the rocks out of Ninsianna’s hand in an effort to capture it.

“Yangin tas,” Ninsianna said in her own language, giving him the rock with a deep groove in it.

“What this rock?" Mikhail held the second rock. She repeated the word and demonstrated how it was used until it dawned on him that it was a ‘striker.’

He spent the morning observing her move outside the ship, carrying many items outside as she set out to expand their encampment. Ninsianna was fascinated with things she found in his ship's galley, with often amusing results.

“No!" Mikhail leaped up just in time to save a plastic container she had used to retrieve water from being used as a cook pot. “No … good … fire. This one!"

He pointed towards a steel cylinder that was actually part of his ship, but it would make an acceptable pot. A smile lit up her face as she realized how well it heated water. She shoved a handful of leaves from a plant with small blue flowers gathered from a surrounding field into it and brought it to a boil.

“Here!" Ninsianna handed him a cup with steaming liquid. “Drink!”

He gave it a wary sniff before taking a sip. It wasn’t bad. It wasn’t good, either, but it was hot and drinkable.

“Borage,” Ninsianna pointed to the little leafy plants that grew in the area. She made him repeat the unfamiliar word. “Borage … make … no hurt … no more. Make you … no hurt … faster.”

A painkiller? Mikhail paid close attention to his body's reaction to the tea. It didn't have a straightforward analgesic effect, but he felt a subtle increase in his energy levels. Over time, he realized his pain had subsided, although not to the same degree as popping a pill. Ninsianna encouraged him to drink a second and third cup, and then stopped him from drinking any more.

“No too much,” she stammered in a combination of his and her language, using her hands to help him understand. “Little … then little more … later.”

He watched, absolutely transfixed, as she snapped off a sapling, peeled the bark and wood off the end to make it into a makeshift spear, and hacked at the end using her stone blade.

“I go … balik,” she said.

He didn't understand what balik meant until she walked to the stream, stripped down to her loincloth, and waded in. Mikhail averted his eyes until she moved far enough into the stream to submerge her curvaceous backside. He pretended to stare at something else, watching her intently from the corner of his eye, forcing his eyeballs to take in what she was doing and not the way her soft flesh jiggled as she walked. Ninsianna peered into the water as she spoke to herself, as though a friend walked in the water beside her.

Mikhail's stomach grumbled. Spear-fishing was a feat which took considerable time and effort, if you succeeded at all. Lunch would be more dried meat and sour berries. Oh … how he wished his ship had enough power to use the food replicator!

With a delighted squeal, Ninsianna jabbed the stick into the water, splashing so much water it obscured her momentarily. To his surprise, she came up with a fish wriggling at the end.

“Balik!"

Ninsianna's face lit up in a triumphant grin. Mikhail averted his eyes as she bounced back towards the shore, her brown breasts bobbing with every step. The stream suddenly sounded very far away as his own blood rushed in his ears. Ninsianna put down the spear with the still-wriggling fish impaled upon it and wrapped her shawl back around her still-wet waist and shoulders before bringing him the fish to inspect. Mikhail realized he'd been holding his breath and exhaled.

“What that word?" Mikhail pointed to the fish.

“Balik,” she said. “Balik.”

“Iasc,” he translated. “Fish … Iasc." He suppressed the facial expression accompanying the thought which otherwise would have made him smile. ‘Thank the gods! Something to eat besides that terrible dried meat and sour berries!’

“Simdi bu temdiz gidecegiz." Ninsianna grabbed her stone blade and headed back down to the stream.

Something about cleaning the fish? She took a handful of water and said a prayer before dumping it on the fish's head. Then she got down to the unpleasant task of cleaning it, using the stone blade to scrape off the scales and remove the entrails. Rinsing it in the stream, she walked into the underbrush to bury the undesirables before returning to rinse her hands.

“Fish … good." Ninsianna's eyes gleamed with anticipation. She poked the fire with a stick to create a flat area amongst the coals and set the fish directly onto them to cook.

Mikhail considered telling her that she could salvage one of the flat titanium-steel panels which had come crashing down from the ceiling of his ship, but thought better of it when she began to sing. She moved outside the periphery of the clearing to comb the underbrush for other things to eat. She obviously knew what she was doing.

She returned periodically to put something onto the fire or near it. Curled up green things. Some type of leaves. Knobby little tubers. Little round nuts with caps on them which she dug out of a hollow tree as though she'd just won a wager. She nestled the nuts and tubers into rocks strategically placed into the fire to protect them from burning. Mikhail’s stomach growled as the delightful aroma of cooking fish wafted his way.

As she worked, Ninsianna talked to herself as though she were having an animated conversation with a friend. She didn't appear to be insane. Perhaps she engaged in a prayer ritual? He suspected she discussed him with whatever deity she prayed to for guidance. Given how quickly she had rustled up a meal, whoever she prayed to obviously listened. Not to mention the fact he was still breathing from injuries which should have killed him.

He made a mental note to question her society’s spiritual beliefs once the language barrier had been overcome. The Cherubim….

Damantia! The memory flitted into his mind and was gone again before he could grab onto it.

Ninsianna moved back to the fire, scooping the cooked fish onto a plate, along with the curled green things, tubers, and roasted nuts. Mikhail decided to amuse his otherwise empty mind (for what are you to occupy your mind with when you have no memories?) by watching how she would react to certain stimuli. Stretching out his wings as far as he could before it became painful, he flapped them to test the planet's gravity. He was rewarded by a momentary sensation of uplift as well as the surprised look on Ninsianna’s face as the draft blew sparks onto strip of cloth she wore wrapped around herself to make a crude dress.

“Mikhail … tú dona!!! Bad!!!" She waggled her finger and patted her shawl to douse the sparks. She muttered a string of words he guessed meant something along the lines of “look what you just did to my dress!”

“Tá brón orm,” he apologized.

He felt an evil thrill at watching her express her anger. He didn't think the females of his species were so expressive. In fact, given how much he enjoyed riling her, he felt he wasn’t used to doing the irritating, either. Ninsianna gave him a wary scowl as she scooped the fish and tubers out of the fire using the oversized, primitive stone blade she always carried and plopped them into a bowl. He decided a lesson about using modern cutlery could wait as she ate using her knife and fingers. Following her example, he picked up the fish and took a bite.

A sensation that could only be described as a first-class trip to Haven exploded onto his taste buds as he bit into the warm, succulent flesh of Ninsianna's fish. He forced himself to remain silent rather than oink happily as he chewed, hoping she didn't notice the way his feathers rustled with suppressed delight. Belatedly, he realized by her wounded expression that perhaps in this culture it was customary to express some sentiment of gratitude to the chef?

“Good,” Mikhail said. He had no idea how to say, 'this is the tastiest meal I have any memory of eating' so he raised his plate and nodded instead. Ninsianna gifted him with one of her breathtaking smiles. The meal didn't trigger any memories, but he had the feeling this meal would compare favorably to whatever fare he normally ate when he wasn’t eating remolecularized food cubes.

A bead of sweat dripped down his forehead. Sniffing his own sweat, he realized he'd become fairly ripe. Stripping off his shirt and combat boots, he waded into the stream and sat down in a hollow, sighing with pleasure as the water washed over him. Soaking his hair and feathers in the cool water, he was surprised when Ninsianna came up behind him and offered a freshly dug root of a plant. Wearing nothing but her loin-cloth, she ducked beneath the water and showed him how to rub the brownish root to create lather before rubbing it through her hair.

“See… how…" Ninsianna's expression was guileless as she held the root out to where he sat in the water.

Looking up, the only thing Mikhail could “see … how” was how her brown nipples stood at attention from the cold water dripping off of them mere inches from his face.

“See … how … soap,” Ninsianna repeated, holding out the root and giving him the word. “Soap.”

“S-s-soap…” Mikhail mumbled. Color crept into his face as he realized he'd sprouted an erection. He had no idea when he'd last had relations with a female, but from his reaction he guessed it had been quite a while. Remembering the promise he'd made to her father, he thanked the gods he sat in the stream so she wouldn't see his reaction straining guiltily against the confines of his cargo pants.

“Ninsianna … help … soap?" She pointed to his blood-matted hair.

Mikhail froze as she squeezed a natural soap gel out of the root and rubbed the lather through his hair, gingerly washing away the dried blood from his stitches, down his shoulders and neck. It was the most exquisitely sweet torture since … he couldn't remember. The soap root burned wherever it made contact with an open wound, but he ignored it. He twitched under his skin wherever she touched him.

“Gortaithe … hurt?” she inquired.

“No,” Mikhail lied. “Líon ní chuireann sé gortaithe [it doesn’t hurt]."

Actually, he wasn't lying. Her ministrations didn't hurt. It was maintaining his self-control as her hands ran the slippery substance over his bare skin that hurt!

“Mikhail,” Ninsianna pointed to his chest. “I … see?" She wished to examine his wounds.

She bent in front of him, giving an unobstructed view of her breasts as she examined her needlework. Although in no way did her hands linger or convey any meaning other than a desire to help him, Mikhail shivered with a nearly uncontrollable urge to pull her into the water.

‘Promise … you made a promise…’ he reminded himself as he schooled an impassive expression. A small, unwelcome voice welled up from his subconscious, reminding him to be cautious in all matters of the heart. Although he couldn't remember who he was, he felt certain he was an honorable man. He would keep his promise!

Moving to his back, Ninsianna lathered up more soap root and proceeded to pick the dried blood out of his feathers. It had to be the most agonizingly pleasant twenty minutes he had ever spent. Ninsianna perfunctorily lathered up the areas he would have trouble getting on his own in his less-than-perfect state.

“Leigheas maith leat … you heal good."

Ninsianna handed him the soap root to finish washing the uninjured portions of his lower body. She walked back to the shore, wringing the water out of her long, chestnut hair as she went. Wrapping her shawl around her waist and tossing it over her shoulder, she never gave him so much as a backwards glance as she walked back to the fire.

Mikhail stayed in the stream, not because he felt like sitting there once he'd rinsed the soap root out of his feathers, but because it took that long to get his libido back under control. Keeping his hands off of her was a wise course of action. For all he knew he had a mate back … someplace … anxiously awaiting his return.

As soon as he got back to the shore, Ninsianna insisted he sit down so she could bandage him back up.

“You … degisim giysi … now." She pointed to a clean set of clothing she'd retrieved from his ship while he'd wallowed in the stream. He felt self-conscious about changing in front of her.

“No,” he said. “Later.”

“You … degisim giysi … now,” she said again. He gathered the unknown word was ‘change.’

“No,” he shook his head. “It isn't proper to change in front of a female who is not your mate." He knew she didn't understand, but she accepted that he wished to stay in his cold, wet clothing while she bandaged him back up and reset the splints on his broken wing.

She repacked his shattered ribcage with leaves and some type of sap. For the rest of his life he would have a hole in his chest to remind him that he owed this woman a debt he could never repay. Ninsianna replaced his wrappings with khaki beige strips which fluttered from a nearby bush like cheerful flags. The strips had been washed and salvaged from the uniform he'd been wearing when his ship had crashed.

“My shirt?" He shot her a raised eyebrow.

Ninsianna frowned and muttered something he took to be an apology. She didn't understand the subtle nuances his kind understood to be teasing. She mistook his admiration at her resourcefulness for anger.

“It’s okay. It's good." He took her hand to reassure her. “Thank you."

Ninsianna scrutinized his expression, her emotions dancing across her face. Puzzlement. Curiosity. Relief. She finished binding his chest in silence, helping him pull a clean shirt over his broken arm.

“Hurt … good." She placed one hand over the wound on the front of his chest, the other over the hole in the back.

Mikhail winced in anticipation of pain, but Ninsianna didn't apply pressure. Instead, she chanted a sing-song prayer, reminiscent of one of the songs sung by her father the shaman. Mikhail forced himself to remain still even though he didn't share her pre-technological belief that magic could heal his wounds. The Emperor…

Damantia! Another memory fragment came and went, leaving him no further enlightened, merely frustrated.

Wherever Ninsianna placed her hands his skin became warm; a pleasant, tingling sensation he would forever associate with her. Little by little a comfortable lethargy spread throughout his body. Magic that worked? He didn't think it was normal to recover from such severe wounds so quickly, but what did he know? For all he knew, he really had died and the spirit who had come to escort him into the dreamtime was spinning a pleasant dream.

“You … tasimak,” Ninsianna pointed to his wing. She wished him to spread his broken wing so she could examine it.

“Sciathán … wing,” Mikhail translated.

He suppressed a sigh of pleasure as she massaged the area below the break, unable to prevent himself from leaning into her touch. His wing itched like mad! Ninsianna was fascinated by his wings, patting them every excuse she could find as though he was a pet madra, but she masked her curiosity as she bound the makeshift splint back into place. Her species could exercise emotional self-restraint when necessary just like his could. They were just less inclined to do so.

“Thank you." He noted the way her irises turned a brighter shade of gold whenever he made eye contact. He'd seen such golden eyes someplace before; someone besides her father, who shared the unusual coloring, but he couldn't remember where.

“You … degisim giysi … now." She handed him the rest of his dry, clean clothing and pointed towards his ship. “Then … sleep. You … hurt.”

“Yes, Sir,” Mikhail said, ready to obey. Dry clothing. And a nap. Just what the bossy doctor ordered.

Chapter 23

Galactic Standard Date:  152,323.02

Haven-1

Prime Minister Lucifer

Lucifer

Lucifer nodded to the two Cherubim guards who shadowed his adoptive father whenever the Eternal Emperor Hashem was in corporeal form. He waited for them to give him entrance, not to the throne room, where only those who knew the Emperor well understood he was loathe to inhabit, but into the cutting edge genetics laboratory which had been grafted onto the Eternal Palace.

Although most mortals assumed the Emperor could wave his hands and cause molecules to rearrange themselves into fantastical creations, immortality only granted ascended beings a modicum of control over the elements of nature, and an imperfect control at that. Most 'old gods' got stuff done the same way any other mortal in the universe did, by rolling up their sleeves and getting to work.

Work to Lucifer's adopted father meant splicing genetic enhancements onto existing species using the scientific vehicle of recombinant DNA. Immortality meant you could work on your obsession long enough, unhindered by death, to eventually work out a solution. Through trial and error, most old gods eventually mastered the art of manipulating the rules of physics which were much more malleable than most cultures understood. She-who-is had grown so powerful that she could use her mind to manifest whatever sparked her interest; but immortality, by itself, did not grant omnipotence.

It was why the Emperor hadn't been able to wave his hands and make his army's inbreeding problem simply go away. No matter what method the Emperor used, whether natural breeding, cloning, artificial insemination or a certain amount of hand-waving ascended hocus-pocus, hybrid gametes combined artificially in meiosis simply failed to cause an embryo to grow.

“Father?" Lucifer called to the very ordinary-looking man bent over an ordinary-looking stainless-steel laboratory table. “I came as soon as I could.”

“Lucifer." The Eternal Emperor Hashem didn't even glance up. “Glad you could make it." The Emperor could assume any form he wished, but the form he preferred was that of a wingless human male. He continued fertilizing leathery eggs the size of softballs, ignoring Lucifer until he finished.

Lucifer suppressed his annoyance. For the past 225 years, the mantle of responsibility had fallen to him. Between Shay’tan and the normal political intrigues which threatened all democratic institutions, Lucifer had to forever outwit his opponents to keep his father on his lofty throne. When Hashem kept him waiting, he couldn't attend to any of the other bazillion things he had on his already ridiculously overscheduled plate.

“What are you working on, father?"

“Miniature water dragons." Hashem barely acknowledged his presence. “They're going extinct. I'm trying to splice in a genetic adaptation so they'll survive.”

“-We- are going extinct, Father." Lucifer's wings twitched with exasperation. “When are you going to give us a genetic adaptation to survive?”

Hashem looked up as though noticing Lucifer for the first time, his golden eyes glowing with the eerie, internal luminescence all ascended beings possessed. Lucifer didn't know what was worse. The two hundred years Hashem had vanished into the ethers after his mother had willed herself to die? Or the fragile, doddering old fool who had only reluctantly returned after the 51-Pegasi-4 genocide had wiped out the entire sub-species of Seraphim Angelics?

“I lost the root stock." Hashem's face was etched with sadness. “And then pirates wiped out the Seraphim control group that still possessed some of their original DNA. Without that, I don't know how to replicate my experiment.”

“Godsdammit, father!!!" Lucifer slammed his fist upon the stainless steel laboratory table. “Why in Shay’tan’s name do you keep putzing around with these insignificant creatures when the armies who defend you are dying?" He picked up the warning glare from the two Cherubim guards. He moderated his tone to the appropriate respect an elected official should have for their Emperor and God.

“You’re all so close to completion,” Hashem muttered like a senile old man. “All you need is a few thousand more years to evolve and you'll be complete. The Seraphim were close. They were so close.”

“Close to what?” Lucifer asked.

“Your mother was almost complete." Hashem turned back to his experiment. “I could have finished her.”

“My mother is DEAD!!!” Lucifer shouted. He waved off the Cherubim guards when they took a clanking step forward. “And my entire species is dying. When will you get your head out of the ascended realms and deal with what is happening down here? We won't be around in a few thousand years!”

“I lost the root race." Hashem's demeanor shifted from that of an absent-minded professor to the hellfire-and-brimstone old god who had once battled Shay’tan. The doddering old fool was gone, replaced by the god who couldn't die … the one who viewed Lucifer as a failed experiment. He spoke with the clinical detachment of a scientist making a presentation before a conference of biologists about a colony of bacteria he'd been running clinical trials on.

“Without the root race, there is nothing I can do to help you. Your only hope is the breeding program. If you increase your genetic diversity through selective breeding, a new strain of Angelic might evolve to take your place.”

Lucifer shuddered. How could a mortal such as himself, whose lifespan was a mere blink of an eye to an ascended being such as his adopted father, hope to make himself heard? He was a plaything, a toy. A tool the Emperor had used to lure his mother, a creature so close to completion that she had approached godhood herself, to stand at his side so he would have somebody besides Shay’tan to talk to as time ground mortal creatures into dust.

In the end, his mother had rejected the Emperor, refusing to drink the elixir he had engineered to complete her DNA. All she'd ever wanted was to follow the mate who'd abandoned the both of them into the grave. The day she had willed herself to die, Hashem had abandoned Lucifer and the Alliance. Lucifer had been carrying the burden ever since.

“What about the Leonids?" Lucifer suppressed the hopelessness he always felt whenever he spoke to his father. “They are down to fewer than 3,500 individuals. We have more Leonid ships than Leonids to man them.”

“The Spiderids will take their place." Hashem spoke as though he were talking about replacing a defective toaster. “Just as the Mantoids filled in the gaps in your ranks. I have ordered the aerospace manufacturers to create a new generation of ships adapted to Spiderid physiology.”

Lucifer shuddered. Replaced. They were being replaced. He'd always known that was the plan, but this was the first time he'd heard the words uttered from the Emperor's own lips.

“I give up!" Lucifer threw his hands into the air. “You’re worse than Shay’tan!" He turned to leave. He got as far as the laboratory door before Hashem called his name. The Cherubim guards stepped to block his exit.

“Lucifer!!!” Hashem ordered. “These trade deals you've been passing in Parliament? You have outsourced too much of our economy to the Sata'an Empire. I want you to rescind the override.”

“Do it yourself,” Lucifer hissed. “For two hundred years I ran your empire while you couldn't even be bothered to show up to sign something. Never once have you thanked me! Never once have you even taken an interest in the impact your one-sided focus on seed worlds has on the older races in this empire. Or the species who defend them!”

“Those who have the means are expected to contribute more,” Hashem said. “Of course older worlds should support emerging ones. If I wanted everybody to fend for themselves, I wouldn't have created you.”

“You can’t keep asking us to pay and pay and pay until they’ve got nothing left to give,” Lucifer said. “For goddess’ sakes!!! Look at your Cherubim guards!!! Jingu is over nine thousand years old and hasn’t been able to produce a new queen!!!"

Lucifer gestured to the ant-like Cherubim guards whose race had once guarded the entire Alliance, but who now numbered mere thousands. The Cherubim only lingered to produce enough guards to guard the Emperor, a duty which had been prolonged when Angelics began dying out instead of stepping up to the plate to replace them. Only love of the Emperor prevented the Cherubim from casting off the mortal shells they had long since outgrown and escaping into the highest ascended realms.

“That’s enough!” Hashem ordered.

“If you won’t look at me, then look at them!" Lucifer's fists clenched as he tried to make his father see reason. “They've guarded your empire even longer than we have, and they are even closer to extinction. You replace them with us, and now you replace us with godsdamned insects!!! Are we really that expendable?”

“You're not expendable." Hashem's shoulders sagged with defeat. The clinical old god disappeared, replaced by the doddering fool. “I just don't know how to fix you.”

“You're a god!” Lucifer pleaded. “Swallow your pride and ask the goddess to help like you did when you created us in the first place.”

Hashem swallowed. Lucifer knew the last thing his father wanted to do was ask the goddess who ruled the universe for help. He'd only met the Architect of the Universe once, at his birth, when she'd handed him over to Hashem for safekeeping. He was a burden Lucifer now understood his adopted father had never wanted.

“Please, Father …” Lucifer pleaded, his rage sputtering. “You're the only father I have ever known. I don't want to be the last of my kind."

Hashem picked up the pipette he'd been using to fertilize the reptile eggs and resumed whatever it was he'd been doing.

“I lost the root race,” Hashem said with resignation. “There is nothing more I can do for you. I'm sorry.”

He turned his back, engrossed in whatever experiment he was conducting once more. The Eternal Emperor was gone. Replaced by the kindly, absent-minded genius who tinkered with inconsequential experiments in his genetics laboratory instead of dealing with the problems facing mortals.

Chapter 24

February – 3,390 BC

Earth:  Crash site

Colonel Mikhail Mannuki’ili

Mikhail

As promised, Immanu returned with food and items to make their stay more comfortable. This time he did not come alone, but brought his mate, Ninsianna’s mother, he surmised, by the way she gave the woman a hug. The woman had the same wavy dark hair, golden complexion and curvaceous figure as Ninsianna did, but her eyes were brown instead of her daughter's unusual tawny beige ones. Ninsianna had apparently inherited her good looks from her mother, who was herself a striking woman, and not her father.

“Who … Needa,” Ninsianna introduced her mother. “Mama."

The woman had the same proud bearing as Ninsianna; that look people get when they're accustomed to being looked up to, and obeyed. She was much more direct than her husband, staring unflinchingly into Mikhail's eyes, her lips pursed as she scrutinized his features with the same unreadable expression Mikhail usually wore. She watched intently his interactions with her daughter, no doubt searching to see if he'd broken his promise. He had not, but he understood this was a woman on whose bad side one did not wish to be.

“Tá mé an-sásta bualadh leat [pleased to meet you]."

Mikhail reached out to shake her hand with the same level of formality he would convey to a commanding officer. Immanu translated. By the way the woman barked a command at her husband, it was obvious which spouse wore the pants in this family or, in the case of Ubaid attire, the kilt?

They had long ago devoured the bird Ninsianna had caught for breakfast, but she'd cooked extra tubers in anticipation of her parent's arrival. He was glad they had that small hospitality to offer the traveling couple while Needa spoke to her daughter at length. Standing and straightening her shawl-dress, Needa moved to stand before him, snapping a command at Immanu to no doubt translate.

“My wife would like to examine your injuries,” Immanu said, “to see how well you're healing. Needa is the healer in our village. Ninsianna is still in training.”

Mikhail examined the woman’s face. He'd already been poked and prodded by Ninsianna once today, but to say no might offend her mother. How could he explain that when he allowed someone to touch his wings, it felt … intimate? These people had been nothing but good to him since he'd crash-landed and turned their world upside down. It was obvious that Immanu valued his wife's opinion on things.

“I consent,” Mikhail said. “Although Ninsianna has done a fine job.”

“She has, indeed,” Immanu said. “I don't know how you survived.”

“I'm stubborn."

Mikhail schooled his expression into one of impassive observation as the splint was removed for the second time today. Needa’s touch was much less gentle. Where Ninsianna would caress the area to accustom him to her touch, Needa got right down to business, poking and prodding with single-minded efficiency. He could picture Needa running the triage unit on a hospital ship.

No! Wait! He grasped at the memory fragment as it flitted through his mind and exited as randomly as it had come. Damantia!

“Are your memories returning, yet?” Immanu asked.

Mikhail scrutinized the man, not sure how much he should reveal to someone he didn't really know.

“Just fragments," Mikhail said. "Most don't make any sense.”

“What do you remember?”

“Things about emperors and hospital ships," Mikhail said. "Nothing very helpful.”

“Yet you can still do things that you did in the past?”

“It appears so,” Mikhail frowned. “I know what I know, but I can't remember how I know it." He pointed to his dog tags. "I know from these that I'm a colonel in the Alliance Air Force. I know what that means, but I have no memory of ever serving. I know things a soldier would know, but I only realize I know it when I need it. Does that make any sense?”

“I have seen this problem after injuries such as yours,” Immanu said. “Usually the person regains his memory a short time later. But I've never seen someone so lucid who could remember nothing at all.”

Mikhail stiffened as a sharp pain stabbed into his wing.

“Ouch!” Mikhail turned and glared at Needa, who had cracked a bone in his wing joint back into place without warning him. “Féach ar an sciathán! [Watch the wing!]"

Needa shook her finger at Ninsianna and let loose a string of language he couldn't understand. It was the scolding a parent would give a neglectful child.

“Ninsianna missed a dislocated joint just above the break,” Immanu translated. “It would have left you unable to fly had it healed that way. My wife just snapped it back into place."

Ninsianna looked at her feet, a look of mortification upon her face.

“Please convey my thanks to Needa,” Mikhail reschooled his impassive expression. “And remind Ninsianna that I wouldn't be alive if not for her.”

Needa finished examining his wounds, grunting with satisfaction at the stitch-job Ninsianna had done on his chest, and re-splinted his wing. Needa’s splint was tighter and less comfortable than Ninsianna’s, but he could feel how it gave the limb much more stability. Stepping back so he didn't fan sparks out of the fire, he extended both wings and flapped, just enough to reassure himself he'd regained some mobility. His broken wing still hurt, but at least it no longer hung uselessly from his back.

“I told our village chief about the legends of your people,” Immanu said. “But Jamin is the chief’s son. I fear he bears a grudge against you.”

“What Jamin feels is of no concern to me,” Mikhail said. “As soon as I can make repairs to my ship, I shall contact my people and leave your world.”

“Only the will of his father prevents Jamin from sneaking up here with a band of warriors,” Immanu warned. “He seeks revenge for what he feels is a blow to his manhood. He blames you for stealing Ninsianna away from him.”

“I'm not responsible for whatever relationship this Jamin has, or doesn't have, with your daughter.”

“That's for certain!" Immanu nodded in Ninsianna’s direction as she argued heatedly with her mother about the best way to care for his injuries. “Ninsianna is her own woman. Just like her mother.”

“I don't think there was anything to steal,” Mikhail said. “I watched her punch him in the face.”

Immanu's voice shifted to a more serious tone.

“I know my daughter. She has become very fond of you." The shaman's bushy dark eyebrows came together in concern. "Although we have no recourse against one as powerful as you, I beg you not to take advantage of her affections. When you leave here, it will break her heart to be left behind.”

“I gave you my word,” Mikhail regretted the promise even as the words left his mouth. “And I shall honor that promise."

Ninsianna showed her parents the interior of his wrecked ship. Mikhail hid his amusement … and dismay … as his three visitors rummaged through his cupboards like eager squirrels, attempting to follow their conversation as they contemplated the use of each unfamiliar item, with often amusing interpretations of what things were for. They spent quite some time discussing his broken food replicator, opening and shutting the door and pushing all of the buttons, until at last they turned to ask him a question.

“Mikhail,” Immanu asked. “Ninsianna is perplexed. How can you travel across the stars with no food in your sky canoe?”

“It's a replicator." Mikhail pulled out a little biocube from the storage container underneath the machine and showed it to him. “This contains all of the sub-atomic building blocks contained in most foods. You simply program in whatever you want to eat, for example, fish and potatoes, and the machine reassembles the molecules to make it for you.”

Immanu looked at him as though he were a twelve-headed ollphéist.

“It's magic, but the magic which runs the machine is broken.”

“Oh!" Immanu nodded with understanding. He explained it to Ninsianna and his wife.

Mikhail made a mental note to bring Ninsianna up to speed on modern technology as soon as he was able to teach her his language. She was an intelligent woman. It was not her fault she'd been born on a pre-technological planet. No doubt she would grasp the concepts as soon as he educated her about the science underlying it.

He was relieved when her parents finally left. They were nice people, but her mother scrutinized everything he did as though she were a cat waiting to pounce upon a mouse. Exhaustion caused his speech to pause mid-sentence and he felt like he might simply tumble forward. He couldn't remember how much sleep he'd needed before, but he doubted it was the numerous naps he needed now.

“Gá dom roinnt chodladh,” Mikhail grumbled. “Need … sleep.”

He stumbled to his sleeping quarters and plopped down into his bunk, not even bothering to cover himself before conking out like a dead man. Ninsianna covered him and kissed him on the cheek.

He dreamt of her. Steamy, sensual dreams where she soaped the length of his body with her supple hands. He groaned so loudly he woke himself up, the pleasant dream fading as he realized she was asleep mere inches from where he dreamt. So close, but so far away! Keeping his hands off of her would be one promise he regretted.

Oh well … he'd never promised to not to dream of her. Closing his eyes, he willed himself back into the pleasant dream to finish in the dream realm what he was unable to follow through with in real life.

Chapter 25

Galactic Standard Date:  152,323.02 AE

Zulu Sector:  Command Carrier ‘Light Emerging’

Colonel Raphael Israfa

Raphael

The Light Emerging hummed reassuringly beneath Raphael's feet as they continued their mission of searching for his missing friend. Major Glicki's communications console beeped, signaling an incoming subspace message. With practiced efficiency his second-in-command tapped the console to acknowledge the signal.

“Colonel Israfa,” Major Glicki said, “Supreme Commander-General Jophiel has sent an encoded message, eyes only. She wishes you to make contact within 10 minutes.”

“Thank you, Major Glicki,” Raphael said. “Please assume the bridge while I go down to my quarters.”

Their tone was formal whenever they communicated with each other in front of the other airmen, officer and subordinate, but the subtle tilt of her green heart-shaped head was anything but emotionless. Raphael could almost hear her calculating how much time until she got off-shift and how much liquor it would take to lubricate him enough to shake off whatever bad news Jophiel was about to deliver to him.

He checked his appearance as soon as he got back into his personal quarters and hid Jophiel's photograph in his desk drawer before queuing up the video monitor. Mikhail was her friend as well. She had overlooked the additional week which had passed without giving them new orders, but this would be the call. Father of her latest offspring or not, General Jophiel had a fleet to run and he was more valuable elsewhere.

Either that … or it was time.

“General,” Raphael greeted the videoconference monitor at the appointed contact time. “I'm at your service.”

“Colonel Israfa,” Jophiel said, her face a stern mask. “I assume you know why I'm calling?”

“I'm being recalled." Raphael attempted to state the expectation passively and failed. Jophiel was commanding him to abandon his closest friend for dead.

“Not quite,” Jophiel grimaced and breathed rapidly before regaining her composure. “I have another mission for you in that sector.”

“General … are you alright?”

“It is time,” Jophiel said without emotion. “By this time tomorrow, your son will be here.”

His son. Here. With  her. And then the child would be sent away. His child would be sent away. Away… To the youth training academy to be raised by strangers. The only link he would ever have to her. The only child he might ever have! Raphael lost all semblance of emotional control and spoke what was in his heart.

“Let me be with you!” Raphael's golden wings trembled with emotion. “Please! I can take a needle and be there in an hour. Let me be at your side to give you this small comfort…”

“This is my twelfth child,” Jophiel snapped, “I'm quite capable of taking care of myself.”

“Jophie, don't be like that," Raphael said. "I'm only suggesting you deserve to have someone at your side. You don't have to do this alone.”

“I am never alone,” Jophiel said coldly. “The Eternal Emperor himself sees to it that I, and my offspring, are well taken care of.”

“He’s my offspring too!" Anger rose in his voice as, for the first time in his life, he contradicted a superior officer. “He deserves to know his father!”

“He deserves to know what the Emperor decides he deserves to know!" Jophiel grimaced with pain as she endured another contraction. “That’s an order.”

Raphael stared at the beautiful, cold woman who was, even now, giving birth to his child while simultaneously juggling command of the Alliance fleet. It was rumored she'd given birth to her fifth child right on the battlefield. Dropped into a trench when the contractions became too great to fly, given birth, and shot a Sata’an soldier in the face just as the child had slid from her womb. She'd fought her way out with her newborn in hand, killing two dozen Sata’an soldiers, and then immediately handed the child over to the training academy to be raised. She'd been rewarded by the Emperor himself with a medal, and a promotion, for her valor.

Raphael wished now he'd given more weight to those reports and not been so enthralled by her beauty and the honor of being chosen by a five-star general to mate. Their son would be a magnificent soldier who would someday rise to a position of power. That much he knew about all of Jophiel’s offspring. But he felt cheated. Damn her! Damn her for being so heartless and cold!

“Raphael,” Jophiel used his given name. The stern mask of a general disappeared, replaced by the tenderness he'd glimpsed during their courtship. “I didn't call to fight. I can't change the laws of our people. But I can do this for you."

Raphael paused the hand which had been about to commit the imprudent act of cutting off the transmission with the Alliance's highest ranking general before he did something even worse. Such as tell her what a heartless bitch he thought she was. Or break down and beg her to reconsider. The latter, probably.

"We have fresh reports of mercenaries running cargo out there on the spiral arm where your friend disappeared," Jophiel said. "Our intelligence indicates you may be right about a larger foray into that sector by the Sata’an Empire. I'm ordering you to go investigate." She gave him a wistful smile. "If you should happen to stumble across Mikhail while doing so … that would be fortuitous.”

He understood what she was doing. Jophiel offered him another consolation prize…

“You will send me images of our child before you send him away?” Raphael pleaded. “He's my son, too…" His voice was barely a whisper as a single tear rolled down his cheek. Hazel-blue eyes turned green with emotion as he realized this was the end of his relationship with her. With their son born and abandoned to the youth training academy to be raised, Jophiel had no further use for him.

“Once you've found your friend,” Jophiel grimaced as the next contraction hit, “I'll give you leave to go visit him." Her expression was pregnant with regret as she reached towards the screen to end the transmission and hesitated. "I didn't realize when we mated that such things mattered to you. You're the first one who has ever asked.”

He touched the screen, one finger tracing the downward turn of her lips as they bid each other goodbye. Her lip trembled as though she could feel the caress he wished to give her from halfway across the galaxy.

“It matters,” Raphael whispered, his heart heavy with regret.

As soon as the screen went dark, he fished the photograph of him escorting her to a state dinner at the Emperor's palace and placed it back upon his desk. He'd guided her out of her shuttle on his arm as though she was a movie star instead of simply allowing her to march in on her own, the usual custom. He'd never understood why she'd brought him out so publicly before selecting him to sire this child, but an ambitious reporter had captured her expression as she'd offered him her hand. She wore a smile like the heroine on the cover of a Mantoid romance novel might give upon meeting her hero for the very first time.

Silly romantic notions!

At least she'd manufactured an excuse to allow him to continue searching for Mikhail and would give him access to their son. He wistfully traced her smile. Perhaps she didn't have a heart of stone after all?

Chapter 26

February – 3,390 BC

Earth:  Crash site

Ninsianna

The sound of scuffles coming from the front of the sky canoe woke Ninsianna with a start. A silent hand prevented her from igniting the magic lantern that was built into the ceiling of her bunk and illuminating the room.

“Shhh…"

Even in the dark, she would know the reassuring timbre of his voice anywhere. Her eyes adjusted to the dim green light of a device he called 'clock.' She watched him grab his firestick and shove it into a holster. He then reached into a compartment in the ceiling and pulled out a long, thin object that captured the dim green light. Ninsianna had never seen such a weapon, but it reminded her of the head of a spear, only longer. A word jumped into her mind. Sword. Was this the weapon her father had sung about in the ancient song? Motioning for her to remain still, Mikhail flared his wings and moved like a raptor towards the front of the sky canoe.

She held her breath, her heart pounding in her throat. A wild animal? She heard hushed voices. A thud. Not an animal. Human. Many humans. Mikhail was powerful, but he was badly wounded … and outnumbered.

Ninsianna was no warrior, but conflict was a way of life in a land with unpredictable rainfall. As soon as a child could walk, they were taught to defend themselves, whether they were male or female. Reaching under her bunk, she pulled out her satchel and fished out her obsidian blade.

Men shouted as Mikhail made his presence known. Belting her shawl around her waist so she wouldn't meet their attackers naked, she ran to the bridge just in time to see Mikhail pick up two men and smash their heads together. Without hesitation, he picked up a third man and threw him out the entrance from whence they'd come, knocking down his peers.

The first two jabbed at him with their spears, an ineffective weapon in the tight confines of the sky canoe. One threw. Mikhail caught it mid-air and used it to thwap his assailant off the side of the head. Spinning like a dust devil, he kicked the second assailant in the chest, simultaneously punching the first thief in the face. Grabbing both men by the scruff of the neck, he effortlessly tossed them out the crack in the hull and pushed through to the outside. The pre-dawn light cast a grey shadow against one edge of the horizon, rendering their attackers little more than dark shadows against an even darker landscape.

“Watch out!” Ninsianna rushed out after him.

Several men waited at the entrance with a net. They tossed it over his head and tried to tackle him to the ground. Ninsianna shrieked. Mikhail swung his sword and leaped into the air, flapping his wings to flip upside down. Ninsianna shouted relief. With a 20-cubit wingspan, they needed a much bigger net.

Her gratitude was short-lived as nearly two dozen men rushed at him with spears. With a flash of silver, Mikhail knocked several spears aside with his sword before one of them sank into his thigh.

“Mikhail!” she cried. Why did he not just use his firestick?

Goosebumps rose on Ninsianna's flesh as she watched a deadly calm descend upon her patient. Power. Never before had she sensed this much power. Flaring his wings for balance, he spread his legs and moved his arms to his sides so that he could move in any direction. He spoke to his attackers in a strange language. Not his language. Not hers. But a language so deep and ancient the very air vibrated with his words.

Horror screamed through her veins as he turned to survey the positions of his attackers and made eye contact with her. His eyes were black and empty, as though they were a bottomless black pit from whence nothing could return. The pre-dawn light played tricks upon her eyes, making her imagine he bore the leathery wings of a bat. She blinked. No. This was still Mikhail. It was his intent which had changed. Up until this point, he'd been trying not to kill any of their attackers. That wouldn't be the case any longer.

The attackers paused to coordinate their attack, the brightening pre-dawn light finally exposing their positions. Without so much as a grimace, Mikhail tore the spear from his thigh and held it in his left hand, ignoring the fact his wrist still had a splint on it. Cold fire lit up his expression as his fist clenched the sword in his right hand. Ninsianna shuddered.

“Ayahhhhh!!!" The attackers rushed forward.

Mikhail's wings pounded the air to keep him just aloft enough to spin as he hacked off limbs, decapitated heads, and stabbed those still moving in the heart in one fluid motion. Ninsianna shivered at the ease with which he slaughtered his attackers as though he was reaping stalks of grain. Five … no … twelve … no …  fifteen. It was over before Ninsianna had time to count to eighteen.

“Ninsianna!"

The last attacker called her name.

Mikhail swung his sword to reap the nineteenth deadly stalk of grain. The attacker tripped backwards, his poor footing saving his life as Mikhail's sword narrowly missed his head. The first ray of light burst above the horizon and streamed a single ray of sunlight directly upon the attackers face as though the goddess wished to announce, 'this is the man who is about to die.'

Oh, gods! It was Jamin!

Ninsianna moved without thinking.

“No!" Ninsianna threw herself on top of the Chief’s son. “Please Mikhail! No! It's Jamin!”

Blood splattered from his sword as he swung down for the death-stroke. Ninsianna flinched as the warm blood sprayed into her eyes. His sword stopped, so close to her neck that she could feel the coldness of the blade. Her heart beat with terror as she realized there was no recognition in his eyes, only a darkness so vast and empty it caused chills to run down her spine. Trust. Mikhail thought she'd betrayed his trust. Stretching her body across the chief’s son, she reached her hand up in a plea. Words bubbled to her lips that were not her own.

“Haec sunt mea latrunculorum frusta!”

Mikhail's response vibrated the very air, dark and terrible. "Fraudarit me, coniunx. Quem ipsa non quaerit."

She-who-is spoke directly through her to the avenging Angelic poised above her, sword raised to smite both Jamin and her for her perceived complicity in this attack. The goddess spoke with haughtiness and defiance, her power palpable as SHE used Ninsianna as her mortal vessel to speak to her champion.

"Habes pollicitus es me formaeque, maritus meus. Is unus est, electo meo. Non alterum unum."

Whatever SHE had just said, Ninsianna could sense She-who-is expected to be obeyed.

Mikhail removed the sword from her throat, but he didn't lower it.

"Quem ipsa non quaerit. Videbitis."

Ninsianna's lips moved with the goddess' words. A feeling of victory raced through her entire body even though she had no idea what the goddess had just won. The unfamiliar words tumbled from her lips.

"A sponsione tunc. Quo iure nos videbimus."

"Assentior."

Mikhail's wings fluttered as though all of a sudden he were off-balance. Recognition crept back into his eyes as they transformed from that terrifying emptiness into an unearthly blue glow. Saying something in a strange clicking language that was both different from the language spoken by the goddess and also unlike any language a human would use, he fought to regain control of his … not emotion … but rather lack of emotion … before finally lowering his blade. Ninsianna felt the goddess release her hold upon her body and knew she'd just been saved.

“Mikhail,” she reached towards him. “It is I, Ninsianna. Your friend. If you kill Jamin, his father will give you no quarter.”

Ignoring her hand, he leaped into the air, flapping his dark wings to gain height, and crash-landed on top of his ship when his broken wing failed to support him. He crouched like a panther in a tree, surveying the carnage he'd just wrought. He watched her with a cold, inhuman stare, muttering to himself in the clicking tongue. Trust. By protecting their attacker, she'd lost his trust … and very nearly her own life! Had the goddess not intervened…

There was only one way to demonstrate she'd had no complicity in this attack. She kicked Jamin in the side as hard as she could.

“Get up, you goat's rump!” she screamed, jabbing him in the throat with her obsidian blade. “What the hell were you thinking? You are responsible for this carnage!”

“Don't let him kill me!” Jamin's black eyes were wild with terror.

“Who are these men?” Ninsianna didn't recognize them, but by their attire they appeared to be enemies. “Halifians!!! Why do you consort with Halifians?!!”

“We came to save you from the demon,” Jamin said.

“Your father authorized this?”

“No … he forbade the men of our tribe to interfere,” Jamin said. “They are mercenaries. I hired them to save you.”

“The only person I need saving from is you! Now get out of here before I let him kill you!" For good measure, she kicked him a second time.

Jamin got up and shot a fearful glance to the roof of the ship. Mikhail crouched, waiting to spring, his sword stretched out in front of him. Despite the language barrier, the threat was understood. For the first time since the entire lifetime she had known him, the Chief's son ran for his life.

“And don't come back!” Ninsianna shook her fist at him like a victor claiming her spoils.

The sun lifted above the horizon, bathing the dark-winged creature crouched above her in golden fire, his face still contorted into an inhuman mask. She'd never seen him like this, but she'd often seen men come home from raiding parties or a hunt with the blood lust still raging through their veins. Unlike the men in her village, however, Mikhail didn't rage. He didn't talk. He didn't complain. And he didn't brag. He didn't speak to her at all. He just crouched, watching, no emotion on his face except the eerie blue glint to his eyes.

“I'm going to start cooking breakfast,” Ninsianna said, half in his language and half in hers. “You can come down when you're ready."

Normalcy was the best policy when these things happened with the village men. She hoped it would work with him.

Surveying the hacked bodies, she half-heartedly felt their necks (if they still had a head attached) to find a pulse. She was not surprised to find none. As a healer, she'd become inured to the sight of either blood or gore, but never had so many been killed by a single warrior … or the bodies so ruthlessly hacked apart. It was enough to make even her retch.

"Mother…" Ninsianna whispered, but she had no words adequate to put into a prayer.

Mikhail was attacked without provocation. His response was justified.

Yes. His actions had been justified. She must act accordingly. Pouring water onto her hands to rinse the blood, she went inside the ship to gather cooking implements and headed over to the stream so she wouldn't have to cook their breakfast amongst the dead.

“While you're at it,” she called over her shoulder. “Could you please get rid of these?" She made a shooing motion with one hand as though asking him to empty out his own chamber pot. “In this heat, they'll start to stink after a few hours."

She knew he couldn't understand everything she said, but she hoped he got the gist of it. She was striving for normalcy.

“Everything is perfectly normal…” she muttered under her breath.

* * * * *

Sometime later he fluttered over to where she washed laundry in the stream. Breakfast had come and gone, as had lunch. While she'd pretended not to watch, Mikhail had silently moved the bodies. Wherever he'd dumped them, she didn't want to know. Let their own kin come looking for them to perform the death rituals!

She gestured to the spear hole in Mikhail's leg.

“Let me look at that."

Blood soaked his pants, but the wound didn't appear to be bleeding heavily. The spear had only hit flesh, not one of the vital areas that carried blood from the rest of the body. Mikhail had a remarkable ability to heal, but she wanted to clean his wound and stitch it up so it didn't fester. Without a word, he sat on his customary boulder and waited. Ninsianna approached him cautiously

“They were Halifians,” she said, deliberately forcing herself to make eye contact and not look away. “People of the desert. They are sworn enemies of my tribe. I don't know what they were doing with Jamin.”

Mikhail watched her with his sharp eagle's gaze, scanning her face for the slightest ripple of emotion. Although his eyes didn't possess the inhuman blue glow of earlier, Ninsianna shivered. Now she knew what it felt like to be a mouse.

“I shall tell my father when he visits again,” she said. “He will speak to the Chief. Jamin shouldn't be consorting with our enemies.”

Mikhail didn't answer, but she didn't expect him to. She spoke more for her own benefit than his. Although he couldn't understand everything she said, she knew it was the normalcy of her voice, and not the words themselves, which would win back his trust.

“You must remove these so I can look at it." She motioned for him to remove the strange leg coverings that he called 'pants. “Unless you want to lose another garment when I cut them off. It's your choice.”

Without a word, he rose and undid his belt. Sliding the pants down to his knees, he sat back down. Ninsianna tried not to stare at the tight-fitting loincloth covering his private areas or the fact such a tight undergarment afforded her a good idea of what lay beneath. Although she'd not yet shared her bed with any lover, as a healer Ninsianna had attended to wounds near a man's private areas. She was relieved to learn her new friend resembled a human male in that respect as well.

“This will hurt." She poured water into the wound to rinse it.

Mikhail didn't flinch, but as she dabbed, her sensitive fingers could detect the twitch of pain he forced himself to suppress.

“I must stitch this up so it heals or it will keep seeping blood," she said. "I have some bangha in my satchel if you want something to kill the pain. It will make you sleepy." She'd offered the cannabis to him several times already to aid his sleep and numb his pain, and each time he'd refused. Perhaps he would accept it now?

“No,” he finally made eye contact. His face was impassive, but his eyes had lost the inhuman blue glow they'd possessed earlier when he'd transformed himself into an instrument of death.

She pulled her bone needle out of her satchel and rinsed it with water. She only had a few strands of horse tail hair left. She would need to ask her father for more. Working as efficiently as she could, she stitched up his leg. It took 17 stitches to close the wound, 34 separate punctures of the broad bone needle into his flesh, and not once did Mikhail flinch.

“All done," Ninsianna's fingers lingered on his thigh to communicate she was sorry for having to hurt him. "If you take these off, I'll wash and mend them for you." She pointed to his pants.

Mikhail nodded, his expression wary.

"I saved you some food." Her voice sounded high and shrill even to her own ears. Normal. She needed to act normal. She took a deep breath and forced her voice to convey calm. "Would you like something to eat?" She gestured towards the food she'd cooked earlier.

“Yes."

He watched her with that closed expression he used to hide his thoughts. At least it was an expression she recognized, not the inhuman one he'd sported while in killing mode. Her tribe valued warriors, but his abilities surpassed anything she'd ever seen, or even heard sung about in Papa's songs; even more awesome than the legends of Lugalbanda, her warrior-shaman grandfather. The goddess had sent him to her. She must accept him for who he was.

Acting as though it was lunch for any other day, she gathered the tubers, wild onions, fiddleheads, and a small bird she'd captured and cooked earlier and served them on one of the strange platters from his ship. He wolfed them down. He had to be ravenous after skipping both breakfast and lunch, but he kept his eyes on her the entire time.

Taking his bloody pants, she waded into the stream, washed out the blood, and hung them in the sun to dry. He went into his ship and came out wearing an identical clean pair. The rest of the day was spent in silence. Ninsianna talked her way through the daily routine as if everything were perfectly normal. Mikhail only answered yes or no when prompted. There were no language lessons that day, nor did Ninsianna dare ask him how he'd become so efficient at killing. Even if he remembered, she had a feeling it was not something he liked to talk about.

As the sun went down, they moved inside to turn into their bunks. Mikhail placed debris in front of the crack so it would make noise if somebody tried to enter. Turning to him just before she slipped under the covers, she buried her face into his chest and wrapped her arms around his waist, sobbing. She was surprised when, not only did he return the gesture, but he buried his face into her hair, his body shuddering with whatever emotion he kept at bay. His good wing, the one which was not hampered by a splint, curled around her, as though he wished to shield her from the ugliness they'd both witnessed today.

She withdrew and whispered good night. Without a word, she slipped off her shawl, slid beneath the covers, and went to sleep.

Mikhail stood over her a long time before doing the same.

Chapter 27

For this cause ought the woman

To have [a veil] on her head,

Because of the angels [she might tempt].

Corinthians 11:10

Galactic Standard Date:  152,323.02

Sata’an Empire:  Hades-6

Emperor Shay’tan

Shay’tan

Alliance legend claimed that Shay'tan lived in a hellish cave which could only be accessed by crossing a river of fire. In truth, Hades-6 was just like any other cosmopolitan homeworld, complete with skyscrapers and a busy spaceport. Shay'tan's palace rose above his capital city, Dis, like a fairytale castle, with tall, slender spires and a moat filled with water, not fire. Once upon a time his ancestors had lived in caves, but then again, so had Hashem's ancestors. It was all propaganda, intended to smear his name so Alliance citizens wouldn't be tempted by Sata'anic ideals of orderliness and wealth. All except for the bit about hoarding treasure. That was true…

“Your Eminence,” Ba'al Zebub bowed and tucked his tail up against the right side of his body. “I have the merchandise.”

“Ooh! Let me see!" Shay'tan leaned forward like a little boy who had just been told he could have a piece of candy. “If this is what Hudhafah said it is, I'll be able to win major concessions from my ancient adversary.”

The ornate carved wooden doors, gilded with gold and precious jewels, opened. Two lizard-like Sata’an guards dragged in a terrified, ebony-skinned human female. The woman took one look at Shay'tan's enormous, dragon visage seated upon his ornate gilded throne, with his leathery wings, sharp claws, and huge fangs, and immediately fainted.

“Not very sturdy, are they?” Shay’tan snuffled the unconscious woman with indignation. “It's hard to believe this is the foundation upon which Hashem built his armies.”

“All genetic tests confirm our suspicions,” Ba'al Zebub said. “This is the root stock of the four hybrid races.”

“And Hashem thinks they are extinct?” Shay’tan's snout turned upwards in a predatory grin. “Hmm…. How can I use this to our advantage?”

“Perhaps we could sell a few to key players?" Ba'al Zebub said. "Not enough to solve the hybrid fertility problem. Just to secure key allies?”

Shay’tan scratched a loose scale as he schemed. “We have destabilized their economy with these free trade agreements of yours. And I have quintupled my fleet … all paid for with Alliance dollars.”

“The idiots are so eager for peace that they haven't noticed their trade deficit is running 300 to one,” Ba'al Zebub laughed. “Should I gather more of these humans for trade?”

Shay'tan glanced at the curtain behind his throne where he kept the enormous whirling map of the galaxy he and his ancient adversary used to plot out their next move. After countless millennia of playing for dominion over the galaxy, he had enough of the map memorized to recall where the planet lay in relation to his empire.

“No,” Shay’tan said. “The human homeworld is too far from my sphere of influence to properly defend. The hybrids are so desperate for a solution to their little problem that they would go to war in a heartbeat to secure the planet under the guise of freeing them. It behooves us to keep humans in short supply.”

“But this could be extremely profitable!” Ba'al Zebub protested. “We could get even richer!”

“Not if we can't hold onto that planet,” Shay’tan said. “Right now, it's just a disputed resource planet on one of the outermost spiral arms. If Hashem wants it badly enough, he'll just swoop in and take it.”

“But that would be an act of war!” Ba'al Zebub said.

“It's not within the current borders of the Sata’an Empire,” Shay’tan sighed. “If humans invite the Alliance to annex them, we can’t even lay claim to it as a Sata’an Protectorate. Been there. Done that. Lost the Spiderids that way. Send in a few troublemakers singing songs of free will and equality, milk and honey for every citizen without having to get off their asses and work for it, and the next thing you know the tribal chiefs will beg Hashem to swoop in and make them an Alliance Trust Territory.”

“What if we keep the location a secret?” Ba'al Zebub suggested.

Shay’tan considered Ba'al Zebub's proposal. His second-in-command was a brilliant strategist, but he lacked Shay’tan’s long view. This was the biggest leverage he'd gained against his ancient adversary in almost 150,000 years. If he wanted to keep that advantage, he needed to plot his next move wisely.

His snout turned upwards in a toothy grin as he thought of a solution. He hadn't come up with a plan this brilliant since he'd tricked Hashem into creating a fifth race of … ooh! Even the thought of it gave Shay’tan chills!

“Hashem’s got spies watching our every move,” Shay’tan said. “We must be discrete. Send an armada to defend the planet, but send them the long way around.”

“From outside the spiral arms?” Ba'al Zebub scowled. “That could take months. Before we can even launch the darned thing, we would first need to gather ships and outfit them with resources in such a way that it doesn't tip off Hashem's spies.”

“I have every trust in you, my friend!" Shay'tan chuckled. "It's the only way to keep the Alliance’s nose out of our business. If we want to keep that planet, we must gerrymander a border out to annex it and grant its residents full diplomatic privileges … with all of the attendant rights and responsibilities.”

“But the humans still throw sticks and stones!" Ba'al Zebub protested. "Granting full Sata’anic membership to such cavemen would be akin to … to … to …”

“Humans were once as technologically advanced as we are.” Shay’tan gave his second-in-command a warning snort which caused a puff of smoke to exude from his nostrils. “Don't underestimate them. This group survived the destruction of their original homeworld and escaped our notice … probably because they were knocked back into the Stone Age. We didn't pick up any energy signatures, so we had no reason to go investigate. No … granting them full Sata’anic membership is the right course of action.”

“But then we won’t be able to sell them!” Ba'al Zebub said. “Citizenship implies rights.”

“And responsibilities,” Shay’tan added with a toothy smirk.

He rubbed his claws together with delight at the thought of adding another sentient species to his workforce, especially one as versatile as the root stock of Hashem's hybrid armies. Sata’anic tributaries turned over all youngsters who reached sexual maturity for their mandatory twenty-year tenure of service. After two decades serving on civilized worlds, human males would be as loyal as any other Sata'anic subject, while human females would be gifted as wives to those who acted for the good of the Empire, ensuring that only those males who had proved their loyalty to him could reproduce.

Yes … it behooved him to bring humans into the fold as quickly as possible. All he'd to do was play it fast and cool for the next twenty years and he would have Hashem over a barrel. Twenty years! It wasn't even a blink of an eye to an immortal such as himself. He could just see the look on Hashem’s face when he sprang that chess move on him during a future match!

“Who’s to say a few of those brides can’t be gifted to Alliance males who promote Sata’an policies?” Ba'al Zebub suggested. “Mercantilists. Or politicians with fertility problems, perhaps? A little black-market side-trade to grease the wheels of commerce?”

“Slavery is outlawed in the Alliance,” Shay’tan said. “Hashem will never agree to it.”

“Not as slaves!” Ba'al Zebub said. “How about … wives? Mail-order brides?”

“We have strict rules about how a wife is to be treated,” Shay’tan growled, his tail twitching. “I'm not willing to throw away our Sata’anic mores just to tweak Hashem’s nose.”

Every Sata’an female's first loyalty lay with the good of the Empire. Marriage, and the children born of that marriage, was of vital interest to the state. Shay’tan had socially engineered Sata’an society to kick Hashem’s ass the same way Hashem had genetically engineered his hybrid super-soldiers to kick his long red tail. Thanks to policies promoting family, Sata’anic citizens outnumbered Alliance ones six-to-one, while Hashem's super-soldiers were dying out, casualties of too many generations of selective breeding and being used as cannon fodder when much less valuable species should have been used. By being an ivory tower elitist, Hashem had done Shay'tan's dirty work for him.

Soldiers! Sata’anic females’ first duty was to breed soldiers for his armies! What would happen when he'd increased human numbers enough to send the mythological root-stock of Hashem’s own armies against his genetically engineered super-soldiers? The ones who were desperate to reproduce with them? Not kill them…

Spectacular!

“How do we even know this female is still genetically compatible enough to mate with an Alliance male?" Ba'al Zebub gestured to the ebony female collapsed upon the floor. “Their species have been separated for 74,000 years. For all we know, enough genetic drift has occurred for their species to diverge.”

“Why not gift her to an Alliance citizen who has done something to further our interests?” Shay’tan suggested. “Gift her as a bride on the condition her existence be kept a secret. Report back how our little … experiment … went.”

“I have just the sleazy politician in mind,” Ba'al Zebub rubbed his claws together. “This little package will solve a very public problem he’s been having. Shall I wrap her up and give her as a goodwill gift from you?”

Shay’tan immediately knew which politician Ba'al Zebub had in mind. He laughed so hard the foundation of his palace trembled.

Check!

“Genius!” Shay’tan laughed. “And for theatrics, make sure she is suitably attired. And a priest brought along to read the marriage vows." He slapped his paw upon his throne with delight. “No loose Alliance morals for our newest Sata’an females! Oh …no! We are setting a precedent with this one! Hashem will have an apoplexy when he discovers his own son flaunted his ridiculous ‘no marriage, no same mate twice’ breeding policies and hid the offspring. I can't wait to see how this plays out!”

“Right away, your eminence,” Ba'al Zebub bowed. He signaled the two guards to carry the unconscious female out of the throne room. “Make sure you don't damage the merchandise!”

Shay’tan noted the stiffness to his second-in-command’s posture. Anger? Impossible! This discovery was good for everyone, including the secret bank account that Ba'al Zebub had no idea Shay’tan monitored. No. Other than Ba'al Zebub’s habit of skimming a percentage of every trade deal he brokered, a common and officially ‘ignored’ part of the upper echelons of Sata’an society, Ba'al Zebub was his most loyal subject. He'd had 32 wives gifted to him for exemplary service. Was he upset because he thought Shay’tan was ignoring his advice?

No…  More likely Ba'al Zebub had already committed the profits he could skim selling humans to some side-endeavor. That was it. Ba'al Zebub had expenses the same as everybody else. With the trade deal Lucifer had just passed in Parliament, the Sata'an Empire was so flush with cash that Shay’tan could afford to be magnanimous. In fact … when it came to enticing his newest conquest over to his way of thinking, it downright behooved him. Shay’tan decided he would offer his right-hand man an even more productive means to skim money

“Zebub!” Shay’tan said with a toothy grin. “You have my blessing to do whatever is necessary to secure that planet as quickly as possible. I want you to roll out the red carpet and have that world industrialized within twenty years. Every resource I possess is yours to command!”

The feral glint in Ba'al Zebub’s eyes didn't give Shay’tan the warm feeling he sought. A scribe rushed forward with another fire to put out within his empire, interrupting his thoughts. The old dragon pushed aside his apprehensions and focused on the latest emergency.

Chapter 28

March – 3,390 BCE

Earth:  Crash site

Colonel Mikhail Mannuki’ili

Mikhail

The snap of a twig…

Mikhail’s head shot up, his hand automatically reaching for the reassuring bulge of the pulse rifle strapped to his hip. A greeting called through the air. Immanu. Ninsianna’s father.

Their eyes met. Either the shaman knew about the attack, or he'd picked up on the tension in the camp. Immanu waited for Mikhail to acknowledge his presence before coming closer, not the actions of an assailant. Mikhail nodded and moved his hand back to his thigh, close enough that he could pull his weapon.

“Papa!" Ninsianna ran up and sank her face into her father's chest.

Mikhail raised one eyebrow at the embrace. It was a complex ritual, the seeking of physical comfort, but he hadn't observed the phenomenon in enough settings to discern the rules. The gesture didn't appear to be an action one allowed one's enemies. When he'd allowed Ninsianna to hug him, he'd been painfully aware of just how vulnerable he was to a knife in the ribs. He allowed it because …

Because he'd been as rattled by the incident as she was. If Ninsianna wanted him dead, she would have left him to die in the aftermath of the crash. He didn't know who to trust, but he trusted her. Her father could give him answers. Answers which could only be imperfectly communicated given the language barrier.

“Yanlış çocuk nedir?" Immanu gave Mikhail a look which communicated ‘what did you do to upset my daughter?’

“Jamin,” Ninsianna cried. “Jamin eighteen Halifians with iki gece önce kampa came! They Mikhail yakalamaya çalıştım or kill him. Which not sure...”

Mikhail fingered his firestick and twitched his wings. He couldn't fault her for the actions of her jilted lover, but he was still perturbed. The last time he was here, Immanu had claimed their chief had ordered his son to stand down. Middle-of-the-night raids were not something that just ‘happened’ without somebody in authority giving an order. Either Immanu had lied, or he was mistaken about the intentions of their village chief. Either that, or the chief faced a coup d’état from his son. Neither possibility bode well for his continued relationship with these people.

“Ben gitmeden önce this morning Jamin saw." Immanu's facial features conveyed surprise. “This hiç bahsedilmemesi village make."

Mikhail strained to translate the conversation. Immanu had seen Jamin this morning. Something about the village. Either the shaman was a master of deception, or the news came as a surprise.

“He cesaret edemezdim!” Ninsianna gave an indignant hiccough. “His father him here gelip yasakladı said."

Something the chief had said to his son? Mikhail scrutinized their body language, trying to add context to what few words he understood. Ninsianna had been silent since the incident. Not only had she stopped speaking to him, but she'd ceased her perpetual conversation with the deity she viewed more as an invisible friend than someone she worshipped.

The last thing he recalled was getting a spear in his thigh, and then looking down from the roof of his ship to see bodies littering the ground. The fact he'd killed his attackers didn't surprise him. He was a soldier. That was what soldiers did. It was the fact he'd killed all of their attackers, except for Jamin, and he couldn't remember it!

No. That wasn’t true. He recalled Ninsianna's body thrown across her lover's, begging for his life, and how much trouble he’d had stopping himself from killing her as well. That's what had him rattled. Whatever training he'd instinctively drawn upon, he'd only marginally been in control of it. That was why he wasn't too anxious to muddle his way through the language barrier and ask what had happened. If she knew he hadn't been in control it, might terrify her enough to go running right back to the man who'd attacked them for protection. Protection from him...

His mind was pulled back by Immanu asking a question. He'd lost focus on their conversation. He couldn't afford to lose focus. With the added disadvantage of a language barrier, he couldn't allow a single detail to escape his notice.

“Jamin told Ninsianna that the men who came with him were mercenaries,” Immanu said in his archaic version of Mikhail’s language. “Halifians. A rival tribe. He hired them to save her from you.”

Mikhail's wings betrayed his distrust. He hid his emotions, forcing his face to be impassive, and his wings to return to their normal, guarded position. Until he figured out who was friend or foe, he couldn't afford to betray the direction of his thoughts.

“Oh Papa!” Ninsianna cried out. “Mikhail öldürdüler. This böyle olmaz our people for sorun neden olur?

Immanu harrumphed and spoke in his own language, then translated so Mikhail could understand.

“I told her the only thing she needs saving from is an idiot of a father who tried to coerce her to marry that jackal!”

Immanu looked towards the ship. The wind had shifted, bringing the scent of death. The bodies were gone, but flies feasted on the dried Halifian blood and remnants of entrails baking in the sun.

“I need to discuss this with the Chief,” Immanu said. “Jamin didn't breathe a word of this to anyone. Chief Kiyan will be outraged that his own son conspired with our enemies.”

“Is it possible that your Chief authorized this attack behind your back?” Mikhail asked. “Mercenaries are not cheap.”

Immanu turned the idea over in his mind, and then dismissed it.

“I'm not foolish enough to blindly trust our leader,” Immanu said. “But I'm a pretty good judge of character. The Chief is not hotheaded like his son. He is intrigued by the military advantage to be gained by allying with your people."

Immanu pointed to the pulse rifle strapped to Mikhail’s hip. Ninsianna hovered in the background, wringing her hands as she strained to understand her father's words. She asked a question, to translate, no doubt.

“Ben yalniz, him I need to speak,” Immanu said to Ninsianna.

To Mikhail’s surprise, she didn't argue but grabbed her satchel and headed off into a field where she’d had success digging wild onions. He couldn't understand her reply, but ‘supper’ had been one of the first words she'd taught him. Immanu waited until his daughter was out of earshot before continuing their conversation.

“Even though the men who attacked you're not of our tribe,” Immanu said. “As shaman, it's my duty to perform the death rituals. You must take me to them so their spirits don't linger to harm to the living.”

“They are up there." Mikhail pointed to a rise off in the distance. He scrutinized the shaman’s demeanor. Was it his own dead he buried? Allies? Or should he take Immanu’s words at face value?

“First I must gather some things." Immanu examined the ground around the camp until he found a plant Ninsianna called qat; a mild stimulant she'd been giving him to help rebuild his strength. “Mikhail … could you please fill a container with water?”

Mikhail went into his ship to fetch a bucket and filled it from the stream. Immanu studied it, fascinated by its design. It was only plastic. But it was technology his people had never seen. He was just as interested when Mikhail retrieved a small steel toolbox to carry an ember from the fire. Immanu asked him to line the box with dried moss.

Mikhail understood what Immanu was doing. This was not just a ritual for the dead, but an opportunity to work together and put him at ease. He was not sure how he knew this was what Immanu was up to, but it felt reassuring. As though the shaman shared the same unspoken ‘rules’ that his species used.

An image of a shapeless glob popped into his mind, a disembodied feeling of frustration at trying to communicate with the thing Mikhail knew was sentient … and a hell of a lot smarter than he was. He pulled out a name. Dardda’il. The image was lost before he could get more. Dardda’il. Dardda’il. Dardda’il. Shapeless smart globs he'd trouble communicating with because they didn't share the same underlying rules of social behavior. It was another fragment of his past to cling to even as his gut told him that these Dardda’il were not a significant part of his life.

Immanu looked at the enormous pile of sticks Ninsianna had been gathering all morning. ‘Make busy’ work to ease the silence which normally would have been filled with her friendly chatter, or the conversation she'd stopped having with her invisible goddess friend.

“Mikhail,” Immanu asked, “we need firewood for the ceremony. Could you please carry some with us to the gravesite?”

Mikhail did as asked, his face arranged in an impassive mask. His instincts told him to trust Ninsianna’s father. Something about him was familiar … and not just the eerie tawny-beige eyes Immanu had bequeathed to his daughter. But the middle-of-the-night raid had rattled him. He hadn't simply crash-landed in unknown territory, but into territory which was hostile to his presence. He needed to be careful.

“We are ready,” Immanu said. “Show me where you put the bodies.”

“Where is Ninsianna?” Mikhail stiffened when he realized she'd moved out of his line of sight.

It had been little more than two weeks since he'd woken up with no memory of his past, but she was the only constant he had. As much as he hated being dependent upon her, he was dependent upon her. Not for physical protection … the pulse rifle would protect him however long it took to deplete the battery. Not long by the angry red light blinking on the hilt, but long enough. It was the psychological stability she provided. Someone who accepted him when even he didn't know who he was. He felt adrift in the vacuum of empty space and she was his life pod.

“Ninsianna will be fine,” Immanu said. “She doesn't like the ceremony of the dead. She will avoid us until it's over.”

Mikhail led him to a small hill he'd found far enough away from the downed ship so that the mercenary's families wouldn't need to trespass upon the perimeter to visit the graves. He couldn't remember what one was supposed to do when burying one's enemies, but from the prayers he'd been reciting as he'd become aware of the carnage beneath him, the ritual must be deeply ingrained into his subconscious. He'd dug eighteen separate graves, each one's head facing the rising sun. Cairns were piled over each grave to prevent wild animals from disturbing the bodies. He'd arranged their personal effects on top of the graves so their next of kin could identify them.

Immanu grunted approval. “The dead are honored by what you've done. But I must perform my own people’s rituals to ensure their spirits don't plague Ninsianna for her participation in their death. Will you help?”

Mikhail nodded. Death rituals were as much for the living as the dead. Soldiers who won in battle risked two things. Overwhelming guilt. Or desensitization to the fact they'd just taken another life. Neither was desirable. Strict customs requiring the victors to treat the bodies of the losers with respect helped them cope without becoming inhuman. From what he'd seen, Ninsianna’s people shared similar beliefs.

“We'll build the fire here,” Immanu said. They piled the fire wood and placed the ember into its midst, blowing until flames licked the pile with hungry tongues. Mikhail stared into the fire, his eyes avoiding the gravesites. Immanu pulled items from his satchel and arranged them upon the points of the compass.

“To guide the dead into the dream world,” Immanu said. “You must enter the earth yourself." He unwrapped a cloth loaded with wet, ochre-laden mud dug out of the stream.

Unwrapping the shawl Ubaid men used in place of a shirt so that it wouldn't get muddy, Immanu used the mud to paint symbols onto his own body. As he did, he sang a chanting song in a low, frog-like bass voice similar to one of the songs Ninsianna sang when she performed the ritual he thought of as 'laying on of hands' to massage his broken wing. Immanu handed Mikhail the packet of mud and gestured for him to do the same.

“I'm not familiar with this ritual,” Mikhail said. “You will need to show me.”

“Like this." Immanu scooped a chunk of the pasty yellow ochre with his index and middle finger. “Allow me.”

Mikhail stiffened as Immanu painted arrows and other symbols upon his face, chest and arms. The mud was cool and gritty, but no more uncomfortable than the sweat which had accumulated from carrying wood up to the gravesite. Mikhail watched as the shaman painted asterisks, diamonds, squiggles, and sheathes of grain. Immanu's finger paused on the final symbol, a winged creature he'd been painting on the unbandaged side of Mikhail’s collarbone. Mikhail glanced at the identical symbol Immanu had painted on his own chest.

The image of a winged man…

“I guess they skipped the intermediate trader.” Immanu glanced towards the graves where Mikhail had planted a single gigantic feather on each, sticking out of the rocks like a tree, telling the world who had smote these men.

Mikhail was relieved Immanu didn't prostrate himself as he'd done that first day in the ship. It had taken the better part of the afternoon to convince the shaman he was no demi-god.

“Now we must pray to the earth to accept the bodies of the dead back into her womb,” Immanu studied his face.

Mikhail hoped the shaman could not discern it was not a lack of emotion he hid beneath his impassive mask, but entirely too many emotions that would be destructive if unleashed. He felt as though he were hanging onto sanity by a single thread. Immanu gave him leaves from the qat plant to chew and ignited a bundle he'd gathered so they smoldered. The shaman circled each grave, invoking a different name of She-who-is in every direction, praying for safe passage into the dreamtime.

“Now we must offer the dead water to bring on their journey,” Immanu said, holding out the plastic container he’d had Mikhail fetch earlier. “And ask the goddess to grant them pleasant dreams. You must perform this part of the ceremony.”

“I think we have a similar tradition,” Mikhail frowned in concentration. “I have recollection of … someone … anointing the foreheads of the dead with water. Or oil.”

Eighteen graves later, Immanu took the container and scooped a handful of water himself onto each grave. “I offer safe passage and pleasant dreams on behalf of Ninsianna so their spirits will bear her no ill will.”

They sat and stared into the fire, silence stretching between them until the sun began to set. Prayers leaped into Mikhail’s mind … prayers in that third language he hadn't even been aware was a separate language until Ninsianna had asked him about it. Prayers offered on behalf of the dead to some deity he couldn't remember having ever worshipped.

The scent of cooking fish wafted from the campsite. And … onions? He definitely smelled onions. Mikhail suppressed a smile.

“Let's see what Ninsianna prepared for supper,” Immanu said. “We have paid these jackals far more respect than they deserve.”

It was too late for Immanu to hike back to the village. He reassured his daughter his wife knew he would spend the night. Over the next few hours, Immanu and Ninsianna took turns telling funny stories about their village. Stories which made the village sound inviting … not the kind of place which would launch an attack. They sang songs long past the time decent folk would have gone to bed and whispered to each other across the tight confines of the sleeping quarters, father-to-daughter stories no doubt, in the dark. A close-knit family.

The doubt which gripped Mikhail gradually loosened its hold. Death ceremonies were for the living.

Chapter 29

Galactic Standard Date:  152,323.03 AE

Alpha Sector:  Command Carrier ‘Eternal Light’

Supreme Commander-General Jophiel

Jophiel

Jophiel knew it was a bad idea, but why ascend to the position of Supreme Commander-General if you couldn't bend your own rules? Beneath her, the Eternal Light hummed with reassuring power, a constant reminder she had a bigger mission to oversee. She allowed the medics to change her into comfortable clothing before succumbing to the temptation to take a peek…

"Let me hold him," Jophiel ordered the frog-like Delphinium midwife who'd been about to wheel her newborn out before she'd even had a chance to see him. It served everybody’s interests if the mother parted with the child without tears, but each hybrid mother was entitled to hold their infant once before they were sent away, never to be held by their mother again.

Her heart lifted up into her throat as the midwife deposited the sleeping infant into her arms. Like all Angelic newborns, his head, wings and back were covered in downy fuzz, just like a little golden chick. She relished the sensation of his warm, flawless skin as she nuzzled him with her sensitive cheek and inhaled his baby scent. It was too early to tell for certain, but the child bore a strong resemblance to his father.

“What shall you name him, Sir?"

“Uriel.” Jophiel beamed at her crowning achievement to a species facing extinction. “He shall be called Light of the Eternal Emperor.”

“The child is overdue for the transport shuttle, Sir." The midwife reached out to whisk the child away to one of the youth training academies where hybrid children were raised, educated, and integrated into the Emperor's armies.

Jophiel snatched the infant as far away from the froglike, grasping arms as she could. “Can’t I have a little more time?”

It was an irrational emotion, but with each passing pregnancy, giving away her offspring had become harder. Especially this one. Although she tried not to form emotional attachments to her children’s sires, she’d had a hard time letting Raphael go. That he'd formed a similar attachment to her and wished to have a relationship with their son made things even more difficult. Sentiment was a weakness no military leader could afford.

“You know what a bad example that will set, Sir." The midwife's transparent inner-eyelids lifted as her pupils contracted into a concerned slit. “If the highest ranking general in the Alliance fleet refuses to complete her duty to fill the ranks, the lower ranking females will follow suit.”

“I know, but….”

“You know the consequences, Sir,” the midwife harummed with concern. Jophiel was not the first hybrid female she’d had to coax into giving up her child, but she was the most powerful and visible.

Yes. Jophiel knew more than anybody what the consequences were. The feat of science which had brought their races into existence had come with a fatal flaw. Although hybrids had the desirable traits of their DNA donors, they were plagued with the problems which occurred whenever hybrid species of any ilk were created. Whether plant or animal, hybrids came with an astronomically high rate of sterility. The more the Emperor had inbred his armies for their abilities as soldiers, the worse that defect had become.

Their only hope to avoid extinction was to be outbred again…

“Can’t you make an excuse?” Jophiel pleaded. “Say the infant is experiencing some problem that makes transport impossible.”

“You're in command, Sir,” the midwife looked skeptical. “But remember the consequences.”

“I'll put him on the next shuttle,” Jophiel reassured her. “Please … his father asked for pictures. Could you take one of me holding the baby?”

Jophiel imagined what it would be like if circumstances were different. What if she raised her children herself as other species did? Would she have to give up her career? She loved the Emperor, but her child pulled at her heart like a sun tugging a planet into orbit. And Raphael? What would he be like as a father? He'd been a sensitive and thoughtful lover; the only one who'd ever asked what her dreams were instead of using the access granted during the heat cycle to tell her his career aspirations. Yes. Raphael would make a great father and a thoughtful mate. If only…

The sharp flash brought her back to reality. She dismissed the midwife with orders to transmit the photograph to the lover she must never see again, so close had he come to breaking her resolve.

“Maybe it would be better if the Emperor confined us to a single homeworld until our numbers increase like Shay’tan does,” Jophiel whispered to her baby as soon as the Delphinium brunhilda waiting to snatch her child left the room. “Some free will! Hand you over or we go extinct!”

Uriel looked at her trustingly, his eyes already showing the brilliant blue-green color they would someday become. He reached towards her face, entangling his tiny baby fingers in her white-blonde hair. If she wavered, every female hybrid in the Alliance fleet would follow suit.

“In all of my years of military service,” Jophiel whispered, “I have never come across a single Sata’an female. I don't agree with females being the property of their husbands, but their birth rate far surpasses ours.”

Uriel yawned, giving her a good view of his little pink mouth. He closed his eyes, content, the beginnings of a tiny dimple showing on one cheek. It was the dimple which nearly did her in.

“If we weren’t going extinct,” Jophiel said. “I would keep you. And your father, too! Out of all the males I've chosen to sire offspring, I like your father the best. Giving him up was almost as hard as giving you up, little one. It's why I had to send him so far away. If he was near, I wouldn't be able to go through with this.”

Jophiel began to cry. A lot more was at stake than her own personal happiness or that of her child.

She cuddled her baby a little while longer, and then summoned the midwife. Uriel, who had been sleeping peacefully, began to squall as soon as he was taken from her arms. Jophiel suppressed her tears until the midwife left. Uriel’s cries faded as he was whisked down the hallway to a waiting shuttle to take him away as quickly as possible lest she change her mind.

She curled up in a ball and cried, the reassuring hum of her command carrier assaulting her ears like the screech of harpies flinging insults at her cowardice. Sometimes she hated being the boss…

Chapter 30

February – 3,390 BC

Earth:  Village of Assur

Jamin

Jamin knew what was coming the moment he came home from the hunt and spotted Immanu leaving his father's house. Stiffening his spine to remind his father he was now a little bit taller than him, he strode inside and held out his share of the gazelle he and Siamek had slain, a peace offering to the man his whole life he'd called 'the Chief.'

“What the hell were you thinking?!!!" His father's anger hit him full-force like the leading edge of a sandstorm. "Halifians?!!!"

Veins bulged forth from the Chief's neck, muscular and thick from a lifetime of training as a warrior-chief. He spat out the last word as though it were goat shit.

“You weren’t going to do anything!” Jamin's black eyes flashed with anger. “You weren't even here when it happened! A demon was cast down from the sky in a fireball which nearly incinerated half this village and all you want to do is invite him over for a feast!”

“He possesses weapon we need to fend off our enemies,” the Chief's hand tightened into a fist. “The Halifians! In case you've forgotten who our real enemies are!”

“The Halifians are our enemies because our ancestors kicked their ancestors off of their tribal lands,” Jamin said. “How come you're not so anxious to invite them over to discuss things?”

“I tried! They ambushed us. Twice!" the Chief threw his arms to his side the way a referee would make an 'out' signal during a kabbadi match. "And then they…they…they…"

His father turned his back to him. Whatever the real reason the Chief hated the Halifians, it went far beyond the usual tit-for-tat water skirmishes the Ubaid waged perpetually against their neighbors. "At some point, you've got to acknowledge diplomacy doesn't work and take a hard line.”

“Diplomacy has not worked with the demon, either,” Jamin said. “First he shot lighting at us out of his firestick. And then he slaughtered eighteen men I hired to free my fiancé."

He replicated holding the firestick in front of him. It was peculiar magic, a weapon that didn't require cocking back your arm to throw a lightning bolt the way you would a spear or blade. It was a weapon he wished to get his hands on.

“Ninsianna is not your fiancé anymore,” the Chief said. “She has taken refuge with the winged one because you refuse to take no for an answer. He's not threatening her. He's protecting her. From you!”

Jamin's hand moved to protect his stomach as though he'd just been struck. His father always had known where to hit him where it hurt.

“She never gave me a reason why!” Jamin's voice broke. “She just broke it off. For no reason! One day she tells me she loves me and can't wait to get married, and then the next day she says she doesn’t. We didn't even have an argument!"

He turned his back so the Chief wouldn't see the tears that threatened to erupt at her betrayal. His chest heaved as he inhaled and held his breath, forcing the emotion back into the pit of his stomach. Real men didn't cry!

“Sometimes people just realize they just aren't right for one another,” the Chief said much more gently this time. “Ninsianna didn't leave you for the winged one. She left. And then when you tried to force her hand, she took refuge with someone powerful enough to make you back off. She's just not the right person to be the wife of a future chief.”

“Then who is?” Jamin said. “The other women are vapid like sheep! I want a mate who will be my equal in all things.”

“And the first thing you tried to do when you found that equal,” the Chief said, “was change her. You tried to force her to fit your narrow notion of what a wife should be. Is it any wonder she balked?”

“Mama followed your orders,” Jamin said. “She never dishonored you in front of the tribe.”

“You were nine years old when she died,” the Chief said. “You were too young to remember what she was really like.”

Jamin stared at a small, woven rug which occupied a place of honor on the wall. The colorful rug was unfinished, just like his mother's life.

“She used to sing me songs.” Jamin's eyes grew dark with pain. “And bake bread that was so good it made my mouth water. I don't remember her ever starting an argument.”

“If you think your mother was one to follow orders, then you'd better think again." His father's eyes focused wistfully into the past. “She was every bit as strong willed and independent as Ninsianna is. Or Needa, her mother. If you want to see how to treat a woman, look to how Immanu treats his wife.”

“Just two weeks ago you told me to stay behind because you didn't want the other chiefs to see Ninsianna try to boss me around!" Jamin said.

“It was an error on my part,” the Chief said. "And for that, I am sorry." Sorrow etched his father's face. “Sometimes I cannot bear to see that Immanu is as happy as I was when your mother was still alive. I would give up everything I own just to have your mother back for a single day.”

They stood there in a stalemate.

“He is a threat, father,” Jamin said. “He almost killed me. I looked into his eyes and what looked back at me wasn't human.”

“I agree he is not like us,” the Chief said. “But Immanu assures me the legends say his people are the champions of She-who-is.”

“His eyes turned black." Jamin shuddered at the memory. “When Ninsianna threw her body over mine to stop him, he nearly smote her as well. Whatever had possession of him, he did not recognize her.”

“He is a winged creature of legend,” the Chief said. “And a potential asset to this village. You need to stop thinking of him as your enemy and start thinking of ways to get him to teach us what he knows. We can use Ninsianna to bind him to our village.”

“So now Ninsianna is … what?” Jamin snarled. “A game piece on a cribbage board?”

“You didn't have a problem when it was you who wanted her against her will,” the Chief said. “In fact, when you pleaded with me to invoke my chiefly privilege to deny her hand to any other man, you convinced me what an asset an allegiance between the shaman’s daughter and the future chief would be. You wanted a healer for a wife so you could increase your own prestige!”

“A wise chief would meet a threat with whatever means are necessary,” Jamin said. “The demon will lead our enemy's right to us. We need to be prepared.”

“He possesses unbelievable strength and weaponry,” the Chief said, “but he has not moved against us. He has only harmed those who sought to harm him first.”

“He only waits because he is injured,” Jamin said. “If we strike while he is still weak, we have a chance to defeat him and take his firestick.”

“Until I meet him in person and gauge his character,” the Chief said. “I don't know what to think. It would be better for all concerned if he were our friend. Not our enemy.”

“You're passing up the only chance we may ever have to take him by surprise,” Jamin said. “While he is still weak enough for us to defeat him. It's foolish to pass up this opportunity.”

“A wise chief only uses force after all attempts at diplomacy have failed,“ the Chief said. “Not before. Once you use force, you lose forever the opportunity to reason with your enemy."

The muscle in Jamin's cheek twitched in irritation. It was an old argument, when to use force versus when to attempt diplomacy. His father granted favors to those who were weak and thus had little value as allies, while he was reluctant to send emissaries to tribes that were strong, such as the Halifians who forever dogged their existence. Although Jamin believed diplomacy had its place, they often found themselves to be polar opposites on when to attempt that diplomacy. As far as Jamin was concerned, diplomacy should only be used to placate an enemy who was too powerful to defeat.

“He is a threat,” Jamin said. “We may never get another chance."

“If you think he is a threat,” the Chief said. “Then you're free to train as many hours as you like with your warrior friends to hone your skills. Practicing for the worst while hoping for the best does no harm.”

“Yes, father.”

“You will only practice after all of your other duties have been attended to,” the Chief added. “This is not an excuse to slack off!"

“Yes, father,” Jamin grumbled.

“But under no circumstances are you to go anywhere near him,” the Chief's eyes grew hard. “Or his sky canoe!”

“Yes, father,” Jamin muttered under his breath.

“Go, now,” the Chief said. “I have to go figure out how much damage your unauthorized theft of my resources has caused."

Jamin left. His father was a fool! Signaling his friends who loitered outside, they stalked off to the training field behind the village to practice. If the Chief wouldn't address the threat, they would. Jamin would make sure they were prepared.

Chapter 31

Late-February – 3,390 BC

Earth:  Crash site

Ninsianna

Ninsianna stared at the long, lean legs protruding from beneath the pair of silvery beasts that powered Mikhail's sky canoe. Engines he called these devices. Each was larger than the largest auroch, with sharp spearheads and thick hollow reeds connecting every aspect of his ship as though they were enormous twin spiders sharing a single web.

“Céilí mór!!!” he cursed. Something rang as it hit the floor. “Ninsianna, d'fhéadfá a fháil dom le do thoil go bhfuil eochair?”

“Here … anseo,” she handed him the grasping tool he called ‘wrench.' He'd repeated the phrase ‘le do thoil’ enough times to understand it meant ‘please give me.' The strange tool, in fact, just about everything in his sky canoe, had no correlation in her language. She simply paid attention and learned whatever she could.

Muscular thighs flexed beneath taut woven clothing as he shifted position to move deeper beneath the engines. His undershirt had ridden up, giving her a pleasant view of his belly button. She knew she should ask him questions about how the magic he was trying to fix actually worked, but right now she was having too much fun watching taut abdominal muscles ripple beneath his skin.

“Ninsianna, d'fhéadfaí tú a lámh le do thoil dom scriúire?”

“Anseo." She grabbed the small spear-like object called ‘screwdriver.' His wings were splayed beneath him on the floor like a brown feathered cape. She crawled over them on hands and knees, trying to feel where feathers ended and flesh began so she didn't kneel on living tissue.

“Thank … you." He regarded her with that cool, expressionless mask he always wore as he took the ‘screwdriver’ from her hands. The moment stretched out before he shifted his gaze back to manipulate the little spear into the ‘engine.'

“You're welcome,” she said concisely in her own language. She carefully backed out, careful not to bang her head. They both froze as she placed one hand down upon the spot where his bare abdomen disappeared into his pants, dangerously close to where his manhood pressed through the fitted garments. His warmth radiated up through her fingers as she registered his abdominal muscles harden at the unexpected contact.

“Oh … excuse me!"

She jerked away her hand a full moment after she should have removed it. Why did embarrassing moments such as this always stretch out in time? She scurried the rest of the way out from beneath the engines, ripping out a few dark feathers in the process. She stared with dismay at the evidence in her hand.

“Oh … sorry!" She dusted stray pin feathers off of her shawl.

“Okay,” he reassured her. “Ní raibh sé gortaithe … no hurt."

Oh, thank the goddess he was too engrossed to see her face turn flaming red! Focus … on anything … but … him…

Magic! She needed to learn how his magic worked, or at least how it should work so she would understand once it started working again. She deliberately turned her attention to something other than the very appealing lower half of his body. She'd always hated the long lists of medicinal herbs Mama made her memorize, but that was why she was here, wasn't it? She-who-is wanted her to learn this magic he called technology. She decided to memorize the layout of his engine room.

She stared at systems and implements she did not understand, not even after she'd asked and Mikhail had tried to explain it to her. Oh, well. Just because she didn't understand what she was looking at didn't mean she couldn't create an image of it in her mind's eye. She focused on each item, determined at the very least to memorize its shape.

“Céilí mór!!!” Mikhail cursed as he slid out from beneath the engine and gave it an icy stare. Wiping black tar off his hands with a cloth, he exclaimed, “níl a fhios agam cad é an diabhal cearr leis an rud damanta! Don't … know … why … broken!"

Mikhail's feathers rustled with frustration. That her usually unflappable friend was visibly frustrated meant whatever had him perplexed would cause any normal man to break out in a fit of temper. She didn't know anything about fixing engine oars that made sky canoes travel across the stars, but she could relate to the frustration of not being able to fix something that you needed to have work. She wanted the engines to work every bit as much as he did so he could take her to see the stars, but she didn't think he would appreciate hearing how his broken engines must be the goddess' will. Instead, she slid her arms around his waist and laid her cheek against his chest to let him know she sympathized with his frustration. She was frustrated, too!

“Ninsianna,” he tilted up her chin. “Tú ag dul a fháil ramhar inneall ar fud an tosach do ghúna."

Smears of a black, tar-like substance striped his hands, face, and chest. She moved her face against his chest and sniffed. It smelled like the black, sticky bitumen their allies in Arrapha traded as a waterproofing for canoes. It appeared that river canoes and sky canoes had something in common.

"Bitumen?" She tried to read the emotion which darted across his beautiful, chiseled features as she playfully gave the substance another sniff. Taking the cloth he'd just used to clean his hands, he dabbed at a spot on her cheek.

“See … now … dirty,” he admonished her.

Her heart did an interesting little flip-flop as she stared up into his clear, blue eyes. Time stretched out for an eternity even though she knew it was only a few heartbeats.

She knew the only reason he didn't pull away from her embrace was because he didn't know what to do with her, not because he found her desirable. He allowed her to take the lead and studied her every move as he adjusted to human culture. If she were to stand on her head and insist it was an important part of human communication, he would probably mimic her. No … that wasn't very nice. She-who-is had asked her to help him, not take out her frustration at his total lack of interest by making him act foolish. She must not abuse his trust.

She took the rag and stood on tip-toe to wipe a large streak that went from his chin to his ear.

“Yes … dirty…” she wiped the spot clean before stepping back and handing him the rag. “Good … now…  let’s eat?”

At the mention of food, Mikhail followed her out of the sky canoe like an enormous winged dog. Yes, she thought. They were becoming very good friends.

Chapter 32

Late-February 3,390 BC

Earth:  Village of Assur

Jamin

Incomplete rows of mud-bricks whispered their taunts the same way the villagers whispered taunts behind his back. The emptiness was so palpable he could feel it throb with each beat of his heart. Each pulse caused the emptiness to grow until he thought it would consume him. Not only had he lost her love, but now he'd gone and lost his father’s respect as well.

The forms sat empty as they'd sat since the day she'd broken off their engagement. Sand. Straw. Buckets to carry water from the Hiddekel River and a pile of goat dung to act as a binding agent to make their house strong. The wall he sat upon had been meant to be the outer wall of their bedroom. Not just a sleeping loft like most houses in Assur had, but a genuine, full-fledged bedroom. He picked up a sapling he'd cut as a roof strut and jabbed it into the soil, imagining he stabbed him with his spear. All his life he'd enjoyed the hunt. The sport. The kill. But only Ninsianna had ever inspired him to build.

He choked back the emptiness which threatened to consume him, his mind leaping to all sorts of horrible conclusions, each one more terrible than the last. The winged demon touching his girl. The winged demon touching her face. The winged demon touching her … her … her …

NO! Ninsianna was no floozy. For two years he'd wooed her and never once had she allowed him any liberties, nor any of the other warriors who'd pursued her over the years. She was … pure!

The muscle in his cheek twitched. He could almost hear a light, feminine voice whispering to him in the warm late-winter wind.

'She is not meant to be with you…'

No! He refused to listen! She was his fiancé! This was a battle he was certain he could win! If only he could figure out a point of attack. But what? No matter what he tried, he kept digging himself in deeper.

'Let her go…'

His father was right. The only reason she stayed with the winged demon was because he'd overplayed his hand, trying to force her to marry him when something else had caused her to balk. But what? He choked back his tears. Real men didn't cry!

He realized he was being watched. Anger surged through his veins at the thought that someone had witnessed his humiliation.

“Go away,” he hissed.

Black eyes stared at him out of a face that was a faint echo of the face he really wanted to see. Gita might have been Ninsianna's cousin, but other than a faint family resemblance, his ex-fiancé had always shunned the peculiar girl. She was shorter than Ninsianna by two palm's breadth, with bones sticking out of a shawl dress so worn it barely covered her emaciated frame. How long had the scrawny waif stood there watching him weep like a sissy, pretending to be part of the lengthening shadows of the setting sun?

“You have seen him?" Gita's black eyes were filled with awe. “The legends are real?”

Jamin gave her a look of disgust. It was bad enough his own father was all a-twitter over the presence of the winged demon on the outskirts of their village, but now Shahla’s peculiar sidekick was all googly-eyed as well?

“What legend?” Jamin growled. “I've never heard of any legends. Immanu made it up!”

Her preternaturally black eyes stared right through him as though he was not even there. Immanu’s eyes … only blacker. As black as night when no moon graced the sky. As black as…

Jamin shuddered and looked away. He'd taken the odd girl under his protection when her father had suddenly reappeared in their village after being banished from whatever haughty house he had married into. For some reason, Shahla had taken an instant liking to the reclusive child, probably because she followed the flamboyant drama queen around like an adoring retainer. Gita had been giving him the cold shoulder ever since he'd cast Shahla aside to pursue Ninsianna. Why was she now lurking in his shadow? Because once upon a time they had been friends?

“I have seen them,” Gita said, her eyes haunted, “the cave paintings in Es Skhul. The priestesses built their oracle at Jebel Mar Elyas until the Amorites destroyed it.”

Jamin’s ears perked up. “What cave paintings?”

“Demi-gods,” Gita said. “Half-human, half-animal. They came across the waters in a great ship and waged war upon the people that came before. The Nephilim. The priestesses said we are all descended from them.”

“We are not descended from that … that … thing!” Jamin snapped, and then really listened to what she was telling him. “War? What war?”

Gita’s eyes swirled blacker, as though she stared into his soul. Jamin shivered at the sensation of suddenly being laid naked. Gita turned to leave, not even gracing his anger with an argument.

“Gita … wait!” Jamin called, remorse suddenly blending with his anger. “Please … I'm sorry.”

Gita paused, her expression unreadable as she gave him an eerie, dark look. Just for a moment, it was as though he stared into Ninsianna’s eyes, so closely did she resemble her cousin when he bothered to look at her.

The illusion passed. The pale, gaunt girl with the black eyes only bore the slightest resemblance to the grandfather the two women shared. Immanu’s father, Lugalbanda, had been a shaman so powerful it was rumored he could reach straight through the dreamtime and stop the heart of his enemies. Jamin shivered. Ghost stories…

“Now you know how Shahla feels," Gita said. There was no accusation in her tone, but it cut through his grief like an obsidian blade. A sensation akin to having his heart squeezed made him choke up, bringing fresh tears to his eyes, and was gone. Jamin gasped for breath. Whenever Gita had done that as a child, it had always terrified him.

“Yes, I do,” Jamin said, not sure why he felt compelled to confess his sins. He'd mistreated Shahla. He knew it. But at least he'd never lied to Gita’s promiscuous friend, making promises about a future he had no intention of keeping the way Ninsianna had done to him. It wasn’t his fault Shahla had latched onto him because she wanted to be the wife of a chief. He'd always told her he could never give her more.

Gita stared until he squirmed. He could see she weighed whether nor not to give him some tidbit of information, morsels she only occasionally doled out to those she trusted.

“The priestesses were healers,” Gita said. “People would come from miles around to pray for healing. They called their temple ‘hospital.' The sick would stay there until they got better.”

“Needa does that now,” Jamin said.

Gita looked at the foundations of the house Jamin had begun to build in Ninsianna’s honor. His temple to her. The woman he loved.

“This is a house,” Gita said. “Your house should be separate from the diseased so their sicknesses don't become your sicknesses.”

As she spoke, Jamin could almost see the temple she spoke of in his mind's eye. A magnificent building on top of the highest mountain, built not from mud-bricks, but carved from stone. Yes. That was what Ninsianna wanted. To have people come and worship her for her abilities as a healer. But how? Assur didn't have the resources to build such things. But perhaps … there … yes! He could see it. A separate room of their dream house where people could worship his bride-to-be. Her very own hospital!

Jamin looked up to thank Ninsianna’s spooky cousin and was not surprised to see she'd disappeared. Unless Gita wished to be seen, she had a way of fading into the shadows to escape notice. A survival skill, no doubt, to escape the wrath of her drunken father.

His heart light, Jamin pulled out the goatskin parchment he'd used to sketch plans for Ninsianna’s dream house and added blueprints for a ‘hospital’ room. For the first time in weeks, he felt hope.

Chapter 33

Mid-March – 3,390 BC

Earth:  Crash Site

Colonel Mikhail Mannuki’ili

Mikhail

Mikhail swung his sword in an arc, practicing his daily warm-up. The cool feel of the grip sliding into his hand gave him a chill of recognition that was both powerful, and ominous, as though he should remember where he'd learned to use it so well. If he focused on remembering the weapon, his body forgot how to use it. The most effective way to wield the sword was to simply empty out his mind and let muscle memory take over. In a land where men threw sticks and stones, his sword was a weapon of mass destruction.

His eye wandered to watch Ninsianna wade through the stream, engaged in her perpetual conversation with her invisible friend, trying to catch fish using nothing but her bare hands. She was quite adept at taking care of herself, but he kept a close watch on her. Until he found a way off of this planet, he would make sure nobody bothered her.

An odd sensation gripped at the place in his chest where Ninsianna had stitched his wound. He had a mission to complete, but with each day that passed, the thought of leaving her behind disturbed him more and more. Increasing the ferocity of his swing, he stabbed an imaginary opponent, smiting him a thousand times as he pondered the dilemma in his mind. Since no solution came, he swung, parried, and jabbed until his muscles screamed in protest.

Splash! Ninsianna threw a fish onto the shore, laughing with delight. She came up behind him, the still-wriggling fish in her hands.

“Mikhail … see … fish!!!” she said triumphantly.

“Yes … fish good." He forced himself to maintain eye contact and not stare unabashedly at her breasts. Ninsianna had haltingly explained that making clothing was time consuming, whereas skin washed easily. Whenever clothing might become wet, dirty, or damaged, it was simply taken off. The only inhibition she seemed to possess was seeing her naked without the crude loincloth which was little more than a strip of linen held in place around her hips by a string.

“I gitmek clean now." She fetched her obsidian blade and took the fish back to the stream to clean it. When she returned, she placed the fish, tubers and greens she'd scrounged up earlier onto leaves for cooking. As it began to roast, she unabashedly watched him practice with the sword, a smile lighting up her features.

“You heal good. You get guclu." She held up one arm and scrunched her bicep.

“What that word?" He pointed to his bicep.

Ninsianna shook her head ‘no’ and repeated the word, pointed to his bicep, and then picked up a rock and pretended to heave it over her head.

“Ahhh! Níos láidre … stronger. I get stronger. Yes?”

“Yes, stronger … níos láidre." Ninsianna repeated the word until she'd committed it to memory. “Almost heal.”

“Yes, almost,” he said. “But no fly. Wing still hurt bad.”

“Bana izen ver … look?"

Slipping his sword into its sheath, he sat and dutifully stretched out his wing. Relaxed against his back, or even slightly extended, although it hurt, the pain was not insurmountable. The moment he extended them fully upwards to get airborne; however, the pain grew so great it made him dizzy and threatened to make him vomit. He worried his wing had been broken beyond repair. She placed her hands over the joint where it had dislocated and felt along the bone. She paused when she reached an area that made him wince.

“Hurt?”

“Yes. Hurt bad.”

Ninsianna felt for anomalies and then sat at his side, her expression serious. Mikhail scrutinized her tawny beige eyes, for when language failed, her expressive nature usually gave her away.

“Bone good,” Ninsianna said. “Heal good.”

“Wing good?”

“No. Wing not good." She had that universal look people wore when they were about to tell you bad news.

Mikhail schooled his features into his customary unreadable expression so she wouldn't see the fear that clenched his gut.

“Kiris no good," Ninsianna said. "Hurt bad.”

“What no good?” he asked, not understanding the word. Ninsianna pinched the bridge of her nose, concentrating on a way to tell him what she thought was wrong. She pulled off one of the primitive hide coverings she used as a shoe.

“Kiris not good. Hurt bad." She pointed to her Achilles tendon. “Need long time heal. Kiris in wing hurt. Need long time heal.”

“What that word?" He pointed to the spot of his wing that felt like somebody ripped it apart whenever he tried to fly and then to her Achilles tendon.

“Kiris,” she said.

Tendon.

Tendon?

Oh, damantia. She thought he'd damaged his flight tendon.

“How long fly?" He masked his fear. For a winged creature, being told you might never fly again was like being told you might never walk again. Paired with the realization his ship might never work again and he was trapped, that was a lot of bad news. Especially when he couldn't remember if anyone cared enough about him to even bother looking!

“I don't know." She put her hand on his cheek. “Mama know better. Mama better than Ninsianna.”

He must not have masked his emotions as well as he thought because Ninsianna pulled him in for a hug. He buried his face in her hair, inhaling the scent of soap root. An unpleasant memory triggered in his mind and was gone. Buried in a darkened room. The smell of death. Being small and helpless. Whatever the hell that was all about, he was glad the memory didn't stick.

“It okay." Ninsianna ran her fingers through his under-feathers. “Ninsianna ask Mama. Mama know better. Mama fix wing.”

The tide of emotion he'd been fighting to keep at bay since he'd awoken impaled through the chest with what he thought was a spirit come to guide him into the dreamtime finally broke. Complete the mission? Who the heck was he kidding? Six weeks and he remembered little more about his past now than the day he'd placed his fate into her hands. He couldn't even remember what the darned mission had been. Much less how to complete it!

“Cad é ag déanamh liom a dhéanamh faoi tú, mo ghrá?" He whispered in his own language so she wouldn't understand his words. What am I going to do about you, my love?

The smell of cooked fish reminded them it was time to eat. He'd made her father a promise. He pulled himself back together before she read the naked vulnerability in his face. With his ship, his technology, his people, his memory, and his ability to fly gone, the only thing he had left to offer was his word of honor.

Composing his features back into an impassive mask, he pulled away and suggested they go get a bite to eat.

Chapter 34

Mid-March – 3,390 BC

Earth:  Outside Crash Site

Jamin

Jamin watched, and saw, everything…

He gasped for breath, burying his face into his knees to suppress the scream which threatened to erupt from his heart in a wail of grief. Deceiver!

He'd known. He'd known in his gut the day she'd run into the winged demon's arms that he'd been replaced, but he'd deluded himself into thinking she would grow tired of caretaking a monster in the wilderness and return. He'd been busting his hump, cutting timbers for her dream house and preparing his warriors for the day he just knew demons would swoop down from the sky and attack their village.

First people. Gita had told him the priestesses at Jebel Mar Elyas had legends about winged demons that had come across the waters and killed off all of the people who had been on this world before. Nephilim. Slant-browed, barrel-chested giants. And now they were back to kill them…

He watched Ninsianna lead the winged demon into the sky canoe. He wanted to kill him! He lurched forward, spear clutched in his fist, and fell back. The tribunal. His father had threatened him with the tribunal if he thwarted his authority one more time. Several of the village elders bore grudges against him. The penalty for disobeying a direct order from the chief was public humiliation, banishment, or stoning. He would bear humiliation gladly if it would win back her heart, but the thought of being sent away from her?

He looked at the goatskin parchment clutched in his fist. Equal. His father had told him Ninsianna could never love a man who didn't treat her as his equal, so Jamin had thought up hundreds of ways to prove he did view her as his equal. It was only a little room sketched onto the side of their dream house, but the ‘hospital’ room was meant to be his temple to her. The goddess he'd failed to worship ... and lost.

He unrolled the goatskin, tears streaking the charcoal he'd used to mark it. He'd even sketched plans for a garden to grow medicinal herbs. For six weeks he'd plotted ways to win back her heart. He was, after all, the son of a chief. How could she not want him? Her rejection had made him the laughing-stock of the entire village!

Real men didn't cry! Fading into the woods from the spot he'd taken to watching the goings on at the ship, he waited until he was out of ear shot before he began to rage. If this is what they did outside the ship, he could only imagine what went on in private. Hatred of the winged demon hardened in his veins.

'Jamin … let her go…'

The wind taunted him, whispering his loss through the cedars. A green grasshopper flew onto his hand, tilting its head to look at him and whirring its gossamer under-wings. The muscle in his cheek spasmed, stress causing the errant facial tic to develop a mind all its own. Let her go? He gave the wind his answer.

"Never!"

He squashed the grasshopper and threw the blueprints into the scrub. Skulking back to the village, he plotted how he would get even.

Chapter 35

Galactic Standard Date:  152,323.03 AE

Zulu Sector:  Command Carrier ‘Light Emerging’

Colonel Raphael Israfa

Raphael

Raphael examined the holographic map of the Orion-Cygnus spur of the Milky Way galaxy, all solar systems they'd sent scout ships thus far marked in various colors to denote what they'd found. Six weeks into the manhunt and already he'd discovered dozens of previously uncharted solar systems and hundreds of planets, one of them marginally habitable. None of them, unfortunately, had any sign of a homing beacon … or Sata'anic activity which might indicate it was the planet where Mikhail had been shot down.

“Sir,” Major Glicki gestured towards her console, “General Harakhti is on 146.955 kMHz. He would like to speak to you right away.”

“Put it on the main screen,” Raphael ordered.

The furry image of the Leonid four-star general came up on the main screen, his magnificent reddish-brown mane a sharp contrast to the short golden fur which covered his brow. The most animalistic of the four hybrid species, Leonids resembled their leonine ancestors, but had the enhanced intelligence and opposable thumbs of a human. They could walk bipedally to free up their hands to use technology or weapons, or run on all fours to garner increased speed. Male and female alike belonged to a fierce warrior culture that made the Sata'an lizards appear tame. When all else failed, the Emperor would say “send in the Leonids!”

“General Harakhti … what can I do for you?” Raphael saluted the higher-ranking officer even though, technically, they were not within the same chain of command. Re Harakhti was the highest-ranking general in charge of the Leonid fleet, so even if Raphael hadn't admired the man, he would have given him the proper respect anyways.

“We have been intercepting an unusually high number of Sata’an cargo ships moving back and forth between the Empire and your sector,” General Harakhti rumbled. “They claim to be traders, but so far as we know, there's nobody to trade with that far out. What in Hades is going on?”

General Harakhti’s ship patrolled the volatile border between the Sata’an Empire and disputed Alliance Trust Territories where constant border skirmishes erupted. The front-line Leonids were often the first to notice an uptick in suspicious activity, although they left it to intelligence personnel such as Raphael to piece together the larger puzzle. General Harakhti had been around the block enough times to realize the suspicious activity and Raphael's placement at the edge of the same sector where all that suspicious activity was headed were probably related.

“We've been observing the same thing, Sir,” Raphael said. “The Prime Minister has ordered hands off all peaceful traders.”

“Cactarbh!!!” General Harakhti growled in the style of an old-school general who had earned his stripes the hard way … in battle. “I don't buy it. What do they think we are? Stupid?"

Harakhti's whiskers twitched in disgust. Unlike the cool, reserved Angelics, the thoughtful Mer, or the earthy Centauri, Leonids were a hot tempered race who spoke their mind. Raphael found their forthrightness to be refreshing.

“I've been assigned to this sector to report all unusual activity to General Jophiel,” Raphael said. "Colonel Mannuki'ili went missing shadowing one of those ships. Any additional information your forces observe would be appreciated.”

“Parliament is full of fools!” General Harakhti said in the throaty snarl typical of his kind. “Don't inspect Sata’an ships flying into Alliance airspace my ass! Well … we are still allowed to stop ships that break weight, tonnage and safety laws, aren't we?”

“That's correct, Sir." Raphael understood the veiled proposal General Harakhti made. “According to the Sata’an/Alliance Treaty signed in 152,299 AE, paragraph 47, subparagraph J, subsection iii-d, either side may board any ship traversing their territory to make a routine health, safety, or welfare inspections so long as no individual race is singled out.”

“Well then,” General Harakhti flashed his fangs in a self-satisfied grin. “Perhaps it's time to write a few traffic tickets?”

“Yes, Sir … traffic tickets,” Raphael nodded. “General Harakhti … it has been a pleasure … as always…”

“Yes, always,” General Harakhti purred. “And congratulations on the new little one. I’ve got a few cubs of my own…

Chapter 36

Late-March – 3,390 BC

Earth:  Mesopotamian plain outside Assur

Jamin

For three days Jamin had wandered the desert, searching for the encampment of his enemy. He was thankful when at last he spied the colorful banners the People of the Desert used to differentiate one tent-group from another. When he'd been but a boy, not too long after his mother had died, he'd come upon a man sitting at the edge of his favorite hunting path, a man with a scar that led from his lips to his ear. They had talked for a while about insubstantial things, hunting squirrels and the best way to find water in the desert, and then the shaykh had tussled his hair and sent him on his way. Why Marwan hadn't killed him or taken him for a ransom, Jamin had never understood, but when he'd become desperate after the winged demon had snatched his fiancé, he'd gone to Marwan to hire men to steal her back.

Dark eyes peered out from hides stretched across the wooden poles as Jamin strode into the encampment, forcing himself to appear chiefly. Two hostile-looking men stopped him from going any further, their stone blades clearly visible in their belts. A moment later, the scar-faced man stepped out from amongst the tents wearing a hastily-donned fitted robe that was unlike the loose shawl worn by Ubaid men. His face was as merciless as his beak-like nose, and the scar gave him a sinister appearance.

"Let it never be said that Kiyan's son lacks a manhood," Marwan said. He gestured towards the men who had come out of the tents behind him. "You take your life into your hands to come back to treat with us again."

"I need more men," Jamin said. "I have brought you something in trade."

“He killed eighteen of our kin,” Marwan said. His scar puckered up like a second, silent mouth. "How do we know you did not set us up?"

“Now you understand why I view him as such a threat," Jamin said. "Your kin's mistake was in thinking they could take him alive for a ransom. Next time, you should listen when I tell you I want him dead."

The other men pushed closer, their dark eyes filled with murder, but Marwan held them back, for it was, indeed, as he said. Kidnap and ransom was how the People of the Desert garnered resources when times grew hard and the desert did not provide all they needed to survive. Somehow, he doubted Marwan would allow that, for when the desert shaykh had sought him out as a boy for whatever purpose, he'd assured him the People of the Desert had their own peculiar code of honor.

Either they would kill him outright, or they would hear what he had to say. Jamin unslung the heavy pack he'd carried all the way from Assur. Although Halifians scorned the 'settled' tribes who tied their fate to the land, the dried emmet these people relied upon to supplement their diet of goat was in short supply this time of year.

A quiet murmur arose from the tents where the women hid. Veiled eyes peered out from cracks between hides propped upon poles to act as walls. A slender hand reached out from underneath one of the tents to signal interest. The grain he offered was not without value.

Marwan spied the hand signal and waved it off. The slender hand disappeared from view. Unlike Ninsianna, Halifian women did not dare contradict their husband.

“You'll have to pay us a lot more." Marwan gestured with two fingers and his thumb to show he meant something easily tradable. “Otherwise my unsettled kin will not be interested in the risk. The Amorites offer gold for young female slaves. It's a lot easier to snatch women gathering forage in the field than to go up against a hardened warrior such as your demon.”

The other Halifian men laughed, a rough, guttural sound. Several felt at their belts for their blades. Jamin understood enough of their language to comprehend these men bore him ill will for walking their kin into an ambush. If he didn't treat with the people of the desert carefully, it might be him that ended up dead instead of the winged demon.

“Once I am chief,” Jamin said, “you will be richly rewarded.”

“You're not chief yet,” Marwan said. “And we can't spend it if we are dead.”

You're not chief yet! Those were the exact same words Ninsianna had taunted him with moments before the winged demon had appeared to snatch her from him.

Two of the mercenaries took a step towards him, their hands moving towards their blades. He was here alone and the desert shaykh only ever had the most peripheral control over his men. Unveiled aggression would get him killed.

“The good will you earn should be compensation enough,” Jamin said. “I have my father's ear. I'll urge him to be better disposed to your people. It's not right, how he blocks your access to the river and refuses to trade with you our life-giving grain.”

Marwan laughed, as though he knew something that Jamin didn't know, but his eyes were filled with some other emotion, neither humor nor hatred.

“Your forefathers evicted our forefathers from the village you now claim to be your own," Marwan said, "and now you come to me for help because somebody took what is yours?"

The other Halifians chuckled at the irony.

"If you want me to ask our unsettled to kill this winged demon," Marwan said, "you must bring me something to sweeten the trade.”

What Marwan asked might turn out to be a problem. Ever since his last unauthorized pilfer, the Chief had taken to keeping his personal treasury locked in the temple of She-who-is. If there was one thing Jamin understood about his father, it was that the old man was cheap!

“I'll see what I can come up with," Jamin said. He pointed to the heavy sack he'd hauled all the way from Assur. Lessons his father had given, and been ignored, whispered into his brain in a soft, feminine voice. He'd come into this camp without warriors to back him up. If he wanted to leave with his life, he needed to offer them something in return. "You may keep this grain as a gesture of my goodwill."

He backed out of the tent settlement, aware of the hostile eyes which watched him as he left. As he climbed the sparsely vegetated rise, the grass already nipped close to the craggy land by the enormous herd of goats, he looked back. Dark covered shapes scurried forth from the low tents, their heads and faces covered with robes so that he wouldn't be tempted by their beauty. If only Ninsianna had been thus covered when the winged demon had first arrived! Perhaps then, the demon wouldn't have taken it upon himself to steal his bride?

A single ray of sunlight broke through the clouds and shone like gold upon a covered female who walked clutching an infant to her chest. She paused outside her tent, her dark eyes the only part of her he could see as she watched him standing there upon the horizon. She wore the black head scarf of a widow. She looked …. young.

The wind picked up and caressed his cheek.

'The winged one has made many widows amongst this tribe. Some of them are quite beautiful. Perhaps you could ally your tribes peacefully -that- way?'

"Never!" he hissed.

He stormed back to Assur, determined to put in place his plan.

Chapter 37

April – 3,390 BC

Earth:  Village of Assur

Colonel Mikhail Mannuki’ili

Mikhail

“Are you ready?”

“No,” Mikhail admitted as he caught his first glimpse of the village which was about to become his home. “But it is not right for me to keep you from your people."

Built upon a rise in an otherwise featureless land sat a village upon a hill. Squat yellowish houses made from clay-mud bricks clustered around the apex. The houses on the outermost edge were built with only tiny slits for windows facing out, so close they created a natural wall. On flat rooftops moved about people. Just outside the inner ring were smaller structures, some constructed of wood, others constructed of the same yellowish brick that blended in with the land. Most appeared to be pens for keeping livestock, but a few were houses, newer in construction than the ones clustered around the hill. The soldier in him whispered this village was a place he could easily defend.

Beyond the village, the great river Ninsianna called Hiddekel had carved out fields from the higher desert, creating an enormous flat alluvial plain neatly divided into fields, the rocks from those fields laid out in low walls to demarcate which plot belonged to whom. The river was still in flood tide from the spring rains, but already villagers were busy planting the fields closest to the village, their higher terrain making them the first fields released by the receding flood tide.

It was a Stone Age village, much of it by appearance built within the last generation. Everything looked orderly and well-run. This chief he was about to meet might have his faults, but lack of industriousness was not one of them. He could see why such a leader would want his hot-headed son married off to someone as pragmatic as Ninsianna. It had not been his fault she'd spurned the Chief's son, but the awkward timing of his arrival had caused his relationship with these people to get off on the wrong foot.

He didn't look forward to this meeting. If the Chief rejected him, he would be banished back out into the wilderness. Alone. For Immanu had impressed upon him his daughter was needed here. His own people had not come looking for him. Mikhail fingered his dog-tags. Although he didn't mind solitude, there was a difference between preferring one's own company, and being abandoned. Never had he felt so alone.

“You'll do fine." Ninsianna slid her small hand up to take his larger one, giving it a squeeze. “Papa summoned the shamans who remember the old songs. Much of the original meaning has been lost, but they hope you might help them make sense of them?”

“How many songs are there?" Mikhail asked. The way Ninsianna’s father took every word he uttered as though it were a divine truth made him uncomfortable. He didn't look forward to facing an entire group of shamans who looked to him the same way. He was just Mikhail. A soldier. Nothing more.

“There are hundreds of them,” Ninsianna said. “And thousands more where only a fragment is remembered. We don't use written symbols to help us remember the way that you do. It's all remembered in a song.”

“I hope I can understand what they say,” Mikhail said. “My grasp of your language is still limited.”

“You don't know every word,” Ninsianna said. “But what you do know, you speak almost without an accent. You'll do fine.”

Her lips curved up in that warm, reassuring smile which had been the first thing he'd noticed about her. Beautiful, tawny-beige eyes picked up the hues of the mid-morning sun, making them appear gold. He'd seen such eyes before, but the memory refused to come to the surface. Her eyes inhabited his dreams, whispering for him to trust her, to do whatever she asked, because it was the will of the gods.

Mikhail forced down the emotion which came with that thought, how very badly he wished to touch her. It was not logical to spend so much time fantasizing about her! But with a total lack of memory, he had no idea how to act. Not when a female so enticing had made him the center of her universe. Not sure what to do, he did nothing. But he wouldn't force fantasies of her from his mind, either. The night of the attack had taught him that he kept much darker urges than his feelings for Ninsianna bottled up inside of him.

Checking for the reassuring feel of his sword and pulse rifle, he adjusted his dress uniform, straightened up to his full height, and settled his wings against his back in the tight formation he knew was the proper way to greet one's superior officers. Towering over his savior by more than a cubit, he allowed Ninsianna to tug him towards the mud-brick village.

Chapter 38

April – 3,390 BC

Earth:  Village of Assur

Ninsianna

There was an unwelcoming, guarded feel to the village as she led Mikhail through the tall wooden gate which was one of two entrances into their otherwise unassailable wall. The usual sentry eyed their passage with a cold stare. Just inside the first row of houses, Jamin’s warriors lounged sharpening their weapons, glowering at them, but they remained silent and did not move against him. Jamin himself was nowhere to be seen, probably being kept on a tight leash inside his father’s house.

No children played in the street, but men and women went about their business, grinding barley, sorting acorns, or chipping obsidian to make spearheads. Some stared at the unbelievable creature which had walked into their midst, even though her father had warned them Mikhail would come today, while others pretended not to see him at all. Squaring her shoulders, Ninsianna led him up through the three ascending rings until at last they approached the central plaza. By his lack of expression, Mikhail had picked up on the unwelcoming vibe.

Just outside the temple of She-who-is, which was really just the temple granary with a small statue of the goddess tucked into a cubby in the wall, a colorful pavilion had been raised to give them shelter from the sun. Beneath that tent, and all around it, sat wizened old men. Her Papa rose up to greet them the moment they came within sight.

“Ahhh, Mikhail, welcome!" Papa gestured for her to bring Mikhail underneath the shade of the long strips of cloth which fluttered in the breeze with a brisk 'snap.'

“Where's the Chief?” Ninsianna asked.

“He'll be making a grand entrance later on this afternoon,” Papa said. “Come, Mikhail. Sit. The shamans are anxious to meet you.”

Normally during such a gathering everybody simply sat on ground, seating themselves from the lowest-ranking shaman to the highest, but sitting on the ground was a challenge for a man with wings. Papa led Mikhail to a stool located closest to the little statue of the goddess. Ninsianna shot her Papa a grateful look. After the icy reception by the villagers…

Mikhail ruffled his feathers as he sat down on the too-short stool, carefully arranging his wings into the tight formation she thought of as ‘dress wings.' He made eye contact with each one of the shamans, no doubt sizing them up, but his face remained neutral, expressing neither satisfaction nor dissatisfaction. Shamans tended to be a stone-faced lot, but they nodded with approval. Whatever they'd been expecting, Mikhail was it.

“We have prepared a feast in your honor,” Papa said. "Are you hungry? It would be no insult if first you wish to eat."

Ninsianna scrutinized the scant baskets filled with flat bread. It was a modest feast, with just barely enough to go around. A sense of anger welled up into her belly. Chief Kiyan was notoriously stingy when it came to investing his own resources. It would strain her father’s budget to put out even the meager preparations he'd been able to make, but she was glad he made the effort. She hoped Mikhail didn't know enough about her people’s customs to realize the Chief's absence was a dance-step in the intricate social waltz of one tribe greeting the emissary of a second tribe they were not certain they wanted to do business with. She cursed Jamin in her mind. Damn him for stirring up trouble!

“Did you explain Mikhail’s injuries and his memory loss?” she whispered so Mikhail wouldn't hear.

“Yes,” Papa said. “I warned them not to pester him with too many questions he can't answer.”

Mikhail sat stiffly in the ceremonial attire he called ‘dress uniform,’ a set of garments even fancier than the seven identical outfits he owned. Gradually his wings relaxed as the shamans tested their ability to converse with him in his own language. Being grilled with questions didn't appear to bother him. In fact, he claimed he expected it. 'Faisnéisithe’ he called the meeting scheduled for today. Debriefing

“What can you remember about the place you're from?” one shaman asked.

“Only fragments,” Mikhail said. “Bits and pieces of information that don't seem very important, to tell the truth.”

“What do you think of the Song of the Sword?” another asked.

“I'm certain that I've heard a version of this song before,” Mikhail said. “But it feels like a song you sing for children. You have verses that are not in our version, but I can't remember the exact words.”

The shamans seemed satisfied with his explanations. As frustrating as it was to not have him answer all of their questions, his forthrightness reassured them. Ninsianna stayed close, mindful to always remain within his sight. Although at no time did Mikhail completely relax, after a while he no longer seemed uncomfortable. He was a guarded creature, even more taciturn than the shamans and not prone to loquaciousness. Ninsianna wondered how long it would take for their nonstop questions to try his patience.

Mama gestured for her to help her pass around dried dates, roasted acorns and water for their guests. The acorns were still warm from the oven, a special treat! Ninsianna walked from shaman to shaman, offering sustenance in a grass basket she'd woven with her own hand.

“Ninsianna,” her father said. “You and Mama must leave. It's time for the shamans to sing the sacred songs.”

“Yes, Papa,” she said, disappointed.

“Ninsianna must stay,” Mikhail said.

“But it's forbidden,” a shaman said. “Women may not venture into the province of the shaman!”

“In my culture, there is no separation between men and women,” Mikhail said. “Ninsianna stays, or I leave.”

Ninsianna felt almost giddy with excitement. Was this a real memory? Or did he make it up because he sensed her disappointment? Jamin hadn't stood up for her like this!

“But…” another complained.

Mikhail's jaw tightened into a stern, square line.

“Ninsianna has earned my trust." His icy blue eyes communicated he wouldn't compromise on this issue. “The others haven't. Ninsianna stays.”

He unfurled his wings from the tight formation he'd kept them in all day, ruffling his feathers and stretching them to half of his twenty cubit wingspan. With a small cry of fear, the shamans beside him jumped and scrambled away. With his wings pinned against his back it was almost possible to forget what Mikhail was. Unfurled, it was obvious why his species was called the swords of the gods.

Mama placed her hand upon Ninsianna's arm. While her brown eyes were filled with resentment at being asked to leave, her expression was unusually contrite.

“It's all right,” Mama said. “You stay. I need to go finish the supper I have prepared for our guests."

The shamans muttered about her presence, but settled down as they discussed which songs should be sung first. A winged creature of legend had just fallen from the stars to sit in their midst. Old taboos about women had little importance if that was what their guest insisted upon.

Pulling out an assortment of rattles and drums to keep the percussion which made the memorization of long songs possible, the air filled with the vibration of chanting. Some of the shamans sang actual words while others hummed the harmonies which underlay each song. Some of the songs had a single voice singing information handed down through history via brute, rote memorization. Others required two or more shamans to each sing a role answering a central narrator as though they were re-enacting an epic play.

Starting with the Song of the Sword, each shaman sang a lesser song telling a little piece of Mikhail’s people's history. They sang about a time of great calamity; and an ark which had carried her people from a land called Nibiru across a great sea and landed on this shore. Winged guardians and other half-human creatures that had battled giants and driven them from these lands. They sang about a promise … that someday the winged ones and their kin would return.

“Does any of this sound familiar to you,” one shaman asked.

“Some of what you sing sounds familiar,” Mikhail said. “Like a lullaby where you remember the tune, but not the words." His expression grew thoughtful. "These half-human creatures you sing about? I know that they are as real as I am, but I can't remember what they look like. Other songs prompt no recognition at all."

"Which songs?"

"Your origin myth," Mikhail said. "The story of travelling across a great sea and battling giants? I am certain I have never heard of such a thing before.”

“What parts seem familiar?”

“The Eternal Emperor,” he said. “When you sing of him, I know that he exists, but not in the manner of which you sing. You think of him as an all-powerful god. We see him … differently. Like a chief. I think I may have even met him.”

"You met god?" The shamans pondered this piece of information.

“What about the songs of the other heavenly beings?” Papa asked. “The Cherubim, the wheels, and the chariots?”

“Cherubim?" Mikhail raised one eyebrow in interest. “Sing the Song of the Cherubim.”

An ancient shaman from Nineveh was the keeper of this particular song, which meant it must be an especially sacred one as only Zartosht was higher in rank amongst the Ubaid shamans than Papa. Zartosht was a contemporary of Lugalbanda, the powerful grandfather who had cast off his mortal shell and gone into the dreamtime shortly after she'd been born. The shaman's skin was paper-thin with age and his voice so warbley that Ninsianna had to strain her ears to hear the song about the highest order of heavenly beings. When he got to the part describing them as having multiple arms and eyes, she could see the song trigger a memory as Mikhail's wings settled into a softened, relaxed formation.

“I know of these Cherubim monks,” Mikhail said. “I lived amongst them as a boy, but I can't remember why. They taught me…." His voice became lost in thought.

The breeze picked up, cooling the air beneath the pavilion. Mikhail's feathers reared up in their follicles, as though he wished to capture that breeze and take to the air. Ninsianna placed her hand upon the leading edge of his wing, fearful he might succumb to the urge.

“Master Yoritomo,” was all that Mikhail said, and then, while he was here, Ninsianna could see he was really not.

Shamans were used to pulling images out of the dreamtime. They nudged one another and remained silent, willing to give him time to digest the memory that had been triggered. At last Mikhail began to speak in that strange, third language he had spoken the night of the attack, the language made up of clicks as well as spoken words, but this time the language was not threatening, but just a language like any other she'd ever learned.

“The Cherubim taught me how to control my anger,” Mikhail finally said. “They said I must always control my anger because it opens the door to other things, but I can't remember why I was so angry. All I recall is that I was very young.”

“What do these Cherubim monks look like?” one of the shamans asked.

“They resemble the creatures you call ants,” Mikhail said. “Only taller than I am and much better at controlling their emotions. They are the most trusted defenders of the Eternal Emperor.”

Ninsianna suppressed a smirk. If Mikhail was considered emotional, she couldn't imagine what these Cherubim were like. Mud brick walls?

“Ants? That's ludicrous!” one of the shamans blurted out.

“So is a man with wings,” another said. “But you're looking at one.”

“That's all I can remember,” Mikhail said after a long pause. “But it's one memory I didn't have before.”

A commotion caught their attention as the Chief's door opened across the square and the Chief came out, making his grand entrance at last. Villagers trailed in his wake like flies drawn to a sweet, sticky substance such as honey.

"Ninsianna?" Papa gestured for her to fetch the Chief a seat.

Papa had expected this, for set aside was a second chair. Ninsianna grabbed the bench and moved it to the appropriate place directly beneath the statue of She-who-is. The shapely statue smiled down on her benevolently, as if she kept a secret. Yes. This was the same chief who had tried to force her to marry his son. Just for spite, Ninsianna moved the seat so that Mikhail and the Chief would sit on either side of the statue, seated face-to-face as equals, and not at the head the way custom dictated the Chief meet a subordinate.

The Chief wore his finest five-fringed kilt, the one which had taken his deceased wife two years to adorn with fringes. Around his shoulders was carefully arranged a fine dyed shawl of the finest linen, and around his neck he wore a golden torque. His hair and beard shone like a river otters pelt, tightly curled into the oiled ringlets of a man of power and adorned with beads. His tall ceremonial hat was colorfully embroidered with brightly colored thread and beads. It was a show of wealth designed to meet with an opposing tribes.

Papa hastened forward and moved the Chief's chair directly beneath the statue of She-who-is. Harumpf! Ninsianna suspected that where Mikhail came from, the Chief wouldn't garner much recognition at all! Chief Kiyan was not a bad man, but he was a fool insofar as his son was concerned, an indulgence which could cause the tribe retaliation if he didn't start dealing with the problem that was his heir!

“Greetings!" The Chief held one arm straight out in front of him, palm down. Emissaries seeking favor from a foreign chief usually kneeled, placed their weapons-hand over their chest, and waited for the higher-ranking Chief to place his hand upon their head before stating their business.

“Greetings." Mikhail stood up and held out with his weapons-hand. He tucked his wings against his back into the ‘dress wings’ position. Ninsianna had never seen this social exchange before, but it appeared to be the gesture of two potential allies sizing one another up.

The Chief paused as though not sure whether to take the breach of protocol as an insult or cultural faux pas. He decided to roll with it and accepted the offered hand. Whatever gesture Mikhail had just made, everything about his body language conveyed respect.

“Welcome to our village."

The Chief tilted his hand towards Mikhail's stool. He waited for Mikhail to submit by sitting down. Mikhail remained standing. He appeared to be waiting for the chief to sit down first. There was no arrogance in his expression … or in the position of his wings. Everything about his demeanor conveyed politeness. Another cultural difference, perhaps?

The Chief glanced to the sword strapped at Mikhail’s side and decided to sit down first. The moment he did, Mikhail sat down as well. The Chief made small talk about the annual flood which left fertile silt upon the fields, success at planting fig trees, lack of success planting olive trees, and various trade agreements amongst tribes the shamans represented before getting down to business.

“Immanu tells me you have no memory of your past,” the Chief said.

“Very little,” Mikhail said. “Nothing particularly helpful.”

“And yet you were able to kill eighteen armed assailants, all by yourself." The Chief got directly to the question on everybody’s mind, scrutinizing Mikhail to gauge his response.

“I know what I know,” Mikhail's face was an impassive mask. “But I don't know that I know it until I need it.”

Ninsianna noted the slight twitch of feathers which belied his stoic expression. Irked. The fact he'd been attacked while vulnerable had started his relationship with their village off on a sour note.

“I'm sorry that my son felt it necessary to molest you in your home,” the Chief apologized, his expression one of regret. “It won't happen again. You have my word.”

“Apology accepted,” Mikhail said with no emotion whatsoever. By the way his feathers stopped rustling and relaxed, she gathered Mikhail had gauged the Chief’s sincerity and decided it was genuine. Whether or not Jamin would honor his father’s wishes, however, remained to be seen. Somehow, Ninsianna thought they hadn't seen the end of things.

“Immanu asks that you be accepted into his household as his son." The Chief gestured beyond the ring of shamans to the curious villagers who peeped out of their houses at the unbelievable creature who had walked into their midst. “You must understand that membership in this village comes with responsibility?”

Ninsianna noted the way Mikhail's wings perked up with curiosity. Papa had mentioned this to her, but she had said nothing to Mikhail, fearful he might refuse.

“Such as?" Mikhail sized up the Chief as though he were a pot of beans waiting to be counted.

“It's planting season,” the Chief said. “As soon as the Hiddekel River recedes, everyone, from the youngest child to the oldest granny, takes to the fields to scatter seed upon the silt.”

“I agree,” Mikhail said.

“We don't have the resources to support a warrior class,” the Chief continued. “Every villager has a trade. You must figure out what you are good at and provide a service that's valuable to the tribe.”

Mikhail's feathers ruffled beneath her hand. She slid her fingers into his silky underfeathers, placing her hand against his skin. 'Just relax,' she whispered within her own mind. 'Everybody here wants to be your friend.'

“I don't remember what I'm good at,” Mikhail said. “But I'll do whatever is necessary."

“Agreed,” grunted the Chief. He gestured towards his own personal guard. “Lastly, as you saw yourself, our neighbors look for any excuse to steal the hard-earned fruits of our labor. Every man and woman, as soon as they learn to walk, must learn to defend themselves. We only fight when provoked, but it happens with great regularity.”

“I think you already know that is where my talents lay,” Mikhail said. “So long as I reside within your village, I will help you defend it.”

“Then all is well!" The Chief stood to allow Mikhail to kiss his hand as was their custom when swearing fealty to the village chief. Thinking better of it, he awkwardly shook hands which he was sharp enough to perceive must be the winged one's custom. The Chief might have failings when it came to his son, but he was no fool.

He turned to Papa. “Immanu, you have a son!”

The other shamans cheered. The Chief left with as much pomp as he'd arrived, while the older warriors lingered behind to shoo away the curious onlookers.

Many hours of feasting, drinking, and singing the old songs later, the gathering began to break up. Ninsianna helped her mother settle the visitors into temporary accommodations. Relatives were putting up some of the shamans, a few pitched tents in a nearby field, and the rest would spend the night jammed into her father’s house. It was time to settle her new 'brother' into his accommodations.

She led Mikhail into their modest mud-brick home. She'd always been proud of her parent's house, larger than many in the village, but to eyes now grown accustomed to the clean lines of the great sky canoe, the rammed dirt floor appeared shabby, the multi-purpose room too small, and ceiling far too low. What did the houses his people lived in look like, she wondered? When his people finally came for him, would he feel ashamed for having been forced to live here?

Mikhail silently took in his surroundings with that unreadable expression he always wore. She led him through the multi-purpose room and up the stairs that was little more than a ladder to the second story. The ladder continued upwards through a hole onto the roof where on extremely hot nights they would occasionally sleep outdoors, but tonight a woven reed mat covered the exit because in April the climate was still rather cold. The ceiling in the second floor was so low he had to scrunch up his wings and tilt his head between the joists so as not to bang his head. It was not a house designed for a five-cubit-tall winged man!

She showed him into what used to be her parent's bedroom. “Papa has set aside this room for you."

Mikhail sized up the room, and then turned to face her, his face, for once, not hidden behind a mask.

“Ninsianna … this is the largest sleeping quarters in the house,” he said. “I do not wish to usurp your parents.”

“It is our way…”

“But it's not ours!" The determined set of his jaw indicated this was a subject he wouldn't be swayed on. “Please, is there another room?”

Ninsianna blushed pink.

“There is mine," she whispered hopefully. Mikhail raised a single, dark eyebrow. “But it would be considered improper to share it amongst my people," she added. "It's not like the sleeping quarters in your ship. My room is tiny and there is only one bed. People would think….."

She knew what they were already thinking. Although they were wrong. At least about her taking any action on her impure thoughts. Oh, goddess be! Nothing had gone on because Mikhail expressed a total lack of interest in her!

Mikhail stepped closer. Her breath caught in her throat as the first unguarded expression she'd seen since the day she'd found him in his crashed ship, impaled through the chest, softened his features and made him appear much younger. She reached up and placed her palm upon his cheek, conveying via touch the wish she didn't dare put into words.

'You -do- want me, don't you?'

“Ninsianna." His voice was husky as he captured her hand and placed over his heart, pressing it flat against his chest. He hesitated, and then tilted his head towards hers.

Her eyes fluttered shut, waiting for his kiss.

“Hey … Ninsianna!" A crude, crass voice stabbed into the moment. Two visiting shamans strode into her parent's home, oblivious to what they'd just interrupted.

Oooh! Damn!

“Which piece of floor is mine?” one of the shamans asked.

“The part with the fewest lumps,” the other answered.

Her heart fell as Mikhail stepped back and donned that maddeningly impassive mask he used to hide his emotions, his wings so stiff she thought they might crack and break.

“I'll sleep in the room downstairs with the shamans,” he released her hand. “We'll figure out a more permanent solution once they leave. Tell your father it's not our custom for a son usurp his father.”

“I will." She backed into her tiny bedroom, one hand on the animal hide that served as a door as he began to descend the steps. He paused.

“Ninsianna?”

His blue eyes were no longer unreadable, but filled with regret.

“Good night."

Chapter 39

And it's no wonder; for even [Lucifer] himself

Is able to take the form of an angel of light

2 Corinthians 11:14

Galactic Standard Date:  152,323.04 AE

Alpha Sector:  Command Carrier ‘Eternal Light’

Supreme Commander-General Jophiel

Jophiel

"Supreme Commander-General?" Major Klik'rr, her Mantoid assistant and, quite honestly, her right-hand man, called down into her quarters. "You have an alpha-priority-one message from the Prime Minister's office. He needs to speak to you right away."

Irritation flashed in Jophiel's gut, though perhaps it was simply a post-partum fluctuation? Her milk had come in and, unlike all the other children she'd birthed, refused to dry up, leaving her breasts constantly swollen, leaking fluid, and exacerbating her already irritable mood.

"Tell him I'm indisposed," Jophiel snapped. She cut off the communication far more brusquely than was warranted. She buried her nose back into her pile of reports needing processing and was irritated when her comms pin beeped a few seconds later.

"Sir?" Klik'rr asked. "He insists it's urgent."

The signature she'd been scrawling across the electronic tablet sprawled darker, the 'L' in 'Jophiel' looking more like a stab-wound than the end of Alliance cuneiform.

"Very well," Jophiel groused. "Put him through."

She didn't even bother to primp her hair or straighten out her everyday uniform as a tow-headed visage materialized on her video monitor.

“What do you want, Prime Minister Lucifer?" Jophiel schooled her face and voice to be devoid of emotion. Her fists clenched out of sight beneath the table so it wouldn't show up on the two-way video monitor.

Lucifer sat poised in his stereotypical ‘politician pose,’ artfully arranged before the monitor to convey sincerity and authority. Raised from birth to speak on behalf of the Emperor, every mannerism had been trained to get him whatever he desired. Especially his voice! Lucifer dripped pleasantness, reasonableness, unrealized hopes and desires.

It was all a gods-damned act!

“I've been getting complaints about your goon squad.” Lucifer's eerie silver eyes glittered as he spoke with practiced smoothness. “You must order them to stop harassing honest traders.”

“Sata’an traders,” she retorted, resisting the urge to simply believe their highest-ranking civilian authority and adopted son of their emperor/god.

“Under the treaty signed by the Eternal Emperor himself between the Alliance and the Sata’an Empire in 152,299,” Lucifer rattled off with a practiced tongue. “Those portions of the uncharted territories are considered neutral. The traders have as much of a right to be there as anybody else.”

“Not when they smuggle counterfeit goods,” Jophiel said. “And unload it on unwary settlers for their entire year's harvest!”

“Caveat emptor, Jophie." Lucifer dropped the act just for a moment to show the seething hatred she knew lay within. “You know how much the Emperor respects the right of free will. If the settlers wish to purchase those goods, who are we to contradict them?”

“-I- will,” she snapped. “When the money they get from selling those goods funds expansion of Shay'tan's war fleet!”

“You know the terms of the free trade agreements the Alliance signed with the Sata'an Empire.” Lucifer dripped reasonableness once more. “All honest traders, no matter what their species, have the right to sell any good to any other colony and neither the Alliance nor the Empire will interfere. If we intertwine their economy with ours, they'll be too dependent upon us to go to war.”

“A treaty you negotiated while the Emperor was away," Jophiel said. "I don't see Shay'tan buying a whole lot of goods from Alliance planets, only our hard-earned Alliance money flowing into Sata’anic coffers.”

“You don't need to like it, Jophie." Lucifer gave her a lascivious grin he knew drove her ballistic. “You only need to enforce it. I'll take this matter up with the Emperor.”

“You do that,” she hissed. “Until then, if my men think they are carrying contraband, we're going to stop them, Alliance or Sata’anic.”

Lucifer's handsome features hardened into a habitual sneer, and then softened in an expression of exaggerated false pleasantness.

“Oh … Jophie. Have I passed along my congratulations on your latest little bundle of joy?" Insincerity dripped from his voice as he needled her with the veiled insult. “My, you're a prolific one, aren’t you? Perpetuating your genome with all those lower-ranking men.”

“Only with a worthy mate!" She returned his jab with a verbal right hook. “I only had one mating attempt that ever failed!" She cut off the transmission before he had a chance to retort.

Her hands hurt. Looking down, she realized she'd dug her nails into her own palm and drawn blood. Lucifer might be an asshole, but he was the most exciting asshole she'd ever fucked.

She was better than him! She didn't lead her children's fathers on with promises she could never keep. She didn't pluck them fresh out of the academy, too young and naive to understand the law of their people was written in stone, and insinuate their liaison was special. She didn't promise them she wished to continue their relationship after the heat-cycle had passed, and then 'sic her Chief of Staff on them to tell them the man you had fallen hopelessly in love with kept a dozen mares in the stable at all times and had no interest in an infertile female!

Damn him! Damn him and the only mating attempt which had ever failed! But she'd had the last laugh, because she had gone on to birth twelve babies, while She-who-is had given Lucifer none!

She bent down to her bottom drawer and pulled out the scrapbook she hid filled with photographs of her twelve children and the twelve fathers who had helped her sire them. All happy and smiling. All except for Uriel, whose little face was red from crying.

She hadn't contacted Raphael directly since the day she'd gone into labor, unable to bear his sorrowful expression as she'd cut out his heart and handed it back to him. She'd warned him! She'd warned him that she only formed relations to fill the ranks of the Emperor's armies. She'd made him sign the waiver. She'd done her best to remain impartial. To not get attached. It was the law!

Her fingers traced the sad little dimple on Uriel's cheek, so much like his father's that it made her heart ache. Mikhail had filled her head with foolish, romantic notions. It had been him she'd first requested to sire this child, not Raphael. The Emperor wanted Mikhail to produce offspring and she knew the brooding Seraphim harbored feelings for her, but it had not been enough to make him budge. Seraphim only took one mate for life, he'd quietly told her, and she was incapable of giving him what he needed. With a kiss upon her forehead, he'd told her that she would always have a special place within his heart, and then he had asked to be reassigned.

Damn! She was no better than Lucifer! She'd only asked Raphael to sire this child because she'd found herself smarting from Mikhail's rejection and wanted to hurt him by forming relations, instead, with his best friend. The joke had turned out to be on her. The affable Raphael, so very different from the dark, brooding Seraphim, had caught her unawares. In five meager days, he'd wiped all thoughts of Mikhail, her cadet mating experience with Lucifer, and the eleven men she'd mated with since then, right out of her mind!

Poor little Uriel. He looked as unhappy as she felt.

Chapter 40

April – 3,390 BC

Earth:  Village of Assur

Ninsianna

“Mother, hear my prayer."

Ninsianna lit some dried herbs and placed them in a small ceramic bowl on the alter she'd set up in her room. Like all Ubaid sleeping quarters, her bedroom was little more than a loft tucked beneath the flat roof, just big enough for her to stand up in and move from her bed to the door. A raised wooden platform made of lashed sticks served as her bed, with a thin woven pad filled with straw that had to be replenished each season for a mattress. Her parents had always regretted never giving her a brother or sister, but Ninsianna was glad to be an only child. The lack of privacy at the great sky canoe had deprived her of one of her favorite pastimes.

“I'm sorry I couldn't pray more formally to you at Mikhail’s sky canoe," Ninsianna prayed, "but I brought back many interesting things to share with you.”

She lay pebbles, twigs, and other items upon the tiny alter fastened to the eastern wall above her bed, telling the goddess funny little stories about each item as though she were a child relating how her day had gone. She constantly spoke to She-who-is, but she was also mindful to observe the more formal prayer rituals. The goddess had always been generous about granting her prayers, but she knew better than to take her favored status for granted. Tonight, she had a new prayer to ask.

“Thank you for sending me your winged champion instead of forcing me to marry Jamin," she said. "I healed him as you asked. But Mother, might I beg another indulgence?”

She reached into her satchel and fished out a huge, brown feather molted feather from Mikhail’s wings. Rubbing it against her lips, she lay it upon the altar right in front of the small, rounded clay figurine seated upon a throne of two lions.

“I have feelings for him,” Ninsianna said. “I think perhaps he has feelings for me as well? But he is so … controlled … that it's hard to tell."

She pictured how good it felt whenever she gave him a hug, and how close he'd come to kissing her tonight. She formed the image of what she wanted and pictured placing that wish upon her alter along with her other gifts. She sensed by the sturdy thread of energy which connected her to She-who-is that the goddess was listening tonight, and gave voice to her heart's desire.

"If we are meant to be together, could you please give us both a sign?”

She snuffed out the flickering tallow lamp, slipped out of her shawl, and slid beneath the covers. Her lumpy mattress didn't feel as good as the comfortable bunk she'd enjoyed mere feet from the man who had grown to occupy such an important place in her heart. As she drifted off to sleep, She-who-is sent her another vision.

Drifting out of her bed, her spirit flew up into a spinning vortex of stars spinning peacefully on its axis. She could hear the steady thrum of the stars vibrating and realized their combined voices united into the voice of the goddess singing the Song of the Sword.

The dream changed. Darkness spread across the stars. As it encroached upon the center, she saw once again the vision the goddess had shown the day she'd sent Mikhail. A sword of darkness smote his ship. The goddess steered it towards Ninsianna’s home, the blue stone circling the sun. She saw herself encrusted in yellow ochre by the stream and then go heal his wounds.

She saw Mikhail planting crops, fighting alongside the Ubaid warriors, and sitting around the campfire with her people, his expression unguarded and happy. She saw him embrace her and her belly grow heavy with child.

Out of the center a second ray of light shot out and headed towards her planet. As the darkness reached this ship, it didn't smite it, but embraced it. The ship turned blacker than the darkness which had created it. As it hit the fertile earth, it split open. Lizard-like monsters and other strange, misshapen creatures spewed forth. Sweeping across the desert from the west, the demons devoured her village and her people.

Ninsianna heard wings and turned to embrace her husband, but it was not him. A white-winged Angelic, ethereally beautiful and bright on the outside, but hideous inside from the darkness which consumed his soul, sought to lure her from this world. His countenance was beautiful, but he couldn't hide the malevolent darkness from her goddess-touched eyes.

Mikhail! She called his name again and again, but he didn't come.

The Evil One used his sword to cut her child from her womb. Ninsianna thrashed and screamed, but she couldn't get away.

“Ninsianna, dúisigh! Wake up!”

Mikhail? Why didn’t he come to save her?

“It's a vision from the goddess. She is stuck between this world and the dream time. It happened often when she was very young.”

Mama?

“This is why women are forbidden to learn magic! They travel too easily between worlds.”

Papa!

Why couldn't she wake up? She tried to fight her way back to their voices, but the darkness in the dream still had her in its grip. She could feel her father slip into her mind. Suddenly he was there, standing beside her.

“Papa … what is happening?”

“You're stuck in your vision. You need to focus your mind on something outside of the vision.”

“What do you focus on, Papa?”

“I focus on your Mama. She can pull me out of the worst vision.”

“Ninsianna!" She could feel Mikhail's hand upon her cheek in the same gesture she always used to comfort him. She could hear the emotion tremble in his voice. Mikhail was afraid.

“I understand, Papa,” she said. “I think I'll be okay now."

Focusing on the sound of Mikhail’s voice, the feel of his hand, she willed herself out of the vision and back into the waking realm.

“Mikhail,” she opened her eyes, “Chuala mé leat [I heard you].”

He hugged her to his chest so tightly she couldn't move. His heart raced beneath his tunic.

“When I heard you scream…" His voice broke with emotion.

“Ninsianna, you must tell us of this vision,” Papa said.

Mikhail released her.

“Nani ga warui kite iru [something bad is coming],” She stopped when they gave her a curious look. Mikhail answered in the strange, clicking language he'd used during his battle fury and amongst the shamans. She understood every word.

“Anata wa Cherubim no gengo o hanashite iru [you speak the language of the Cherubim],” he said.

“Your eyes…” Mama's face was filled with fear.

“How is this possible?” Mikhail asked in Ubaid.

“She has been touched by the hand of the goddess,” Papa said. “I can say with great certainty now, winged one, that Ninsianna is the Chosen One sung about in the ancient song. Whether or not you can remember your purpose here, the Evil One approaches.”

“Papa?”

“Look in the reflecting bowl, child." Mama poured water into a shallow bowl and held it steady until the water stilled.

It was not necessary for Mama to hold the tallow lantern closer for her to see what they were all looking at. Staring back from her reflection was not the tawny eyed girl she remembered, but someone whose eyes shone with an internal illumination of pure, unburnished gold.

Chapter 41

Galactic Standard Date:  152,323.04

51-Pegasi-4 – Genocide Memorial

Prime Minister Lucifer

Lucifer

Lucifer stared at the wasteland which stretched before him, his heart as empty as the empty field where only a handful of people had shown up to commemorate the passing of an entire species. Most were descendants, such as himself, whose ancestors had been cast off of this world because they had not met the Seraphim’s high moral standards. A few reporters from obscure local networks had shown up, but no big players from the Alliance itself. Nobody cared about the Seraphim whose murders had taken all hope of evolution for the hybrids along with them.

“Today is the 25th anniversary of the 51-Pegasi-4 genocide.”

Lucifer's wings drooped as he stood in front of the wall listing the names of the dead, the stark black granite a sharp contrast against his snowy white wings. It would have made a magnificent publicity shot … if anyone had cared. A lone reporter snapped a photograph.

'This speech serves no political purpose. You're wasting your precious time…'

'Oh … shut up!' he told that small, nasty voice that lived inside of his head. Zepar had scheduled him to be someplace else today, but he'd given him the slip. His conversation with Hashem had made him realize that his adopted father was not going to step in and rescue his species any more than anyone had saved the people of this world.

“Eleven million people called this world their home," Lucifer said. "This was a peaceful colony where many races lived in harmony. Including refugees from the Sata’an Empire. Races people thought of as enemies raised their families here … together."

He glanced at the names on the black granite wall. Alongside the tell-tale Angelic names ending with ‘il or ‘el were names bearing the mark of almost every other species in the galaxy. Two out-of-uniform Sata'anic males kneeled before one of the black granite slabs that listed the names of the dead, one holding the other up as they solemnly ran their claws along a list of family names that were not Angelic in origin, but Sata'anic.

"They were spiritual beings united in a single purpose," he said. "They'd evolved beyond their baser impulses, but they forgot that the rest of the galaxy had not.”

He was too much of a pragmatist to idealize the failed Seraphim quest to create Utopia. It had failed, miserably, ending in their own extinction. But now, more than ever, he understood the impulse which had driven them to turn their backs on both empires.

“Nobody protected this world." He looked out at the smattering of military uniforms. Hybrids, like him, who recognized a lot more than a few million civilians had died that day. “They insisted they were a peaceful planet and didn't need protecting. All they wanted was to stay out of the intrigues of the other empires. They were above it, and they viewed our little dramas with disgust.”

It was a rhetorical question, really. If somebody were to ever hand him a planet, far from the influence of Shay'tan and his father, what would he do differently? Defend them? How? His biological father had tried to build a Third Empire and been crushed between the other two, uniting Hashem and Shay'tan in rare agreement to hit the rebel base with a planet-killer. It was an act of genocide which had come back to bite the Emperor in the backside when his mother had reacted to his biological father's death by willing herself to die.

Hide? Until the Seraphim had been slaughtered, it had been impossible to even find the Seraphim homeworld. But now everyone in the galaxy knew where pirates had destroyed them. Gone. The Seraphim who were his ancestors were gone. Extinct. Just as, unable to reproduce, his bloodline was now going extinct. He was the last of his kind.

“They wanted to be left alone," Lucifer's voice was almost a whisper. "So we left them alone. -I- left them alone. It was within my power while my father was away to station warships in this sector to protect them, but I didn't." He stared at the empty green fields that were being reclaimed as forest. "I would like to say it was because we respected their wishes. But truth be told, we thought they had nothing to offer us. No resources. No trade. They were a completely self-enclosed world who wanted nothing to do with us, and we wanted nothing to do with them in return.”

Lucifer closed his eyes and caught his breath. He could almost feel the screams of the dying as he spoke. Zepar had told him horror stories about the genetic weakness the Seraphim had deliberately bred into their sub-species, ensuring their entire population would be tied to one another spiritually so that harm to one member would be harm to them all. Nobody had ever dreamed someone would intentionally use that defect to destroy them. He remembered his own mother's sadness even though she'd never stepped foot upon this world.

“My mother's people came from this world." He looked down at his empty hands. Hands which lacked the cue cards he usually relied upon when making speeches. Today's speech was coming straight from his heart. He decided, just for once, to speak the truth his father didn't want told. “As a species, the Seraphim were so close to genetic perfection they were expected to ascend to take the place of the Wheles.”

Guilt assailed his consciousness. Why had he left the Seraphim sub-species alone instead of enticing them back into the Alliance? Why had he allowed his anger at this species, whose foolish romantic notions had cost him the life of his mother, to cloud his judgment? He'd refused to seek diplomatic ties with this world after Hashem had disappeared and eleven million people had paid with their lives.

“Perhaps that's why they were all killed?" Lucifer bowed his head. He had no more words to describe his sense of loss, both for the Seraphim, and for his own species. “I would like to observe a moment of silence.”

The ceremony broke up as soon as he was finished. A few reporters asked questions, but the media circus which usually dogged his every step was as conspicuously absent today as the people who should have been living here and were not. Nobody cared. Just as his father didn't care that the hybrids were dying out.

An elderly couple, well into their 900th year, sobbed in the background, their black-brown wings and dark hair betraying them as two of the few surviving full-blooded Seraphim who had been off-world when it had happened. They shakily made their way over to where he stood giving a quote to a junior reporter awe-struck the Prime Minister had made an unexpected appearance. The couple didn't approach him the way a citizen normally did the Alliance's highest elected official, but with that strange ease of equality he could remember his mother practiced even though she'd never stepped foot upon the Seraphim homeworld.

“We knew your grandmother." The elderly woman shook his hand. Her dark hair was peppered with grey, as were her dark wings. The old woman's skin was wrinkled and paper-thin with age.

“It was tragic,” the elderly man's hands trembled with age. “What Zuriel did to her … ouch!”

The elderly woman elbowed her mate in the ribs.

“I never knew them,” Lucifer said. “They both died before I was born."

His mother had never told him why his ancestors had been cast off of this planet. Perhaps she'd not known herself? He only knew the Seraphim considered it shameful to not follow your mate into the dreamtime when they died. Should he ask the elderly couple what had really happened? No. It only rubbed salt in the old wound of his mother abandoning him for a mate who had abandoned her as soon as he'd impregnated her. He remembered her sadness…

“The genocide was not your fault,” the man's voice was wispy and thin. “We never dreamed pirates would come all the way out here. This planet was chosen because its only resource was its fertile soil. Without people to till it, it's worthless.”

Lucifer noted the hollow circles beneath the old man's eyes. He was dying. The anger he felt towards his mother dissolved.

“Soon we'll reunite with our children and grandchildren,” the woman took her husband's hand. “We don't wish to be a part of the material realm anymore.”

“I can feel them waiting for us,” the man's eyes looked right through Lucifer as though he were staring someplace far beyond. “Just but on the other side."

Lucifer's wings trembled. Those were the exact same words his mother had whispered with her dying breath. He looked away so the couple wouldn't see his eyes were too bright and shiny for someone as above-the-fray as the Alliance Prime Minister. The elderly Seraphim man had one foot in the dreamtime. It wouldn't be long before whatever ailment was eating away at him killed him.

“Come, dear,” the woman said. “We have an appointment to keep.”

Lucifer watched them shuffle into the fading sunlight. The frail wife helped the even frailer husband along, the last remnants of a species that was now extinct. Just as the rest of the hybrids were about to go extinct.

His comms pin had been blinking all afternoon. Zepar. Trying to get him off to some diplomatic mission with an emissary of the Tokoloshe Kingdom. Screw Zepar! Keying in a different comms frequency, he called the commander of his diplomatic carrier.

“Colonel Marbas,” Lucifer said. “Tell Zepar I'm spending the night down here on the planet.”

“Zepar has been frantic to get hold of you, Sir,” Colonel Marbas said. “He was furious when we told him you ordered us not to provide transport down to the planet.”

“I don't answer to Zepar,” Lucifer said. “I'll be back in the morning. You're not to transport him anywhere. Got that?" He cut Marbas off before he could give him an argument.

A few reporters lit candles and lay flowers along the long, black wall before getting into their shuttle craft and departing. There were no accommodations on this planet. No hotels. No restaurants. No stores to get food. No people. Just the overgrown skeletons of burned out houses, clustered into little communities where people had once lived and worked together in close-knit family units and empty fields.

For once in his overly-busy, overly-scheduled life, Lucifer was alone with his thoughts. Sitting on the ground with his back against the cold, black granite memorial, he encircled himself in his wings and contemplated the impending demise of his own species.

“Is this spot taken?” a voice rumbled.

Looking up, he saw a middle-aged Leonid male. Lieutenant-General Valepor, out of uniform and dressed as a civilian. His golden leonine eyes reflected the scant glow of the moonlight.

“It's an empty planet." Lucifer didn't feel like company, but it was inappropriate to object. This was a public memorial. He adjusted his wings so that the general could sit.

Valepor sat down and didn't speak, his tail twitching thoughtfully. They both stared out at the darkness, alone in their thoughts.

“Mine was the first Alliance ship to arrive at the scene,” Valepor finally said. “We didn't even know this planet was here until we received a distress call." A low growl rumbled in the Leonid commander's throat. "I've seen a lot of terrible things in my lifetime, but this was the worst. They slaughtered every living sentient creature and burned the buildings to the ground. Most of the bodies were so badly burned we were never able to identify them.”

“Was there any indication of a reason?” Lucifer asked. He knew there wasn’t, but sometimes things didn't make it into the official report.

“This was not about resources,” Valepor said. “Somebody wanted to make an example of these people. Shay’tan only butchers those who piss him off and subjugates the rest. This was not his style.”

“The sole eyewitness said it was Sata’an soldiers,” Lucifer said.

“That’s what the three dead lizard-soldiers were wearing that he killed,” Valepor said. “But the uniforms were the old style. Out of date. It took us forever to get the kid to even speak. He almost took out half a squadron with that sword he was carrying when we tried to remove him from his mother’s body. The sword was bigger than he was, but he was determined to protect her.”

“Mikhail." Resentment clenched at his gut at the mere mention of the boy's name. Another one of his father's pet projects! After the 51-Pegasi-4 genocide, Hashem had returned from the ascended realms and started managing his empire again. Only Hashem was no longer interested in Lucifer because his mother had rejected him! Now he wanted Jophiel! And to run a million genetic tests on the first full-blooded Seraphim to come off of 51-Pegasi-4 not because he was defective, but because the kid had nowhere else to go and was too young to tell the Emperor ‘no.’

“I'm still stationed in the sector,” Valepor said. “It seemed right to come today. It's disappointing that so few did. ”

“My Chief of Staff was spitting fire,” Lucifer admitted. “No PR value in coming to a dead planet. He's still under the illusion my father’s breeding program will save the day.”

“Bullshit,” Valepor said softly. “It hasn’t worked for us. I've managed to sire one pair of cubs during all my years of trying. Most of the poor guys now can’t even do that. We are going the way of the Wheles.”

“We'll be right behind you,” Lucifer said. “I've pleaded with Hashem to pay attention, but he says he doesn't know how to fix us. He's already put in an order for all new equipment manufactured for your carriers to fit Spiderid physiology.”

“I don't mind the bugs,” Valepor said with a shrug. “They pull their weight. I just don't like the fact that this is a problem we can't fight! It's not our nature to go down without a battle.”

“The Seraphim didn't fight their killers?” Lucifer asked. “Why? Why would they just lie down and allow themselves to be exterminated?”

“They even slaughtered the Sata’anic civilians." Valepor pointed to a segment of the black granite wall which contained Sata'anic names. “Shay’tan keeps the females confined to the Hades cluster, so once they defect, they have no hope of ever starting a family. Many were adopted into Seraphim families as farm labor. I found a lizard person curled around a Seraphim child, trying to use his body as a shield to save her. They killed him. And then they killed the little girl. But not one of them fought back. Not even the non-Seraphim. Only the boy fought back and survived.”

“Utopia is great in theory,” Lucifer said. “But in real life, there are too many people waiting to reach out and take it from you so they can make a fast buck." He thoughtfully twirled a snowy white feather, a nervous habit he had picked up from his mother. "Like me. I'm as greedy as any of them.”

“And yet you're the only one who came here today,” Valepor said.

Silence stretched out between them. Yes. Why had he come?

“Our races are dying,” Lucifer said. “When we go, we’re going to drag the Alliance with us. It seemed the most appropriate place to spend the afternoon.”

They sat in silence until the general's comms pin chirped. His transport had arrived. They shook hands and parted ways, leaving Lucifer alone with the ghosts which haunted this world. He dreamt of them. Fitful dreams of Seraphim whose mates refused to follow them into the dreamtime and a dark, evil thing which devoured everything in its path.

The next morning, he found the elderly Seraphim couple beneath the spreading branches of a great tree. A headstone commemorated the graves of a family of related individuals. The couple had lain down together on a blanket, curled up in each other’s arms, and died. Lucifer called his ship and ordered them to send a crew to bury them exactly where they'd willed themselves to die. He didn't report it to the official authorities. That would necessitate an autopsy, an inquiry, and the couple being buried in separate coffins someplace other than with the family they'd obviously come here to rejoin. Separating them seemed … wrong. It gave him conflicting emotions that he really didn't want to deal with right now.

He gave Zepar crap about every single cockamamie political scheme he proposed that day. He'd suffered from migraines for almost as long as he could remember. Mumbling an apology about not feeling well, Lucifer headed down to his personal quarters to sleep it off.

Chapter 42

Late-April – 3,390 BC

Earth:  Village of Assur

Colonel Mikhail Mannuki’ili

Mikhail

So far, every attempt to find a marketable trade had met with failure. The goats the Ubaid kept for meat and milk ran away every time Mikhail rustled his wings. He had no idea how to shape pottery, work with wood, or any craftsmanship related to trade. An apprenticeship with the flintknapper had seemed logical as it only stood to reason he'd be able to create weapons, not just use them, but the man had sent him packing after he'd shattered one too many of the precious obsidian. Until he got his ship working, there was only one task he'd proved capable of. Pure, brute, hard physical labor

Every rainy season, the Hiddekel River rose above its banks and deposited mud onto Ubaid fields. The scent of fertile muck filled the air, pungent and sweet in a land with scant rainfall. Shallow floodwaters lapped at the rocks he'd helped Immanu clear as a levy. The trick was to get the seed into the ground as soon as the waters receded so that the wet, moist silt would sprout the crops. It was time to earn his keep.

“You must take the seed and scatter it … like this." Needa grabbed a handful from the basket and scattered it in a practiced motion.

Ninsianna's mother was every bit as beautiful as she was, with the same curvaceous figure, wavy black hair, high cheekbones and gently curved nose that her daughter bore, but unlike Ninsianna, Needa rarely smiled. This was not because she had a sour personality, but a symptom of the constant worries she carried around like a basket of rocks. Other people's illnesses and threats to public health were always on Needa's mind.

It was a heavy responsibility, being the village's only full-fledged healer, one he'd made even more difficult when he'd lured off her only source of reliable help to save his life. It was the reason, he now suspected, that Immanu had been willing to force his dreamy daughter's hand in marriage to the son of the village chief. They needed Ninsianna to stay here in the village, not be lured away by some distant tribe, such as his.

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. 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, 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.

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 the three dozen females who stared owl-eyed at him every time he moved about the village. 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.

Chapter 43

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. 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 an impossible mission.”

“That sounds like me.” Lucifer's headache began to fade. “Tell Doctor Halpas to get 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. 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 Prime Minister? When his father had disappeared, he'd had no choice but to cover them up, but now he was certain the ungrateful old fool was more likely to throw him to the wolves rather 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 had saved Lucifer's tailfeathers 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.”

Chapter 44

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. 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 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.

At one end of the yard, the family's dairy goat bleated a greeting, standing on her hind legs to see if Needa brought any scraps. Leading the goat outside the village to pasture each morning and bringing her home each afternoon was one of the tasks he'd taken upon himself to pull his weight, although the goat was less than pleased with his self-appointed industriousness. A neighbor peeked over the laundry she hung in the next yard over as he spread his injured wing. He studied her with an unreadable expression, wondering whether her curiosity was hostile or benign. No matter where he went, his every move was scrutinized.

Needa felt along the bone, her trained fingers registering every nuance of the flesh which lay beneath. His wing twitched involuntarily when she got to the spot where it felt like somebody was ripping the limb off of his body every time he extended it. The longer the injury lingered, the less likely it was he would ever regain the ability to fly. Without a cutting-edge surgical team to go in and repair the damage, Needa was his last hope

“It didn't bother you when you made wind to spread the barley seed,” Needa said.

“No, Ma’am," he said. "As long as I reach straight outwards and not up, it's fine."

“Does this still hurt?" Needa felt along the place where his tendon had partially torn away from the bone.

“Somewhat,” he said, “though not as bad as before. I can move my wings horizontally to do a hop-glide, but I can't stretch them up to pull myself off of the ground."

The initial act of becoming airborne, not the flying itself, was the real marvel of flight. Gravity only reluctantly released its hold.

“Have you been doing the exercises I recommended?" Needa massaged the area around the torn tendon.

Mikhail suppressed a grimace of pain. Unlike Ninsianna’s pleasant ministrations, there was nothing gentle about Needa’s perfunctory manner of dispensing healing. She was efficient … blunt … and every bit as talented as the Emperor’s best trauma surgeons.

“I've been performing your exercises three times a day,” he said. “It doesn't seem to help." That panicky feeling he'd been suppressing since the day he'd learned he might never fly again clenched in his stomach like a small animal trying to dig its way out of the earth. Never had he felt so helpless in the face of an obstacle he didn't know how to overcome.

“Show me how far you can move it on your own … straight up … before it hurts too much to move further. Slowly!!! No jerking the muscle. And no playing tough boy! I can't help if you don't tell me the truth.”

“This is where it starts to hurt,” he moved his wing so the knee joint was above his head and the trailing edge ran horizontal to the earth.

“Tell me when it gets too painful to bear." Needa grabbed his injured wing just before the joint and held it stable while she maneuvered the end-tip up another foot before dizziness began to make his head swirl. She held the wing in the uncomfortable position while he exhaled to control the pain. It hurt, but if the pain could help him fly again, he would endure.

“What is the prognosis?" He sighed with relief when she finally released his wing and ruffled his feathers to work out the small stabs of pain as blood circulation increased into the injured limb.

“Try it again,” she ordered.

He lifted the wing as far as he could go, grimacing as he hit the end of his comfort range. He pushed the uncooperative limb just a little bit higher.

“That's four inches higher than a minute ago,” she said, “and a good foot higher than last week.”

“What does that mean?" He hoped it meant things were improving. He didn't think he would be of much use to the emperor he could only vaguely remember … or complete whatever mission he'd been sent here to accomplish … if he couldn't fly. He stretched his wing until the spasm which had developed in the axillary muscles finally began to subside.

“It means you need more time to heal,” she said. “Months. But you may be able to fly again once it does.”

“Yes, Ma’am." A smirk twitched up one corner of his mouth despite his best attempt to maintain a neutral demeanor. He didn't relish the thought of having a gimpy wing for a few more months, but it was the most hopeful news he'd received in weeks.

“Ask Ninsianna to help you stretch like I just did several times a day,” Needa said. “And to keep massaging it for you. Massage removes the evil spirits from the flesh.”

By 'evil spirits' he assumed she meant the tiny daggers stabbing through the flesh which protested having just been forced to move after months of inaction.

“Yes, Ma’am." He masked his thrill at having an excuse to ask Ninsianna to massage his wing. The only evil spirit he wished removed was the distance which had cropped up between them since they'd left his ship. Since coming to Assur, her gentle ministrations had all but ceased.

“Now, go make yourself useful, young man!" Needa shooed him away with her hand. “You're eating me out of house and home!”

“Yes, Sir!" He gave her a good-natured salute.

Chapter 45

You're the one who bakes the bappir

In the big oven,

Puts in order the piles of hulled grains,

Ninkasi, you're the one who bakes
the bappir in the big oven,

Puts in order the piles of hulled grains…

…When you pour out the filtered beer

Of the collector vat,

It is [like] the onrush of Tigris and Euphrates.

Ninkasi, you're the one who pours out the

Filtered beer of the collector vat,

It is [like] the onrush of Tigris and Euphrates.

Hymn to Ninkasi -

Sumerian Goddess of Bread and Beer

End-April – 3,390 BC

Earth:  Village of Assur

Ninsianna

Ninsianna stretched to ease the crick which had developed in her back and wiped the sweat from her brow. Every spring, they entered planting season full of energy left over from the idle winter, but within days they were reminded that the sun was a harsh taskmaster. If not for the fact Mikhail appeared uncomfortable every time she took off her shawl, she would have already stripped down to the waist like their neighbors had already done.

The too-small cast-off shawl of her childhood was artfully tied to cover all the parts that made the stoic Angelic stiffen and stare bolt-straight into her eyes. The garment was sweaty, filthy, and plastered to her skin, making her silent curses to the sun all that more colorful. She could almost hear She-who-is laughing at her discomfort. Thank the goddess they were nearly done planting the day's allotment!

“Ninsianna,” Mikhail pointed to the plot next to theirs. “Why do those two old women plant their field alone? Don't they have family to help them?”

The plot in question had been freed from the receding flood waters a full week before her family's plot came above the floodtide, but the widow-sisters still had much left to plant in contrast to their nearly planted field. Yalda and Zhila were both women in their seventies, an advanced age even for the Ubaid. They bent over their baskets of seed, arthritic hands and backs bent from a lifetime of hard labor, methodically casting seed upon the silt. As they worked, they chattered to one another, one sister finishing the thoughts of the other.

“That's Yalda and Zhila,” Ninsianna said. “Halifians killed their sons in a raid and their daughters are married to men from far-off villages.”

“Why do they not go to live with them, then?" Mikhail tossed another handful of grain out onto the fertile soil. "Elderly women shouldn't be forced to perform such hard physical labor."

“They don't wish to be a burden upon their children,” Ninsianna said. “They are sisters and don't wish to be separated. So they fend for themselves.”

“Doesn't anybody help them?”

“If we finish planting our own fields before sundown,” she said, “we usually go over and help them finish spreading the rest of their baskets. They are very old and it takes them a long time. It's only an extra hour we have to offer per day, but it helps. They are very kind, funny old women.”

She didn't add that the reason so many villagers helped them was because Yalda made bread so soft it melted in your mouth, while Zhila was a talented brewer of just about any concoction which could be fermented. The widow sisters were savvy about who they rewarded with the real fruits of their labor, the bread and beer they manufactured from grain harvested from their field. No matter how much other villagers tried to steal their secret recipes, no one had ever been able to replicate the one-two punch of the brewer-and-baker widow-sisters who avidly worshipped Ninkasi, the goddess of barley and beer.

“What about them?” Mikhail nodded towards where Jamin and several warriors lounged on the edge of the field, their baskets empty.

“It gets more difficult for the Chief to get them to do their fair share every year,” Ninsianna snorted. “They say they are powerful warriors and such work is beneath them. If we don't plant, we don't eat!”

“We should move faster, then,” he said. “So we can offer to help. You have an extra hand to plant your allotment now. We can do more.”

“Yes,” Ninsianna nodded with approval. “We shall go faster.”

Tossing handfuls of the wild barley seed into the air, Mikhail whipped his enormous black-and-brown striped wings with a frenzy to distribute the tiny grains across the silt. The breeze whipped up by his wings caused her to close her eyes and relish the feeling of being cooled by a living fan. Laughter welled up in her chest, the joy of watching him show off for her making her heart swell with happiness.

“Mikhail, stop!” she laughed. “If you spread your seed any further, you'll plant grain all the way up to the Taurus Mountains!”

“Are we done yet,” he asked with a smile.

Her heart skipped a beat. For a moment, she forgot to breathe. If she'd thought he was beautiful before, that was nothing compared to the joy she felt as she saw him smile for the very first time. Ever since the goddess had touched her with the gift of sight, Ninsianna could see straight into people’s souls. Right now, she was being blinded by the golden-white spirit-light which surrounded him, radiating out of his heart as though it were rays of the sun. Realizing her jaw had fallen open, she shut her mouth and attempted to compose her features into something other than naked desire.

“Did I do something wrong?” Mikhail frowned. The colors in his aura clamped down behind that thin, blue eggshell which was the color she would always associate with him.

Ninsianna placed her hand over his heart and took his hand to place upon her cheek, tilting her head to smile up at him.

“No, Mikhail. This is the first time I have ever seen you smile.”

His fingers slid across her cheek to tangle in her hair. “Ninsianna?”

His mask slipped. Naked emotion showed on his face. Time slowed down, allowing her to savor the moment. She paused, her breathing labored, as she stared into his unearthly blue eyes, bluer and paler than the midwinter sky. She knew. Even if the goddess had not gifted her with the gift of sight, she knew. But this was not the right moment. Her elderly neighbors watched from their right, while Jamin and his friends chattered feet from where they stood. They weren’t exactly … inconspicuous.

“Come,” she regretfully broke the contact. She took his hand and tugged him towards the widow-sisters. “We are done planting for today. Let me introduce you to our neighbors.”

Chapter 46

End-April – 3,390 BC

Earth:  Village of Assur

Jamin

“Harlot!" Anger turned his cheeks so red it made him sweat. How dare the winged demon flex his wings and show off like a cockerel greeting the dawn in front of the entire village? Any minute now Mikhail would start scratching the ground and crowing! Oh, how he obsessed about plucking those wings and turning them into a feathered cape!

“Let’s go,” Siamek glanced to where Ninsianna stood in intimate proximity to the five cubit tall winged stranger who had now taken up residence in their village. “We are finished planting for today. Let’s go practice someplace else.”

“She deliberately makes a spectacle of herself to dishonor me!” Rage shuddered through his body as the winged demon reached out to tangle his fingers in his fiancé’s hair.

“Did you see the way he spread their seed in only a few minutes?” Firouz said with admiration. “That would have taken me all day.”

“Look!” Dadbeh said. “He's helping Yalda and Zhila plant their fields now. The beer will be flowing tonight!”

“I wish he would come plant my field,” Tirdard looked forlornly at the basket of seed he'd yet to plant. “I can’t go with you until I finish planting my parent's field." Tirdard was the youngest warrior in Jamin's elite group.

“That’s because you daydream about Yadidatum all day,” Kiarash said. “Instead of focusing on what you should be doing." Kiarash was one of the older warriors from the Chief's generation. He referred to the young woman to whom Tirdard was betrothed.

“All that Yadidatum daydreams about these days is the winged one,” Tirdard said mournfully. "She said I should strive to be more like him."

“Just like every other female in the village,” Siamek laughed. “A guy can't get any action since he showed up.”

“Oh, beautiful winged one,” Dadbeh said in high-pitched voice. “Carry me into the sky with those big dark wings of yours.”

“No, fair maiden,” Firouz donned a respectable facsimile of Mikhail’s unreadable expression. “I must follow Ninsianna around like a large, winged dog.”

“Sit, boy,” Dadbeh changed his mannerisms to mimic Ninsianna at her bossy best, “Stay. Fetch. Go plant my neighbor's fields so Yalda will bake me some bread." For emphasis, he reached out and touched Firouz’s cheek.

“Yes, my love,” Firouz mimicked Mikhail’s stiff stance, “anything to avoid eating your mothers cooking." Firouz walked in lock-step behind Dadbeh as he mimicked Ninsianna leading Mikhail around by the nose.

“He is only here to gauge our defenses so he can attack us!" Jamin snarled. How could they all be so stupid?

“Come, now, Jamin,” Kiarash said. “The only reason he is here is because of Ninsianna. You don't go from riding a sky canoe to planting fields unless you wish to win over the girl." Kiarash was a warrior from his father's generation, the Chief's watchdog assigned to babysit the younger warriors.

“Enough!” Siamek had been friends with Jamin long enough to see when he was about to lose his temper. "What Ninsianna does is of no concern of ours. Only that we train as Jamin has asked!"

“It's time to face the truth,” Kiarash said. “Ninsianna strung you along because you were the biggest dog in the village. Now she has found an even bigger dog to grant her every whim."

“You're better off without her,” Siamek said. “Let’s go practice someplace else." He reached to turn Jamin away from the sight of Ninsianna and her two elderly neighbors buzzing around the winged one like bees to honey. In the air above them, two enormous golden eagles circled the fields, looking for a mouse. The wind carried them higher in an updraft.

'Jamin … it's time to let her go…'

“Get your hand off of me,” Jamin snarled.

He stalked off, leaving his friends wondering what they'd done to become the focus of his ire. Moving off into a grove of date palm trees, he hid, watching Ninsianna coax the demon to do her dirty work for her. His friends were right about that much! Ninsianna had found a bigger dog to do her bidding.

Chapter 47

Galactic Standard Date:  152,323.05

Haven-1:  Royal Palace

Prime Minister Lucifer

Lucifer

Lucifer stared down at the magnificent white palace which had been home for the first fifteen years of his life. The Eternal Tree the Emperor had planted the day the Alliance was founded, which tradition said would flourish so long as the Alliance did, was in full blossom, but for so long as he'd been alive, the tree had never set any fruit. Sterile. Like him…  The pilot circled around to the small landing pad located at the rear, as far away from the garden as the Emperor had been able to design it.

When he'd lived here, everything had been an adventure, each moment more delightful than the one before as he'd helped the Emperor beat the socks off of the old dragon in their eternal game of galactic chess. Nowadays, when his father wasn't in the ascended realms matching wits against Shay'tan, he was in his genetics laboratory. It was to this series of buildings, jutting out the back of the palace like the tail in the letter 'Q', which he headed as soon as his shuttle landed.

At the inner door, he met the first of three sets of Cherubim guards, the thirteen-foot-tall ant-like warriors fierce and resplendent in their armor which accentuated their naturally armored bodies. He was known here, but they still made him go through a retinal scanner and answer a series of questions to prove he was who he said he was, searching for the signs of oddity or delay which signaled the presence of a 'squatter,' whatever the hell that was. If such a thing existed, the Emperor had never enlightened him. Just outside the main laboratory he was stopped a second time.

Once upon a time, the Cherubim had been under orders to simply let him in, a boy whose curiosity the Emperor liked to pique. Nowadays, it was all he could do to get the Emperor to return his calls. He'd left more than a dozen messages, not one of them returned. The Emperor was angry he refused to rescind the trade deal and was giving him the cold shoulder. He'd come in desperation because what he had to say couldn't wait.

That small, nasty voice that always taunted that his father didn't care about him had grown louder since leaving 51-Pegasi-4. His subconscious whispered to quit making excuses, but the first fifteen years of his life had been so happy. The Emperor had made him happy. No matter how many times the Emperor now pushed him aside, blew him off, pooh-poohed his requests and minimized his concerns, that part of him that had grown up adoring the man he called 'father' refused to die.

Even the small, nasty voice was silent today…

He waited while they forwarded his message requesting an audience, his white wings snapping with irritation. The door to the laboratory opened. His stomach sank the moment he lay eyes upon the person his father had sent to answer.

“I need to see him,” Lucifer said.

“He is running a genetics experiment and can't be disturbed." Dephar was Muqqibat, a long-lived species of wingless, dragon-like creatures. He'd served as the Emperor's chief geneticist for longer than Lucifer had been alive.

“He can't just bury his head in the sand and not deal with this problem!" Lucifer's white wings flapped with frustration.

“He's busy!" Dephar tasted the air with disgust. “He doesn't have time for your little … intrigues.”

“I'm his son! I have a right to see my own father!”

“You are Asherah’s son,” Dephar said coldly. “Not his! He never legally adopted you. For 225 years you and that slimy assistant of yours have been lying to the press.”

Lucifer felt as though he'd just been punched in the stomach.

“He is the only father I have ever known,” Lucifer said. “He always insisted I call him Father. Zepar said the adoption became official after both of my biological parents died.”

“Well it didn't!” Dephar snapped, hatred flashing in his eyes. “Why do you think he's avoided you ever since he got back? He doesn't want you any more than your mother wanted him.“

He'd always known that Dephar didn't like him. Not even as a little boy. The Muqqibat were one of the old races who fought tooth and claw to prevent the genetically engineered hybrids from gaining the same legal rights as the naturally evolved species and there had always been some sort of tension between the wingless dragon and his mother, but he'd never realized until now that his father's chief geneticist hated him.

“I need to see him,” Lucifer pleaded. “Dephar, please. He can't just continue to pretend there is not a problem. I was on a Leonid battle cruiser yesterday. There were no Leonid’s on it! Only Spiderids.”

“The Spiderids are taking over for the Leonids,” Dephar said, “just as the Leonids took over for another race that's now extinct. The Leonids are defective creatures who are being replaced.”

“Don't you even care that the Leonids will all be gone soon?” Lucifer shouted. “There are less than 3,500 left!”

“Your species are tools,” Dephar's snout contorted into a snarl. “Created to serve the naturally evolved races. Not the other way around. The Emperor doesn't make time to fix you because your species are not real.”

“That’s not true!" Lucifer felt sick.

“You're nothing but another one of Hashem’s failed experiments!"

With a disgusted snuffle, Dephar turned and disappeared back into the genetics laboratory, signaling the two Cherubim guards to evict him from the palace. They silently escorted him back to his waiting shuttle. As it took off and cleared orbit, hopping between terraformed worlds to where Parliament sat on Haven-3, that small, wise voice which was always heartbreakingly right returned to taunt him.

'You have always known this to be true…'

He made his way to his office in a fog, oblivious to the reporters who hounded him and the constituents who rushed up asking for favors. All he could think about was the adoption. Never completed? Could it be true? Zepar had always insisted he leave the past alone. He'd ceded those kinds of details to his Chief of Staff, always too busy to go digging on his own. Every time he'd tried, Zepar would reassign whoever he'd sent to dig and loaded up his schedule until he wondered why he even cared. He sensed that if he wanted to know now, he would need to go through alternate channels.

And he knew just which channel he could use…

One of the gifts the Emperor had endowed his species with was beauty. Fair haired, fair skinned, with perfect, aquiline features, it was rare to find an Angelic who was less than pretty. Just this last year, however, the training academy had rotated in a new cadet, a legislative aide who was not simply less than beautiful, but downright plain. Pravuil had developed a hopeless crush on him, for he could see the thoughts that danced through her mind every time the idealistic young trainee opened her mouth. Every single thought involved a daydream about him.

At first it had been simply because, with so many females lined up on his appointment schedule, he hadn't been interested in fucking an Angelic who was ugly. Pravuil's heat cycle had come and gone and, for the first time in history, a cadet straight out of the academy had been in his office and remained a virgin. He didn't use his gift on her. He didn't seduce her. Heck! He didn't even flirt with her! Anything to avoid encouraging the affection which gushed forth from her subconscious like water. He might be the biggest alpha-stud in the Alliance, but he wasn't deliberately cruel.

But a funny thing had happened as she stumbled into his office each morning, fumbling the paperwork he had to sign and stuttering like an idiot. Pravuil didn't like Zepar, and he'd found himself enlisting her aid on more than one occasion to thwart his Chief of Staff, who he liked these days less and less. He'd begun, not to flirt with her, for she was still as plain as dirt, but to talk to her. As he hadn't talked to any other person, either male or female, in his 240 year lifetime.

Pravuil was the closest thing he'd ever gotten to having a friend.

She still had a crush on him. Sometimes the images were annoying because he didn't think of her in that way, but he found himself actually looking forward to their conversations. As soon as he got back to his office, he waved off Zepar and summoned Pravuil into his office.

"M-m-mister Prime Minister," Pravuil stammered, her mousy beige wings fluttered with angst, matching her mousy, baby fine hair that no amount of hair gel could coax into holding a shape.

He'd been in a snappish mood when he left this morning, arguing with Zepar and storming out of here when Zepar had refused to accompany him to the palace. Lucifer smiled to put her at ease, pushing the silent apology into her mind as he asked her to sit down. He leaned back in his leather chair, tapping his fingers together thoughtfully.

"I have a favor to ask."

"Of me?" Pravuil's wings perked up with surprise.

"Yes, of you." He gave her that practiced smile he knew she fantasized about. Right away, he regretted it. He'd made up his mind that if one had a true friend, which was not something he knew a lot about, for when you were born into a position of power you merely gathered people who wanted you to do something for them, or people who wanted to take something away from you, then you should always try to be forthright with that friend. Pravuil was his first-ever experiment in having a friend. A rather one-sided experiment as he called all the shots, but he was trying to be fair about it. He decided to frown instead.

"Is something wrong?" Pravuil asked.

"Yes." Lucifer tapped his fingers together once more. This aide had covered his tail feathers on many occasions with things he didn't feel like arguing about with Zepar. He would grant her a modicum of trust. "It's about a matter which is very … delicate."

"How can I help?"

She leaned forward, eager to be of assistance. In this matter, she could be useful. What Pravuil lacked in beauty or social skills, she more than made up for in her ability to dig up buried treasure. It had been his excuse to make Zepar keep her around when her first rotation had been up.

"Can I trust you to be discreet?" He stretched his gift into her mind to see if the images which danced through it matched up with her words. He, better than anyone, knew that words and intentions usually diverged.

"Of course you can, Sir!" Pravuil's eyes were wide and earnest.

Lucifer didn't trust words or the body language used to convey those words. Body language could be schooled to lie just as much as words could. But the image which jumped into his mind of her jumping in front of him, wings flared, with a pen in her hand wielded like a sword, made his heart do an interesting little flip-flop. Not in a sexual way, of course, for she was still ugly, but in an 'aww, somebody really cares about me' kind of way.

He stared across the room to a picture of himself as a small boy standing next to his mother, his white wings a contrast to her nearly black ones. They had both possessed the same facial features at that point in his life, an echo of a dead woman he suspected still haunted the Emperor even though adulthood had squared off his features.

He rose out of his chair like a cheetah, padding over to snatch the picture from the shelf. Halfway there, he remembered to soften that instinctive body language he used around women. He wanted Pravuil to help him because she thought of him as her friend, not because she hoped he would invite her for a mating attempt next heat cycle and then, silly romantic that she was, want him to keep her around. He'd made that kind of heartfelt invitation just once in his life and been shot down. Bitch! He didn't think Pravuil would do that to him, but then again, he hadn't thought the Bitch would do it to him, either, and she had.

Instead of walking back to his desk, he sat down in the small chair opposite Pravuil, arranging his wings over the low back of the chair. He looked at the picture, his thumb next to his mother's face, and drooped his wings.

"I never knew my biological father." The picture reflected the sadness which had always marred his mother's smile. It was her most enduring feature.

"So I have heard, Sir." Pravuil trembled at having him sit this close.

Lucifer gave her a wistful smile that was genuine this time. "Please. In here, when the others aren't around to gossip behind your back, just call me Lucifer."

"Y-y-yes s-sir, I mean, Lucifer, Sir," Pravuil stammered.

Lucifer stared at the picture once more.

"Before she died, she made contact with my biological father." He caressed the glass. That old familiar feeling of loss, even though it had been 225 years since she'd died, still made his heart heavy. "Hashem was livid. Rumor has it … well … the truth is … I don't really know what happened. I was fifteen years old at the time. All I know is my real father claimed the adoption was invalid because my mother had never told him that I existed."

Real father. He'd never called Shemijaza that before. He looked up to stare into Pravuil's eyes. What he got from her mind was not fluttery dreaminess or pity, but an emotion he rarely saw in people. Compassion. She saw him. And she wanted to help him. Not because he was the Prime Minister and she had a crush on him, or wished to garner a favor she could call in at some later date, but because … just because. It was strange, this sensation of all of a sudden having the shoe on the other foot.

"I don't know who I am anymore," Lucifer whispered. "The Emperor … ever since he came back, he hasn't been the same. I just think … I think I would feel better if I knew the truth."

"Have you not looked?" Pravuil asked.

"Several times," Lucifer rolled his eyes. "You know Zepar. He tells me not to fill my head with such nonsense and reassigns the aides to do something more practical."

"I don't think knowing who your family is impractical!" Pravuil said. "I may have been raised in the training academy, but my half-brother and my father always make sure to call me at least once per month. We get together once per year for a family reunion."

Most hybrids only sporadically visited their offspring, if at all. A deliberate casualty of the anti-fraternization laws, which had been amended over the millennia to not only discourage mated pairs, but also to encourage Hashem's armies to look to him to be their father-figure instead of the parents who had given them life. Policies Lucifer had whole-heartedly embraced in his father's absence, driven by anger at his mother's suicide and egged on by Zepar.

Lucifer handed her the photograph. "I'm not even sure where you would begin. All I know is that she died in the eleventh month of 152,098 and that, several months prior to that, my biological father initiated some sort of legal action. And then all of a sudden, he died, my mother died, and the Emperor just disappeared."

"I'll research the media reports from that time period, Sir." Pravuil forgot to call him Lucifer. "And then I'll sift through the court records. If it was a contested adoption, the records would be sealed, but you can unseal them if you know what you're doing."

The image Lucifer received from her mind as she spoke was of a bold investigative journalist, digging for the truth, an archetype Pravuil idealized. Her wings were still mousy-beige, her hair still too thin and stringy, and her features as plain as dirt, but when her eyes met his, she was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. She'd seen him. And she would help him. Just because…

The smile he gave her was genuine and heartfelt. A smile few people ever saw. The smile she gave him in return was just as genuine. It made him feel … warm. As though she'd reached into his empty heart and made a little place for herself there. A friend.

"Thank you," Lucifer said. "I'll tell Zepar I have sent you on some bogus mission so he doesn't complain you're out of the office. Let's just keep this between you and me? Okay?"

Pravuil rose and shook his hand. Her handshake was not sweaty and unsure, but firm. For him, she would be bold. His touch lingered far longer than the practiced two-and-a-half second handshake he'd spent the past 225 years perfecting, relishing the warm tingle which flowed from her hand into his. Her wings fluttered with determination as she walked out the door to complete the mission he'd just given to her.

Yes. He'd finally made a friend. He made up his mind right then and there that he wouldn't mate with her when she came into her next heat cycle, either, because then Zepar would make her go away. Zepar was too tightly intertwined in his affairs to risk pissing off. The man had been his advisor ever since his mother had died, but beginning right now, he would start taking more control; starting with knowing the truth about his family! If the Emperor didn't want to be his father, then perhaps it was time he found out who his real father had been?

What the hell are you doing? that small nasty voice hissed inside his mind.

He told it to shut up!

Chapter 48

May - 3,390 BC

Earth:  Village of Assur

Ninsianna

He intercepted her carrying home a basket of early spring vegetables. Standing in the middle of the open field, arms laden with the bounty of the soil, there was no alley to duck into to avoid him or house to pretend to be visiting on a mission of healing. She had no choice but to stand her ground.

“Ninsianna,” Jamin jogged to catch up with her. “We need to talk. Please!”

“What do you want?” Ninsianna eyed him with distrust. Yalda and Zhila looked up from the adjacent plot. At least there were witnesses if he tried to drag her anyplace or duck her head into the water again.

He towered over her, two hands-breadths taller than the top of her head. He would have been beautiful but for the sneer which marred his handsome features. Brown skin. Black hair. A straight nose, unusual in a people whose facial features tended to be more like a hawk than a lion. And eyes so dark it was hard to tell where his irises ended and his pupils began. Physical attraction had never been the problem between her and the son of the village chief, but temperament. Every time he tried to boss her around, it roused her temper.

“Lose your pet rooster?”

Anger caused Ninsianna's eyes to flash fiery gold like the sun. Mikhail was at his ship, a journey he made once a week to try to get the engine oars working. Recovered except for his wing, he no longer needed her to protect him, but she wouldn't tell Jamin where he was.

“Mikhail is his own person." She tossed her hair and attempted to continue on her way. “What he does is none of your business.”

“You're making a big mistake,” Jamin blocked her escape. “He has no family. No money. No position. Gods! He's not even human.”

“You just don't get it,” she sighed. “None of that matters. It never did. If it’s not him, and I'm not saying it is him, then it would be somebody else. Why can’t you just accept the fact I don't love you and go find somebody who does?”

“Why, dammit?!!” Jamin cried out. “I'm the best warrior in the village. Why am I not good enough for you?"

She opened her mouth to cut him down into the dirt. More than a few of the females he'd bedded over the years had congratulated her for finally giving him a taste of his own medicine. After all the grief he'd caused her, she wanted nothing more than to watch him bleed!

'Ninsianna … be kind! There is no benefit to being cruel…'

Ninsianna's eyes were drawn to Jamin's spirit light, the hole in his heart that she had made. It was not anger or arrogance the chief’s son spoke with now, but hurt. A twinge of guilt twisted in her gut. She'd led him to believe her depth of feeling was greater than it really was, thinking it was the goddess' will. Although, in her defense, she had intended to marry him at the time.

“Jamin …" She put her hand on his cheek. “Sometimes people just are not right for one another. You're handsome, strong, and smart. There are plenty of women who would love you if you just gave them a chance.”

“But it's you that I love." His voice warbled like a teenage boy. “You told me that you loved me, and then all of a sudden you just didn’t anymore. I don't understand what I did wrong! I can't eat. I can't sleep. You're all I that I can think about!”

Why couldn't he go away and find somebody else? Jamin was not the first male she'd spurned, but he was definitely the most persistent. Until Mikhail fixed his sky canoe and carried her off into the stars, it didn't behoove her to antagonize the son of the village chief. Like it or not, until she could leave, she had to be nice to him.

“It’s not you,” she said. “It's me. I love you, but I'm just not in love with you. You deserve somebody who will love you more than life itself. Like in the legends. I'm just not that person.”

Turning to where Yalda waved for her attention, she excused herself and moved towards her elderly neighbors.

“You looked like you needed to be rescued." Yalda pretended to look into Ninsianna’s basket, her ancient skin crinkled into a smile.

“Ohmigods, yes!” Ninsianna said. “Thank you.”

* * * * *

Nobody noticed Mikhail standing in the distance. The last thing he expected was to see her standing in the family field, speaking to her former betrothed. She'd placed her hand on Jamin’s cheek in the same intimate gesture he'd come to regard as reserved only for him. The contact had been brief, but he'd seen it. An emotion he couldn't even begin to name stabbed through his heart and made it difficult to breath.

Chapter 49

Galactic Standard Date:  152,323.05

Orbit - Haven-3

Prime Minister Lucifer

Lucifer

“Master … can you hear me?”

“Mmmmmffff,” Lucifer groaned. His head hurt. Another migraine? He vaguely recalled taking a transport to the royal palace to be refused an audience by his father, but not what he'd done afterward. “Where am I?”

“On Lucifer’s diplomatic carrier, Master,” Zepar said in a reassuring voice. “Don't worry. I'll dispose of the evidence.”

He felt as though he were buried alive, the heavy black dirt pressing down upon his body. He fought the sensation, trying to make his body move. The dirt pressed harder, trying to suffocate him.

It felt as though a small, bright light had just been extinguished in his heart, a tiny echo of a feeling he hadn't felt since the day his mother had died. A name came into his mind and was buried forever by the dirt. Loss. He fought the heaviness, struggling towards Zepar's voice, trying to reassemble the jumbled, nightmarish fragments that danced through his brain and didn't make any sense.

Someone called to him, whispered regret. Forgiveness. Goodbye. He tried to follow, but the dirt held him there. Trapping him. Buried him alive. All of a sudden, he found a slender pathway, leaving him weak and nauseous. Voice? What voice? The voice he'd struggled so hard to follow was gone, leaving nothing but emptiness in his heart.

Was he hung over?

Zepar's words began to register in his mind. Evidence? What evidence?

The stab of pain that greeted him the moment he tried to move his eyelids made him shut them again. His hand registered the squishiness of a comforter and a body lying next to his. He was in his bed with a female. Had he blacked out during one of his mating appointments?

“She was unimportant,” Zepar said. “Ki's watchmen usually are. Nobody will come looking for her.”

It felt as though he were fighting his way through a painful green fog. Try as he might, he just couldn't get his brain to work. A coppery scent assailed his nostrils. He couldn't get his wings to move in unison with the rest of his body, as though all of a sudden he'd forgotten how to use them. He grabbed at the female lying next to him. She didn't protest his awkward grasping or move to get out of his way. Her skin felt … cold.

“Zepar? What are you talking about?"

“Oh. It's you.”

“Zepar?”

“Don't worry, Sire." Zepar's tone of voice changed. “You've had another migraine. I'll give you something for the pain. Go back to sleep and when you wake up, everything will be back to normal.”

Lucifer felt the prick of a needle in his neck as Zepar gave him whatever concoction he always used to alleviate these horrific migraines.

'Trust Zepar. He is your most trusted advisor…'

Yes. He trusted Zepar. Zepar had picked up the broken pieces after his mother had died and Hashem had abandoned him … and the Alliance … to fend for themselves.

Lucifer slid back into unconsciousness.

Chapter 50

And it came to pass

When the children of men had multiplied

That in those days were born unto them

Beautiful and comely daughters.

And the angels, the children of heaven,

Saw and lusted after them,

And said to one another: '

Come, let us choose us wives

From among the children of men

And beget us children.'

Book of Enoch, Book 1 – Watchers

Galactic Standard Date:  152,323.06 AE

Neutral Zone:  Sata’an/Alliance Border

S.R.N. Tsalmaveth

Prime Minister Lucifer

Lucifer

His two Angelic guards glowered at the 'honor' guard of a half-dozen Sata'anic soldiers who met them in the launch bay of the S.R.N. Tsalmaveth, royal flagship of Sata'an Royal Navy. Shay'tan, of course, would never lower himself to travel in such mortal squalor. Why twiddle your claws for days on end traveling from one end of the Empire to another when you could break down the molecules in your physical form into pure energy, teleport the whole shebang to your destination with a mere thought, and then reassemble yourself any way you liked, right down to what color scales you wished to manifest that day? Shay'tan had long ago relegated the ostentatious flagship to his number two henchman, Ba'al Zebub.

Any other escort would have oogled the gold-tiled hallways, inlaid with rubies and other precious stones, but not Furcas and Pruflas. The two goons Zepar saddled him with glowered at the Sata'anic lizard soldiers with sullen expressions. Their icy stares turned to disgust as they entered the bejeweled royal conference room where Ba'al Zebub sat waiting on an ornate chair that had been permanently placed next to an even larger one. The six lizard soldiers genuflected to the empty throne and murmured whispers of 'Shay'tan be praised' even though the old dragon wasn't even on the ship. Lucifer wondered if Shay'tan had ever even sat on the empty chair, or if it had merely been built for show? The latter, he suspected.

“Prime Minister Lucifer,” Ba'al Zebub exhaled with a hissing voice, the best approximation of the Angelic language the Sata’anic races could mimic. “It's a pleasure to meet with you again."

Sata'anic lizard people tended towards portliness, especially the ones in the upper echelons of their society. An unconscious desire to emulate their emperor and god, Lucifer suspected. Shay'tan, of course, could assume any shape he wanted, but he preferred to manifest his form to mortals as large as could possibly sit in whatever room he graced without sitting down upon one of his subjects. If portliness was a sign of godliness in the Sata'anic Empire, than Ba'al Zebub was a titan, for Shay'tan's mouthpiece was so obese that his scales had long ago worn off the soft, pale underside of his chins and the rolls of fat which overhung his bejeweled, pointy-toed slippers.

“This had better be worth the trip." Lucifer's wings twitched with annoyance. He was fending off another migraine and not in the best of moods. “Do you have any idea the risk I take travelling into the neutral zone? That bitch Jophiel has been climbing up my ass with a microscope!”

Lucifer regarded the Sata’an Empire's highest-ranking emissary with distrust. They'd done much business together over the years, but Ba'al Zebub would sell him out in a heartbeat. Excepting Ba'al Zebub, most Sata'anic lizards were remarkably similar to the hybrids in how they moved and fought. Their retractable claws and fangs were built-in weapons, while their tails provided an extra fighting limb. Good at seeing in the dark, their main disadvantage was they were no faster than any of the other naturally evolved species which occupied the galaxy.

Lucifer tossed a pen into the air, caught it, spun it through his fingers, flipped it into the air a second time and caught the point of it with one finger so that the writing implement balanced perfectly upon the sharp point. It was a simple feat of agility even an Angelic infant could accomplish. A reminder to Ba'al Zebub that even though their political positions were similar, Lucifer was a superior being. Ba'al Zebub's gold-green eyes narrowed at the little demonstration, but the lizard-man grinned rather than take the bait.

“I think you will agree it was worth the trip once you see what I have to offer." Ba'al Zebub's forked tongue tasted the air for the pheromones which allowed the Sata’an to pick up on other people's emotions. “Our benevolent Emperor has sent you a little … gift.”

Ba'al Zebub signaled one of the guards. The guard disappeared out of the posh meeting room, painted royal blue to denote his rank with gold leaf stenciling as was Sata'anic custom. Moments later, he came back with two other guards, dragging an ebony-skinned humanoid between them.

“What is this?” Lucifer's wings perked up with curiosity.

“You tell me?" Ba'al Zebub’s fangs bared in a pleased grin as he invited Lucifer to examine the merchandise.

Lucifer walked around the frightened young woman and touched the back of her ornately jeweled dress where wings should have erupted from her back, but didn't. His grip on reality had been a bit tenuous lately. His eyes saw, but his brain refused to process the reality of what stood right in front of his eyes. He pinched the bridge of his nose, doing his best to appear disinterested, and tried to signal Zepar that he was having another one of his episodes and needed him to take up the slack.

“Sire,” Zepar's wings shook with excitement. “This is the root stock the Eternal Emperor used to create his hybrid armies!”

Okay … the migraine now included his Chief of Staff. Perhaps it was time he resigned so he could go get his head examined?

“The root stock has been extinct for 74,000 years." Lucifer feigned contempt as he battled that strange feeling he often got before a blackout that everything was far away. “An asteroid hit Nibiru and wiped out all life."

To be certain he wasn’t hallucinating, he pinched himself. The pain came. The pain went. White flesh refilled with pink where he'd squeezed it together. A dark-skinned, wingless Angelic still stood before him. He glanced at Zepar, relying on him to make sure he didn't tip off Shay’tan’s number two henchman that he was going bonkers.

“Their new homeworld lies within the bounds of the Sata’an Empire,” Ba'al Zebub gestured to the dark-skinned female. “Hashem ceded that territory during the war with the Nephilim. At the time, he'd twelve other seed colonies to experiment on.”

Hashem had always blamed the loss of the human homeworld on Shay'tan and the fact the old dragon had lost control of the species who used to make up his armies. Moloch had riled the Nephilim into rebelling and attempting to seize control of the Sata'anic Empire for themselves. The two emperors had been forced to unite and wipe them out, every last Nephilim man, woman and child, but during that time Hashem had been too busy fighting to save his Alliance to put any real effort into helping what few humans had survived the destruction of their homeworld to settle into their new colonies. By the time the dust had settled, humanity had gone extinct while Shay'tan had pulled a new species out of his bag of tricks to act as his minions, the Sata'anic lizards.

“All attempts at reseeding the human source race failed." Centuries of practice as a politician enabled Lucifer to convincingly say one thing while something entirely different screamed through his brain. He was hallucinating. He must be hallucinating! He was seeing unicorns. Pink elephants. Humans…

“This colony was Shay’tan’s doing,” Ba'al Zebub grinned. “Murderers, thieves and prostitutes. Shay’tan bet the rejects Hashem left behind to die would kick his genetically pure breeding stocks tail feathers, and he was right!”

“So why hasn’t Shay’tan revealed this tidbit before now?" This time, the twitch of contempt from Lucifer's wings was not aimed at Ba'al Zebub, but his own father.

“The human rejects were so violent,” Ba'al Zebub said, “that Shay’tan lost interest in them and left them to fend for themselves. Like he did with the Tokoloshe. He offered to sell Hashem a few at a tidy profit once it became obvious your people were dying out, but the Eternal Emperor is too high and mighty to swallow his pride.”

Lucifer knew the propaganda by heart. It did, however, have the ring of truth. His father would cut off his nose to spite his face when it came to admitting Shay’tan was right about something.

“You can expose your father for the hypocrite he really is!" Zepar rubbed his hands together. “If his subjects lose trust in him, it will force the old fool back into the ascended realms where he belongs and you can regain control of the Alliance.”

“I enjoy tweaking my father's nose as much as Shay’tan does,” Lucifer said. “But I'll not betray him.”

“But he has betrayed you,” Ba'al Zebub gave a laughing bark. “Your species is going extinct and what has he done to help you survive? Nothing! He has replaced your people with bugs!"

Lucifer was unable to refute Ba'al Zebub’s argument, although with the migraine he'd been fending off all morning, it was hard to tell if it was because the slithery henchman was right, or Lucifer's brain was simply too jumbled to think straight. Everything had that eerie penumbra that he always got just before he began to see double.

“How do I know this human is even genetically compatible with our species?" Lucifer redirected the conversation out of treasonous territory. “It has been 74,000 years since their species was lost and 150,000 years since Hashem first created the hybrids. That's a lot of time for genetic drift to occur.”

“Ahhhh….” Ba'al Zebub laughed. “You have unearthed Shay’tan’s motivation for gifting you with this female. You know better than anyone that the old dragon never gives gifts without strings attached.”

“What’s the catch?” Lucifer asked.

“Why … we want you to test her out for us, of course,” Ba'al Zebub poked Lucifer in the chest. “Shay’tan heard about your little … problem. If she conceives, he will know your species is still genetically compatible. The old dragon likes knowing exactly how valuable his chess pieces are before he plays them against your father.”

“My problem is none of your godsdamned business!" Lucifer got touchy whenever anyone rubbed his inability to sire offspring into his face. “How sentient is she?”

“Meh … so-so." Ba'al Zebub waved his hand to indicate 'not so much.' “In the 74,000 years since their homeworld was lost, Leviathans gained space travel. Meanwhile, humans regressed backwards into a stone-aged culture.”

“Great! You want me to bugger an animal and produce defective offspring." It wouldn't be the first time Zepar had advised him to seduce a non-Angelic to achieve some purpose, but even he drew the line at fucking a non-sentient creature.

Zepar pulled him aside and tried to reason with him. “Sire … the hybrid races were never designed to be free-standing. Hashem used to periodically reintroduce fresh blood from the root stock to prevent inbreeding. That's why we are having so many problems now.”

'Sometimes you must make sacrifices for the greater good…'

“She is anatomically identical to an Angelic female,” Ba'al Zebub pointed to the terrified female's curves. “Our tests indicate no signs of the genetic flaws which prevent your species from reproducing.”

“What matters, Sire,” Zepar said, “is that your esteemed colleague has prevailed upon his Emperor to gift you with the first sample of this merchandise.”

Whether or not it's fully sentient is irrelevant. All that matters is that you can beget sentient offspring upon it…

Lucifer paid heed to that small, pragmatic voice, the one which was never wrong. Now that he'd adjusted to her unusual coloring, he had to admit the woman was striking. He reached out to touch her high cheekbones, her skin so dark she reminded him of the rare painting his father had of He-who's-not, the Guardian of the universe. The woman cringed, tears streaming from her large brown eyes.

“What’s with the dress?" Lucifer touched the heavily jeweled Sata’an wedding dress.

“Shay’tan doesn't approve of your hybrid female's loose morals,” Ba'al Zebub grinned. “Hatchlings fare better when they are the product of a proper marriage, not the peculiar mating arrangements your father has engineered in a pathetic attempt to make your people loyal to him instead of each other. Our benevolent Emperor is formally gifting her to be your wife in the same manner in which he gifted me all thirty-two of my wives.”

“You didn’t say anything about marriage!" Zepar's dirty white wings shook with anger. “Hashem forbids it! The Prime Minister’s unique genetic profile is too precious to waste on a marriage which may or may not result in offspring!”

“Ahhh,” Ba'al Zebub hissed so pleasantly it was almost a purr. “But that's the condition Shay’tan has put upon receiving her. The human homeworld is in Sata’an territory. If you want access to them, you must respect our traditions.”

“My father will have an apoplectic fit if I marry." Lucifer's joyful scheming beat back his headache. “Especially one of his precious root stock. It might be worth it just to see the look on his face when I show up at a press conference and announce I have found the solution to our problem."

As the Emperor's adopted son and a second-generation Seraphim, it had always been questionable whether or not the hybrid anti-fraternization laws applied to him. Once before, in the Emperor's absence, he'd considered rolling the political dice and carving out an exception for himself. The Bitch! His plans had died on the vine along with her rejection, but his mind began to race about new ideas to gut out the anti-fraternization laws for all hybrids. If the Emperor was abandoning his species to go extinct, then it was up to him to help them survive.

“No marriage!” Zepar insisted. “The Prime Minister has to set an example for the other hybrids.”

“Nothing in Sata’anic culture prohibits the taking of more than one wife,” Ba'al Zebub said. “Why … Shay’tan has nearly four dozen wives in his harem. If she doesn't produce fruit, he will even let you return her.”

'She is the solution to all of your problems…'

“We timed this visit for the female’s peak fertility cycle,” Ba'al Zebub added. “You can have your answer within three days.”

For once in his life, the kind little spirit that whispered in his right ear was in agreement with that small, nasty voice which whispered in his left. He would do whatever it took to ensure the survival of his species.

“Please convey to your emperor my gratitude for this gift,” Lucifer moderated every aspect of his physiology to convey the proper respect and gratitude. “If she is what you say she is, perhaps we can come to a more … lucrative … accommodation?”

“Let us know how it goes." Ba'al Zebub exposed his fangs in a pleased grin as he rubbed his plump claws together and schemed about all the ways he could extract 'commissions' from such an arrangement. “If she sets fruit, we can discuss terms for the next shipment of mail order brides.”

Lucifer walked over to the terrified woman and held out his hand. “It appears we are to be married."

He knew the female had no choice. Sata’an females never did have a say about who they married, but he hoped she would choose marriage to him over going back to whatever Stone Age planet humans had been abandoned to die out on. She couldn't understand his words, but he hoped his appearance was similar enough to her own, compared to the reptilian Sata’an, that she would come willingly. He would explain the rest to her later, after he'd a chance to teach her his language.

“I'll take good care of you.” Butterflies flew in Lucifer's stomach at this small act of rebellion against not only his father, but also Zepar. “I promise. You'll like the modern world."

The female searched his eyes. Her hand trembled as she took his outstretched hand. A feeling of joy made his heart flip-flop in his chest. He smiled down at her as Shay’tan’s priest read the vows, already envisioning the future they would have together. Him. Her. And their attractive black-skinned, white-winged children. Or would that be white-skinned, black winged children? One of each? Yes! He would beget hundreds of offspring upon her, each child more magnificent than the one before.

Zepar turned an interesting shade of purple as the Sata’anic priest pronounced them husband and wife. Lucifer couldn't wait to see the expression on his father's face when he found out not only was he married … to a human … but that he'd done so in his adversary’s name. Hah! All he had to do was keep things quiet until he'd figured out how to prevent the Emperor from retaliating by snatching her away from him.

“May the blessings of Shay’tan smile upon your union,” Ba'al Zebub said. “And may she bear you many, fine sons. Her fertility cycle ends in the next day and won’t re-emerge for another 28 days, so I recommend you don't waste any time.”

Lucifer forced his feet to remain on the deck of Ba'al Zebub's ship instead of fluttering down the hallway as he shepherded his new wife down to the launch bay. With a snarled dismissal, Zepar stayed behind to argue with Ba'al Zebub in private. Lucifer felt a perverse thrill of pleasure at annoying the controlling Zepar. What was his problem? This development was good for everyone! Not for the first time, he wondered whose interests Zepar was really looking out for? His? Or his own?

“Hello, my wife,” Lucifer touched her hair and relished how coarse and curly it felt compared to the silky tresses of an Angelic . “Do you have a name?”

“Tafadhali,” the woman nervously glanced out the hatch at the Sata’an lizard people standing guard outside his shuttle. “Mimi nataka kwenda nyumbani."

He had no idea what she said, but it appeared to be a legitimate language. The Sata’an bridal outfit hid her figure, but she had curves in all the appropriate places. Ba'al Zebub knew better than to lie about the merchandise he traded.

“You have no idea what just happened, do you?" Lucifer took her hand and squeezed it. He prattled on, as nervous as a cadet. “You'll be the first female I've ever had to woo completely on my own. Zepar has always set these things up for me, you know? I'm not even sure you'll respond to my ‘gift’ if you're not able to understand my language.”

“Tafadhali,” the woman pleaded. “Kuchukua yangu nyumbani.”

“Will you stay with me once you no longer need me, my wife?" Lucifer used his gift to send an image of the question which had been in his heart with every female who had ever started to catch his fancy before Zepar made him come to his senses. Can you see me? Can you look into my eyes and see my soul?

“Tafadhali wala maudhi kwangu,” the ebony skinned female trembled. “Nitakuwa tiifu Mke Kama huna kunidhuru.”

He could detect the subtle pattern of longings which his gift enabled him to see underlying the speech in all sentient creatures. She was frightened and she wanted to go home. If not fully sentient, she was close. With training, perhaps he could pass her off as a fully sentient race instead of an emerging one? He didn't want to be the laughing stock of the Alliance, but then again, his people were so desperate for a solution to their problem that they would overlook a whole host of shortcomings in the root race so long as they were able to reproduce.

“You have beautiful eyes." He touched her cheek, amazed at how her skin could be so dark and yet feel so much like his. “I see the features of the Centauri in your face. Their skin is not nearly as dark as yours, but darker than my own. Are they descended from your people?"

He projected an image of a caramel-skinned Centauri mare into her mind as he spoke, wondering if she understood. The female got a puzzled expression, tilting her head as she reached up to touch first his temple, and then her own. Did she really understand that he could communicate telepathically? The Emperor had always led him to believe the ability was one he'd engineered into the hybrids ... and then eradicated when he discovered the ability was linked to defects lurking in the Seraphim bloodline. Was the ability innate?

He touched her cheek. Caressing her chin with his finger and thumb, he leaned in and gave her a kiss. She didn't respond with the heat-enhanced hunger of the Angelic females during mating appointments, but she didn't reject him, either. She reached up to touch the leading edge of his wings, her eyes round like an owl's as she realized they were real.

Lucifer shivered under her caress. He felt like he was the cadet about to be fucked and he looked forward to it. Yes. He would wait however long it took for her to want him. This one would be different.

Zepar scurried into the ship and ordered the pilot to get the hell out of there, giving him a disapproving look.

“I'm sorry, Sire,” Zepar said. “I had no idea he would make such a ridiculous demand! If I had known, I would have refused to even schedule the meeting.”

“Like hell!” Lucifer said. “Look at her! She bears the genetic features of the Centauri. If my father tries to quarantine her, I have legal grounds to prevent it. She's my wife!”

“It's a pre-sentient farm animal,” Zepar said. “A tool to solve a problem. Don't allow yourself to get attached to it.”

“Screw the consequences,” Lucifer said. “I'll do as I see fit.”

“Of course you will, Sire,” Zepar said. “But you heard what Ba'al Zebub said. She is only fertile for the next 24 hours.”

'You must mate with her as quickly as possible…'

“He also said her heat cycle is only 28 days,” Lucifer said, “not the two years or more between Angelic heat cycles. She doesn't understand what I'm saying, so my gift won't work. How can I woo a female who has no idea what I'm saying?”

“She is little more than a trained monkey,” Zepar said. “Don't read more into her behavior than is really there.”

“After 225 years of shooting blanks,” Lucifer said, “I'll risk taking a few weeks to get to know my new wife before I throw her down upon the bed. I've had my fill of meaningless sex! Planned or not, I have every intention of enjoying her!”

“You're falling into Shay’tan’s hands,” Zepar warned.

“I just made a deal with the devil,” Lucifer said. “Let me enjoy the up side of having sold my soul to Shay’tan before my father rains down his wrath upon me!”

The migraine which exploded inside of his skull felt like a white dwarf going supernova inside his brain. He staggered, pain forcing him to sit down. He gripped the bridge of his nose and squeezed, breathing through his mouth to prevent himself from vomiting.

“Wewe ni sawa, Mume wangu?” the female reached out to touch his forehead. Her eyes went round with fear.

“Migraine,” Lucifer whispered. “I get them a lot.”

“Nyeusi uchawi!” she hissed. She turned towards Zepar, holding her hand in some sort of sign, fingers folded in and index and pinkie finger pointed towards him. “Mimi naona katika mchawi nafsi yako, na kuona kwamba wewe ni mbaya! Ibilisi!!! Ibilisi!!! Wangu hadithi ya watu Je, Ubaya Mnyama, na mtakuwa kushindwa." She moved to stand between Lucifer and Zepar.

“She's just a pre-sentient farm animal,” Zepar crooned, his voice almost hypnotic in its reasonableness. “A means to an end.”

'Think of how much power you'll garner amongst the hybrid armies if you can to gain access to more of these...'

“Of course,” Lucifer said. Zepar always made sense.

“Ba'al Zebub trained her to act like a sentient creature,” Zepar said in a calm voice. “Of course she appears to be sentient because she's your distant ancestor. But she is no more sentient than the funny little creatures Hashem keeps in his genetics laboratory.”

'She is just breeding stock...'

“Just breeding stock,” Lucifer said.

“It's critical that you impregnate her as quickly as possible, Sire,” Zepar said, the voice of logic and reason. “Think of how much power you'll gain once you have living proof these humans are the solution to their problems. They'll have no need for the Emperor anymore. The Alliance will be yours for the taking.”

Darkness crushed in upon his brain from every angle, stealing his ability to command his body to move or even think. It felt as though he were being buried alive. That small, nasty voice grew louder, taunting him for his weakness. He couldn't longer see what was standing right in front of him and Zepar's voice sounded as though it were far away.

“I ... I need to lay down...” Lucifer whispered.

The crushing migraine made the world go black.

Chapter 51

Neutral Zone:  Sata’an/Alliance Border

Diplomatic Carrier:  Prince of Tyre

Alliance Secret Service:  Special Agent Eligor

Eligor

Eligor stood at attention as the Prime Minister’s shuttle cruised into the launch bay of his diplomatic carrier, the ‘Prince of Tyre.' For some reason Chief of Staff Zepar had radioed ahead and demanded the entire crew assemble in the launch bay. A chill of anticipation rippled through the men.

The door slid open. The gangplank slowly extended. The Prime Minister stepped off, shepherding a female wearing an ornate, jeweled wedding dress.

“Figures,” Larajie said. “With him it's always something female.”

“A Sata’anic female,” Eligor whispered. “The only one who has ever seen one is General Abaddon. Shay’tan won’t let them out of the Hades cluster.”

“So now he's going to fuck a lizard?” Larajie scoffed.

“Wouldn’t surprise me,” another crewman said. “We all know there are two Lucifers. The one he shows the cameras, and the one we see the minute he is out from underneath the Emperor’s thumb.”

The Prime Minister guided the terrified female to stand in front of the line of men, three-deep, and stood, a feral glint in his eyes as he grinned like a cat who had just swallowed a bird. He waited for his men to recognize what was standing right in front of their eyes.

“That’s no lizard,” Eligor said. “She's ... “

“Human,” Lerajie finished. “Shit ... he did it! He found the root race! We're saved!”

Eligor looked into Lucifer’s eerie silver eyes and shivered. What stared back was so malevolent and cold he could swear it wasn't mortal.

Chapter 52

Summer Solstice - June - 3,390 BC

Earth:  Village of Assur

Colonel Mikhail Mannuki’ili

Mikhail

His knee hurt.

Immanu had explained their custom of prostrating oneself before the Chief, but Mikhail refused. There may not be many things he remembered, but going down on both knees and having somebody stand over him, demanding submission, felt so unnatural that he'd been unable to prevent the anxious twitching of his wings. After Ninsianna had been unable to dissuade her father from imposing Ubaid social customs upon his new 'son,' it had been Needa who'd stormed over to Chief Kiyan's house, pounded upon his door, and let him have it. Mikhail had not been there to hear this juicy conversation, but from the whispers that drifted his way in the days that followed, three square blocks had heard his new 'mother' chew the Chief out. The mere thought of it made him smirk, even now.

That had led to conversations about what felt natural. While his mind didn't want to release his memories, his body could often be tricked into regurgitating the information. If he emptied out his mind and did things, his body let him know if he'd done it before. After an afternoon spent attempting every known demonstration of swearing fealty, they'd finally come up with a solution. Go down on one knee, place his right fist over his heart, and let the Chief put his hand upon one shoulder, not his head.

Staying in that position for half an hour, however, while the Chief droned on and on and on, wasn't part of the bargain. The gravel dug into his knee, his wings ached from being held above the ground, and his muscles were beginning to cramp. By how awkward this gesture was for a creature with wings, he suspected it was not an Angelic gesture of respect, but a Cherubim one.

“Membership has its privileges,” Chief Kiyan droned on. "But it also comes with responsibility. The responsibility to contribute something of value to the society in which you live. To carry your own weight. To ply a trade. To defend our village in time of need."

So far, Mikhail had one out of the three. Defend the village. As for the other two? He was giving it his best effort while trying not to eat Immanu out of house and home.

He shifted focus to the warm, tingling sensation that originated with Ninsianna's hand resting upon his shoulder. He liked it when she touched him. It did things to him. Warm, fuzzy things that felt totally alien, and yet so familiar, as though it were something he'd searched for his entire life. Chief Kiyan's voice receded as Mikhail noted the way the warmth echoed in his chest.

“Mikhail,” Ninsianna whispered. “Tá tú ag ceaptha chun freagra a thabhairt dó [you're supposed to answer him].”

“Hmmm?” he asked, coming back to reality.

“You're supposed to say you will protect and honor our customs,” Ninsianna repeated.

“I'm sorry,” Mikhail told the Chief. “Could you please repeat exactly what I'm supposed to say?”

“I solemnly swear to protect and honor the people and customs of Assur,” Chief Kiyan said.

Mikhail repeated the oath word for word.

Some of his adopted people cheered. Some of them clapped. Some of them got up and stretched with mutters of “oh thank the gods the old windbag has stopped speaking” before coming over to congratulate him. With a sigh of relief, Mikhail heaved himself up off the ground and flared his wings to work the cramps out of them, nearly knocking over several villagers.

“Mikhail, Mikhail!” several children clamored about. “Can we touch your wings?”

“Go ahead." He sat down on a stone wall so he wouldn't tower over the children, but kept his wings high enough off the ground to avoid being stepped on. It was a lesson he'd learned the hard way. He masked his awkwardness behind an unreadable expression as the village children patted him as though he were a dog.

“Hey! Run your hand in the same direction as the feathers," he said. "Not the wrong way. You’ll break them.”

“When you can fly again,” a precocious boy ran a feather he'd inadvertently plucked across his face, “will you take me for a ride?”

“I don't think your parents would be too happy if I did that,” Mikhail said. He felt a twinge of remorse as disappointment crossed the little boy's face. “I don't think I'm meant to carry any more than my own body weight.”

“Can I climb on your lap?" A little girl held up her arms. He picked her up, not sure what to do with her. He looked to Ninsianna for guidance. The girl put her hands on his cheeks and pressed her forehead against his, eye to eye. “Look,” she said, “I only have one eye.”

“I can see that, little one,” Mikhail suppressed a smile. Human offspring baffled him. It felt as though he'd never been around any children before.

“Sore ga sarani akka suru kanō-sei ga arimasu [it could be worse],” Ninsianna said in the clicking Cherubim language so the children wouldn't understand. “Kanojo wa anata o motomeru koto ga dekiru [she could ask you] ningyō o saisei shimasu [to play dolls].”

“Anata wa kanojo no aidea o ataeru aete shinaide kudasai!" [Don't you dare give her any ideas!]

Ninsianna gave him an evil smile, as though considering suggesting just that.

“Ninsianna,” a young warrior named Dadbeh called. “Firouz sliced his leg horsing around with Tirdard. It's bleeding all over the place. Could you please take a look at it?”

Ninsianna turned to Mikhail, wearing that expression she always donned whenever anyone came first to her for healing instead of her mother. “If you'll excuse me, duty calls.”

A stab of jealousy tightened in his chest as he watched Ninsianna's hand lingered on the young man's leg far longer than Mikhail would have liked. He chided himself on the ridiculous emotion. Ninsianna liked to touch. Whenever she did, it smacked of intimacy, whether or not it was him she touched or somebody else. What he'd thought was special, reserved only for him, he now understood was her normal way of relating to the world. It made him feel … unimportant. He watched her tend the wounded male out of the corner of his eye as well-wishers converged upon him, blocking her from his view.

“Why do you let Ninsianna tell you what to do,” a brassy young woman named Shahla asked. She suggestively ran her fingers down his chest. “A real woman would let you be in charge."

Mikhail suppressed a scowl. He only liked it when Ninsianna touched him. Whenever anybody else did, it felt … wrong.

“Angelics don't differentiate between males and females." He hoped the ice in his voice would make Shahla go away. He might suffer from lingering memory loss, but he wasn't stupid. Shahla was trouble.

“But males are so … strong,” Shahla ran her hand down the side of her breasts and hips. “And women so soft and yielding. I wouldn't want to have to act like a man.”

Shahla was beautiful, but her forward demeanor put him off. Which was worse? When the villagers had feared and avoided him. Or when everyone had decided they had an open invitation to tweak his feathers and prod him like a prize goat. Sometimes he just wanted to fly back to his ship and tell everyone to leave him alone!

Like right now…

Warmth sank into his damaged wing as fingers slipped through the pin-feathers which had finally begun to grow back. His wings tingled as an achingly familiar warmth flowed into his heart and made him smile. Ninsianna. He would know her touch anywhere. He reached back without looking and took her hand, slipping his fingers through hers.

“Is féidir liom a bhraitheann tú, chol beag,” he murmured so the others wouldn’t understand his words. I can feel you, little dove.

A fearful squeak and the tug of her hand jolted him out of his pleasant cocoon. Shahla covered her mouth and giggled. He looked up and saw Ninsianna coming at him from a different direction, wearing an expression like a thundercloud. Glancing at whose hand he held, he was held captive by the blackest pair of eyes he'd ever seen. The black-eyed girl tugged her hand, trying to break free. She had the look of a prey animal about to be slaughtered.

“I-I-I'm sorry,” she stammered. “I shouldn't have … I'm sorry…”

He looked from the painfully thin young woman whose hand he held to Ninsianna. Although her eyes were black, not gold, and her features painfully thin, there was a family resemblance. Not incredibly so, but enough that he could see why he'd mistaken her for Ninsianna. The only reason the girl had not yet bolted, as she plainly wished to do, was because he still held her hand captive. He let her go.

“What's the matter, Ninsianna?” Shahla taunted. “Do you fear your man will realize you're not the only woman in Assur?”

The brassy young woman grabbed the shy black-eyed one and dragged her towards a group of warriors. Mikhail looked up into Ninsianna’s eyes and saw that she was upset.

“For a moment, I thought she was you,” he said. “Is she a relative?” The moment the words left his mouth, he realized the were a mistake. Ninsianna scowled. It was an ugly expression she rarely wore.

“More like the village tramp and her spooky side-kick,” Ninsianna snapped. “Everybody will be talking about this now behind your back!" She pointed to where Jamin leaned against a goat shed, a look of dark intensity on the swarthy male's face as he scrutinized them with a malicious smirk.

Was Ninsianna jealous? For him? For some reason, her jealousy pleased him. He reached up to touch her cheek the way she often did to reassure him. Her anger melted. Slowly but surely, he was learning the intricate dance of non-verbal human social interactions. He suppressed his own jealousy as a second young man asked her to look at some sibling's injury, abandoning him to the village children once more.

“And now it's time for the summer solstice games,” the Chief announced, grabbing a spear out of a pile and balancing it perfectly in his palm. “We shall begin with the spear throwing competition.”

His two elderly sister-widow friends hobbled up to rescue him from some curious children.

“Mikhail,” Yalda asked. “Will you compete?”

“Yes, you must compete,” Zhila said. “I think our fine young friend will be good at it, don't you, Yalda?”

“Yes, he is very strong!" Yalda squeezed his bicep and nodded approval. “And become even stronger hauling water to our crops. We shall see how the other warriors fare against a man who is not afraid to dirty his tail feathers, shan’t we, Mikhail?”

Mikhail suppressed the smile which threatened to burst through his habitual poker face. His affable new 'grandmothers' wanted to make a point about the young warriors' insistence they were too important to help other members of the tribe. He'd quickly learned that beneath his new friends grandmotherly exterior lay the razor-edged wit of two sharp swords.

“Yes, I'll compete. You must introduce me as your champion.”

The widow-sisters each grabbed an arm and tugged him out the south gate of the village with surprising vigor for two women well into their seventieth year. The warriors gathered in the flat, rocky plain, some sort of obstacle course already set up beforehand. Several Ubaid females also joined the group, mostly young women he'd seen around the village, but not yet formally met. Although Ninsianna lamented the fact that women were discouraged from participating in traditionally male activities, it appeared it was not forbidden. The constant threat of annihilation from hostile neighbors meant strict male-female rules were imprudent in areas such as the ability to defend one's own self.

“Ahhh … here comes Ninsianna,” Yalda said. “She will compete again this year.”

Ninsianna glided up to them, her face lit up in a beautiful smile.

“You're too late,” Zhila taunted Ninsianna. “We have already commandeered your fine young man to be our champion. If you want to win the prize, you will have to earn it on your own!”

Ninsianna laughed.

“I see you've been conscripted into service,” Ninsianna said. “Maybe I'll be nice enough to share a few of the prize olives after I have kicked your tail feathers.”

“We shall see,” Zhila pursed her wrinkled lips as though she were a trader. “I know a thing or two about a good throwing arm and our champion has a strong one." Zhila squeezed his bicep in approval.

“Hey … what am I … a prize goat?” Mikhail suppressed a laugh.

“Yes!” all three women said at once.

“It's been a long time since we were strong enough to compete ourselves." Yalda's cataract-clouded eyes turned inward to competitions of years past. “Zhila used to be quite good, you know?”

“Ahhh…” Zhila said, “but that was many years ago. These days I count myself fortunate to toss my walking stick into the corner.”

“Listen!" Ninsianna said. "The Chief is about to explain the rules.”

Chief Kiyan outlined how the competition would proceed. The prize was an urn of olives obtained in a trade with the Ghassulian tribe in the Ghor valley. Olive trees rarely grew more than a few miles from the Akdeniz Sea, so the prize was considered precious.

For the first round, all contestants would throw the spear into a field marked with measurements. Anyone who couldn't throw 15 paces would be eliminated. In the second round, the contestants would throw spears at a target 30 paces away. Anyone who couldn't hit the target would be disqualified. In the third round, the contestants would run through an obstacle course and then hit a target. The one who hit the closest to the inner circle without being disqualified would be the winner.

“Have you ever thrown a spear before?” Yalda asked.

“I'm not sure,” Mikhail said. “I can't remember.”

“Here, let me show you." Zhila grabbed a spear from the pile and posed in a fierce throwing stance that was amazing for one so advanced in age. “The secret is not in the throw, but how you put your weight behind it when you release the shaft.”

Picking up a second spear from the pile, Mikhail found the center of gravity and hefted it into the position Zhila demonstrated. The shaft felt familiar in his hand. “I think I've had training throwing a similar weapon. But I'm not an expert. It feels as though I haven't wielded such a weapon in a very long time.”

“When you throw,” Zhila said, “picture your entire body becoming part of the spear. Like this…”

Zhila hefted the spear 17 paces into the field, a remarkable feat given her advanced age.

“You should compete,” Mikhail said with admiration. “That will qualify you past the first round.”

“My eyes are too bad,” Zhila said. “I can still throw, but I can't see the target well enough to hit it. And my knees ache too much to run the obstacle course. Such games are for the young and strong!”

“Let’s start!” the Chief clapped his hands. An excited murmur rose up as spectators gathered behind their chosen champions to cheer them on.

“Your spear-throwing lesson is over,” Ninsianna laughed, hefting her spear with practiced grace. “Now it's time to take your lumps!" Mikhail had seen her hunt fish. Beating her was not a given.

The Chief took the first throw. His spear sailed a good 50 paces. The crowd clapped approval. Then his son Jamin threw. His spear flew 50 paces as well. Like father, like son, Mikhail thought to himself, although the Chief was a much more admirable man than his sullen, spoiled son. One by one, other villagers threw their spears. Immanu and Needa lined up behind their champion, Ninsianna.

“So, I see our new son has defected to our neighbors,” Needa joked with a deadpan expression.

“That's because Yalda keeps him plied with bread,” Immanu said.

Immanu was right. The widow-sisters did keep him fed. It made more sense for him to haul water from the river to irrigate their crops, and them to thank him by keeping him plied with hot, soft flat bread, straight out of Yalda's oven, than for the two old women to waste such talent bent over in the fields. Besides … anything tasted better than Needa's cooking…

“Look!" Needa pointed. "It's Ninsianna’s turn!”

Ninsianna wound up in a graceful pose that brought a memory to the surface of a temple painting he'd once seen of She-who-is engaged in a hunt. Although she didn't possess the weight to heave her shaft quite as far as the Chief had done, she made 46 paces, more than enough to qualify and better than most of the young men. Mikhail tried not to beam too blatantly with pride as she strutted back to her parents and gave them a high-five.

“That's how it's done!” she bragged.

Several more contestants threw, including a slender young girl and the black-eyed waif. Even children as young as six or seven were expected to try for, and surpass, the fifteen pace mark, which appeared to be the point of setting the first qualification bar so low. Mikhail scrutinized the way the others threw, his sharp eyes watching for patterns in the body movements of the most successful contestants. Then it was his turn.

“Become one with the spear…” Zhila reminded him. “Everything else is secondary.”

Gripping the shaft, Mikhail schooled calm to ease his jitters. A phrase came to mind in the clicking Cherubim language. Familiarity with the shaft in his hand increased. He must have had training with a weapon that was similar, but not identical to it. Spinning the shaft to strengthen the memory, images of sparring with the ant-like Cherubim came into his mind. His training had been in use of a tapered, double-ended staff with steel tips … a defensive weapon to fend off an armed assailant. Not a spear. But the Cherubim staff could also be thrown.

“Stand back,” he said to Yalda and Zhila.

Pulling the shaft into chamber against his body, he spun the weapon several times in moves designed to fend off hits from another, similar weapon. At a critical point, he wound up in a maneuver similar to the one Zhila had demonstrated earlier and threw his weight behind the shaft, even his wings moving in unison as he pictured himself becoming one with the weapon. The throw was good. It flew straight and true past the chief's staff, past the end of the field a good 80 paces away. The crowd stood in shocked silence before erupting into cheers.

“The newest member of our tribe has given us a tough act to follow,” the Chief announced. “Do we have any contenders for second place?”

Several more villagers threw their spears, including the little girl whom Ninsianna had threatened to tell he'd play dolls. Mikhail noted that, except for the very young or old, most members of the tribe were able to meet the 15 pace qualifying mark. Any enemy who attempted to unseat the Ubaid from their lands would have a tough time.

“Distance is good, but as every warrior knows, you've got to be able to actually hit your target,” the Chief announced. “Now we'll see who can hit a target at 30 paces." As he spoke, several warriors dragged man-sized targets made of lashed poles and straw into the center of the field. A series of concentric circles had been drawn on what would have been the heart area of an enemy to make a bull’s eye.

Once again, the Chief opened the event by hefting a spear 30 paces to hit the bullseye, followed by his son Jamin. One by one, other competitors followed suit. Many disqualified themselves by missing the bullseye, but almost everybody hit the actual target. Ninsianna threw a perfect throw, hitting the bullseye dead center.

“When are you going to ask that girl to marry you, dear?” Yalda asked.

“Huh?” Mikhail was surprised to hear the question that had been on his mind for several weeks now uttered outside of his own head.

“Every man needs a woman who can bring home a rabbit for the stew pot,” Zhila said.

“And Ninsianna can fish better than most,” Yalda cackled.

“It's your turn,” Immanu interrupted them.

Ninsianna came prancing back to give her parents another high-five.

“Top THAT!” Ninsianna threw her arms into the air in a V and did a little victory dance with her parents. They slapped her on the back.

Yalda and Zhila’s jesting had rattled his concentration. His Cherubim training helped him move beyond his emotions and focus on a single goal, hit the target. Spinning the spear to coax the reluctant memories out of his scrambled brain, stronger memories of time spent living amongst the Cherubim masters, learning how to hit, to throw, and to control his emotions flooded into his mind. More choreographed moves were loosened from his amnesia as he warmed up in preparation for his throw. The other contestants all finished throwing and turned to see what he would do.

Clicking a few sentences in the Cherubim language, he was ready. Spinning a defensive Cherubim kata, he reached the portion of the routine where the energy turned offensive and unleashed the spear. It hit the innermost ochre circle painted in the heart-area of an attacker and punched right through the man-shaped target, landing 15 paces beyond.

“He's disqualified!” Jamin shouted. “The spear is supposed to stick in the target!”

The other Ubaid grumbled. Would the Chief favor his spoiled son? Or announce what they knew to be right?

“Jamin," the Chief said. "It went through the target as though it wasn't even there. If that had been a man, he would be dead right now.”

“But…” Jamin objected.

“But nothing,” the Chief snapped. “The entire purpose of this competition is to encourage our people to be ready in case we are attacked. The throw was good!”

The Ubaid cheered. Yalda and Zhila clapped him on the back of the wings. Ninsianna gave him a knowing 'I told you so' smirk while Immanu and Needa congratulated him.

“You'd better start baking more hot bread, wife,” Immanu joked. “Before our neighbors lure our new son away from us. We need to think of a way to put that throwing arm of his to use.”

“I'm a healer, not a cook!" Needa cuffed her husband off the side of his head and elbowed him. “If you want soft bread, bake it yourself!”

Out of the corner of his eye, Mikhail noticed Jamin sulk over to his warrior friends to complain. That made no sense. A soldier's duty was to defend others, not gain glory for yourself. Mikhail couldn't remember his past, but he'd just regained memories of repeatedly getting his tail feathers whipped by the multi-limbed Cherubim masters. He could only remember admiration, not grudges because they were better than he was. From the way Jamin's hangers-on moved away to speak to other contestants, it appeared his fellow warriors agreed.

“Next,” announced the Chief, “our warriors will run the gauntlet to hit the target under battle conditions. We'll take a short break to allow our contestants to prepare."

Several warriors moved the targets further down the field, while others dragged in a series of obstacles to climb over, crawl under, or step through before reaching the throwing line. Spectators dumped buckets of water onto the ground so that the course became a muddy, slippery mess.

“You'd better take that off,” Yalda pointed to his shirt.

“Unless you want it to be ruined,” Zhila finished.

“Why?” Both male and female contestants were stripping down to their loincloths and changing into rags.

“As you run through the obstacle course,” Yalda explained. “The spectators throw mud and straw at you.”

“Our clay is filled with yellow ochre,” Zhila said.

“No amount of washing will get it out,” Yalda said.

“Oh. What should I wear?” Mikhail asked.

He watched Ninsianna slip off the nicer of her two linen shawls and put on the old, worn one she wore to plant the fields … the one that was so small it barely belted around her waist to cover her breasts. A leftover, she'd told him, from when she was younger. He knew she only wore it because nudity made him uncomfortable, but he hadn't possessed the guts to tell her that the way her breasts not-quite peeked through the too-small shoulder wrap was almost more titillating than when she stripped down to her loincloth to fish. He was gradually becoming desensitized to the sight of bare-chested humans, but when Ninsianna did it, it caused him to become distracted.

“The men usually go bare-chested,” Yalda said.

“Supposedly so as not to dirty their spare kilts,” Zhila said.

“But the real reason is they enjoy parading around for the women,” Yalda said.

“And we don't mind at all, do we Yalda?” Zhila elbowed her sister in the ribs.

“No, we don't mind,” Yalda laughed.

“Strip!” Zhila ordered him.

Mikhail was surprised not only by the widow-sister's prurient thoughts, but also the ease with which they finished each other’s sentences. It was one of the things which had attracted him to their company in the first place, the closeness the sisters shared. Suppressing a sigh, he stripped off his shirt and handed it to them for safekeeping, but refused to strip down to his underpants. His flesh prickled with the feeling of being watched. He wished fervently he wouldn't look even more peculiar being the only male in the village to run this gauntlet fully clothed.

Immanu and Needa came back carrying buckets of straw and wet, gloppy mud from the river. They handed a bucket to Yalda and Zhila.

“You wouldn't throw mud at me, would you?” Mikhail asked.

“We shall be throwing it at you harder...” Yalda said.

“Than anyone else...” Zhila said.

“It's part of the fun!” they said together.

“Let’s get started,” the Chief announced. “Jamin will go first.”

“The old windbag doesn't like getting dirty,” Yalda muttered under her breath.

“Neither does the son,” Zhila said, “but he doesn't like losing, either.”

Jamin froze at the starting line then started to run. The spectators cheered and taunted, whipping balls of straw as he crawled over the wall. He dodged glops of mud as he danced gracefully through a series of squares set up to trip the unwary. The ground was muddy and slippery, but he kept his footing. Hitting the deck, he crawled through the mud on his hands and knees beneath the third barrier. He rose to his feet at the throwing line and hurled his spear at the target. It was a near-perfect throw, hitting the target only a half-inch beneath dead-center. Looking very much like a muddy chicken with straw sticking to the mud, Jamin threw his hands into the air in a victory V. The crowd cheered.

“That was a good run,” Mikhail acknowledged.

“Piece of cake!" Ninsianna turned and gave him a big smile.

“I think that last barrier will be a problem.”

“Why?”

“I'm too big," he said. "I'm not certain I can crawl under that last obstacle without getting stuck." He watched as more contestants ran the gauntlet, getting coated with mud from the course itself, or from the spectators gleefully pelting them with mud and straw. The most enthusiastic mud throwers appeared to be the families of the person running the gauntlet.

Ninsianna looked at him and frowned. “You're not too big. It's your wings that will give you trouble. Couldn't you just pin them to your sides like you do when you wear your dress uniform?”

“That’s uncomfortable,” he said. “It will impede my ability to crawl.”

“Poor pretty Angelic,” Ninsianna teased in a singsong voice. “Doesn't want to get his feathers all dirty crawling through the muck.”

“Whatever you do, don't touch the barrier,” Zhila said. “If you touch it, you'll be disqualified.”

“You're going to have to slide through on your belly,” Yalda said. “Like a snake.”

“Aren’t you glad you took off your shirt?” Zhila's features curved upwards into a toothless grin.

Mikhail glanced down at the hideous, sunken hole in his chest. He didn't think he'd ever been one to care much for his appearance one way or another, but he'd noticed more than one unabashed stare the moment he'd stripped off his shirt. Spectators pointed and whispered about the wound which should have killed him. At least it had healed enough that a crawl through the mud shouldn't cause any harm.

“Ninsianna, you're next,” Immanu called.

“Stop consorting with the enemy, daughter!" Needa poked Ninsianna in the belly. “Or we'll never get any olives.”

Ninsianna walked to the starting line and prepared to make her run.

“Here,” Yalda gave him a handful of mud. “You're supposed to distract her so she has a harder time concentrating on her throw.”

“But won’t that make her lose?”

“Better to lose here," Zhila said, "than in battle.”

Ninsianna leaped over the first wall, as graceful as a gazelle. Immanu pelted her with mud, followed by a well-aimed skein of straw thrown by Zhila. For an old lady who claimed she couldn't see, Zhila certainly could have fooled him! As she ran through the foot-boxes, Needa ran along the sidelines cheering her on and pelting her with skeins of straw. She dove under the third barrier, covering herself with mud from head to toe.

“Now, Mikhail. Now!” Yalda shouted. “Take her out!"

Just as she rose to her feet, he took aim and let fly a large glop of mud. Mud balls appeared to be a weapon he was unfamiliar with because his aim was off. The glop splattered on the side of her cheek.

“Later…” she mouthed, her golden eyes flashing with fire. She reached the throwing line, wound up her throw, and let fly her spear just as Yalda let loose a double-handful of straw. Ninsianna’s aim was true. She hit the target, but not well enough to beat Jamin’s throw.

“Too bad,” Immanu said to Needa. “No olives tonight.”

“Maybe Mikhail will share?" Needa turned and gave him a hopeful smile.

“Those olives…” said Yalda.

“Are ours…” said Zhila.

“Unless you have something nice to trade?” Yalda suggested. One steel-grey eyebrow rose in a calculating arc.

“Hey,” Needa said in her most charming voice. "We let you borrow our new son."

“We shall discuss the terms of surrender after the competition,” Yalda laughed.

Ninsianna was not too upset at her inability to beat Jamin’s aim. She pranced up to them covered from head to foot in mud and straw. “Sorry Mama and Papa … no olives this year.”

“That’s okay,” Immanu laughed. He stepped back and held his hands out in front of him. “Half the fun is watching you have fun.”

As she approached her mother, Needa put out both of her hands as well and said, “No you don't!!!" She bent in and whispered something in Ninsianna's ear.

Ninsianna laughed. She turned to Mikhail and gave him her most fetching smile. He gave her a puzzled look, trying to put the odd social interaction between she and her parents into context and trying very hard not to stare at the muddy nipple which had escaped her too-small shawl. With a grin, she came bounding over to where he stood like a tall, winged tree.

“Hug?" She leaped into his arms and pressed her muddy body against the length of his bare chest to give him a wet, muddy kiss.

Not sure what to do, Mikhail caught and held her, looking into her golden eyes as his breath caught in his throat.

"Ninsianna?"

Her parents and their elderly neighbors began to laugh. This appeared to be a well-known post-competition prank, but he didn't care that she'd just coated him with mud in front of the entire village. All that mattered was that he now held the beautiful, muddy female who had taken up residence in his dreams. He was mindful of the fact her parents watched, sizing up what his reaction would be. He suppressed the urge to kiss her back.

“Those two have it bad,” Yalda whispered to her sister.

“It's only a matter of time,” Zhila whispered back.

Mikhail put her down and rustled his feathers, not certain how he was supposed to react.

“You got me all muddy.”

“That was the idea." Ninsianna's cheeks turned bright pink. “You're up next.”

Mikhail crouched at the starting line, waiting for the Chief to give the command to start. What would be an advantage on the first obstacle, the wall, would be a detractor on the third, crawling underneath the stanchion. He needed to sink down into the mud to fit. His heartbeat slowed. He forced his mind to focus on a single goal. Beat … Jamin's … score. His hand tightened around the shaft of the spear.

“Go!”

His wings spread for balance, he sailed over the first barrier without flapping to gain the unfair advantage of flight. He tried not to cringe as Yalda pelted him with mud. He may have no memory of his past, but getting pelted with mud balls registered no familiarity, although dodging blasts from a pulse rifle came to mind. Running through the foot-barriers, he ducked two mud balls thrown by Immanu and Needa, but he caught some of Zhila's straw. The other villagers ganged up to pelt him with all manner of messy guck, but he could detect no malice in their faces, only laughter as they used the license granted by the games to take pot shots at the biggest male in their village.

Diving under the third barrier, he stretched his wings straight behind his back in an unnatural pose no winged creature would ever willingly assume and wriggled on his belly. He was still too big! Meshing the feathers of one wing into the other, he wriggled like a snake through the muddy guck until he got to the other side. Ninsianna waited with a victorious grin as she blew a kiss, and then pelted him with a double handful of mud. Payback … for his earlier bad aim. He couldn't help but smile as she bent to follow through with a handful of straw.

Focus on the target! He leaped over the last barrier to reach the throwing line and spun the spear once before winding up his best throwing pose. Become one with the spear…  He let it fly. It hit dead center before punching through the target into the field beyond. He would have to wait until the other contestants threw before seeing if he'd won, tied, or lost.

The spectators cheered, clapped, and cat-called as he sauntered back to the two elderly liege-ladies whom he championed for these games. Thick, yellow mud covered him from head to toe, including his wings. Ninsianna gave him a nervous smile and tried to slip away before he could repay her for her earlier mischief.

“Are you going to let her get away with that?” Yalda asked.

“Better be quick, boy!” Zhila poked his muddy belly. “Before she gets away from you.”

Ninsianna saw his intense focus and broke into a run. She hid behind her parents, squealing like a piglet being pursued by an angry dog.

“Don't look at us,” Immanu laughed.

“We’re not going to save you,” Needa said.

“An eye for an eye…” Immanu said in a mock-serious voice. He looked at Mikhail and nodded. He was being given permission.

Mikhail leaped into the air, flapping his wings to close the distance between them. It hurt. But the warm Mesopotamian wind caught his wings like a lover, caressing the leading edge and reminding him what it had been like to fly. This … he remembered. Thousands of tiny muscles stretched into her embrace, flaring each feather to hear the sweet song of flight. The first mistress any winged creature made love to was the wind. She tickled his sensitive feathers and whispered which way she wished to carry him, urging him towards climax.

He tilted his wings to catch her caresses, instinct taking over. Uplift. He twisted his legs to make up for the lack of a tail, stabilizing his flight as he embraced his fickle mistress and rode her into the sky. The spectators laughed, and then stopped in shock as they realized he'd just regained the ability to fly. To truly fly. Not just use his wings as a kite to glide over obstacles.

The Emperor had bred his species to hunt. With the sharp eyes of an eagle, he spied Ninsianna slipping into the crowd, unaware he'd taken to the air in her haste to escape his playful wrath. He was the hunter and she the prey. He tucked his wings into his sides and dove like a hawk. The wind whistled past his ears, singing exhalations at his return to her bosom.

Ninsianna paused when she didn't see him pursue her and never thought to look up. Swooping down from the sky like an eagle, he grabbed her, just barely touching the ground as he adjusted for her weight, and strained to lift the both of them into the air. Ninsianna shrieked, pressing the length of her body against his in terror.

“I owe you this,” he laughed, wrapping his arms around her so she wouldn't fall. His enormous dark wings flapped, straining to free her from the grasp of gravity, her jealous lover. He reached into the air and pulled, tilting his wings until the wind aided their escape. Pain shot down the damaged wing, protesting his abuse, but it held. Pain didn't matter. Only Ninsianna … and flight … mattered to him now. He pushed aside the pain and shot back into the sky.

Ninsianna screamed. She slid her arms around his neck, her legs flailing like a prey animal trying to escape the eagle's grasp. He caught the lazy updraft over the Hiddekel River and leveled off.

This was what he'd been bred to do…

Ninsianna’s shriek echoed in his ears, but combined with her terror he heard exhilaration as she relished the feeling of becoming one with the wind. Their eyes met, stealing the breath from his lungs as he forgot to breathe. Looking deep into her golden eyes, he finally succumbed to the urge to kiss her, greedily tasting the luscious red lips that had tempted him from the moment he'd woken up in his crashed ship with no memory of his past. With a moan, she wrapped her legs around his for stability. Warmth spread through his body as he sought out her tongue. She hesitantly, and then with increasing boldness, tasted the inside of his mouth, murmuring his name as she forgot her terror.

“Mikhail,” her lips pressed against his ear so the wind wouldn't steal her words. “You can fly…”

“With you … I can do anything."

He adjusted his wings so they could circle in the lazy updraft from the river valley below like the mated pair of golden eagles who forever circled the river in search of fish. Mud. Ninsianna’s face was now as streaked with mud as his was. It was the most beautiful sight he'd ever seen. With a mischievous grin, he added:

“And now you are covered in mud too, my love.”

Chapter 53

Galactic Standard Date:  152,323.06 AE

Earth:  Sata’an Forward Operating Base

Lieutenant Kasib

Lt. Kasib

Lieutenant Kasib rubbed the satisfied warmth in his belly, the taste of porridge made from local grains and a dried fruit called 'dates' still upon his sensitive forked tongue as he made his way back from the mess hall. Amorite traders, a group who had allied themselves with the Sata'anic nation builders, led a sizeable herd of human females across the central plaza, future brides for whichever worthy male the powers-that-be decided to gift them to. Unlike Sata'anic females, who viewed their induction into the Female Finishing School with eager anticipation, these females trudged despondently and sobbed. As he watched, an Amorite shoved one onto the ground and kicked her.

“Hey!” Kasib shouted in broken Kemet as he broke into a trot. “Don't hurt her!”

Kemet was the language of trade on this planet. As soon as they'd started setting up a Forward Operating Base, General Hudhafah had ordered them to learn it. Annexing a planet meant the locals were expected to cast off their primitive tongues and speak the civilized language of the Empire, but there was always a period of transition.

“Clumsy piece of goat shit!” the Amorite snarled, nervous he'd drawn unwanted attention. “She's been deliberately pretending to trip and fall the entire way here! Trying to engineer her escape, no doubt!”

“I'm sorry,” the female sobbed. She lurched to her feet and stumbled back into line, bruises visible on her cheek from previous beatings. The other women closed rank, protecting her even though Kasib’s presence terrified them. General Hudhafah had ordered them to stay back and not overwhelm the females until they became acclimated to seeing other species, but the Amorite's treatment was unacceptable.

“I'll take over." Kasib tasted the air with his forked tongue and immediately regretted it. The stench of unwashed bodies made him want to retch. He gave the Amorite a look of disgust. “Go report to Lieutenant Abdul-Ghani to get paid.”

The Amorite stalked off to the payment office without as much as a ‘thank you.' The women huddled together in fear, but they appeared to understand that Kasib objected to the slavers rough treatment of them.

“You won't be harmed." Kasib had to focus to not slip an inadvertent ‘hiss’ into his enunciation. “Over there. That tent with the yellow flag. That will be your home until we prepare you to meet your new husbands.”

The females went meekly, without protest. Many had torn clothing or visible cuts and bruises. As they moved towards the tent, the female who had inspired the entire incident tripped and fell to the ground a second time.

“I'm sorry!” she cried. The other women glanced fearfully at Kasib and the other Sata’an guards.

“I'll do it!" Kasib reached down to help her up. Her skin felt warm, like his, not cold blooded like his Marid comrades-in-arms. It felt …  soft.

Although she was not Sata’an, this was the closest he'd ever been to an unrelated female who was not a sister, half-sister, or one of his sister's sister-wives. Shay’tan kept strict control over females and how much access unrelated males got to them. It was disrespectful to look at an unrelated female, but there were no fathers, brothers, or husbands to bring the women to the crude female finishing school Hudhafah had set up to train them. A father, brother, or half-brother would have cracked the Amorite's skulls.

“Thank you,” she said. “I'm so clumsy. It won't happen again.”

As she spoke, even though he averted his eyes downward as was proper to address an unrelated female, Kasib noticed she didn't make eye contact. That was … unusual. Humans didn't have the same prohibition against inter-gender eye contact that civilized races did … yet.

“That’s okay." Kasib watched her without being obvious, a skill all Sata’an males learned to overcome the prohibition against looking at a female's face when looking was the only way to tell if you'd offended her. She focused not towards his eyes, but the sound of his voice. While the other females stared, owl-eyed at his Sata’anic features, flinching every time he twitched his tail, this one didn't appear to care.

“We'll help her." Two females came forward and guided her back into their huddle. The young woman stumbled again. It clicked.

“You're blind!” He couldn't believe it! A blind female without war injuries? Such a thing was unheard of in the Sata'an Empire! Most blindness was cured via surgery or prosthesis. Shay’tan was cheap, but the old dragon realized skimping on health care or education was more expensive in the long run.

One of the females stepped in front of him to shield her from his view and said in broken Kemet, “leave her alone!"

Despite the fear in the bold one’s mahogany eyes, she was as regal as a queen. Like a first-wife chosen to be the anchor of a high-ranking male who had grown accustomed to ruling her children, sister-wives, and their children with a firm hand. In fact, all three females bore a strong resemblance to one another, although to Kasib, all humans looked alike. Sisters? Or cousins? They were not supposed to take more than two sample females from each area until full annexation had been achieved. He would need to report this to General Hudhafah.

“I'll not hurt her,” Kasib said. “The rest of you … into the tent with the yellow flag. You … come with me. I want our physician to look at you. Your sisters may come as an escort.”

Five guards herded the larger group into the yellow-flagged tent. Kasib ordered the two females he'd asked to stay to lead the blind one over to the medical tent. Calling for Doctor Peyman, the base physician, he apprised him of the situation.

“This one is blind,” Kasib hissed in his own language. “Hudhafah is adamant that the Amorites only gather healthy, unattached young females of marriageable age, and not all from the same village or family. These three females are related.”

“Up here, young lady,” Doctor Peyman said in Kemet, patting the top of the examination table. “What is your name?”

“Taram,” the young woman said. “Please don't hurt my family! It's not their fault.”

“Your sisters may stay to protect your modesty,” Doctor Peyman said. “But Lieutenant Kasib will need to step outside.”

Kasib did as ordered. After almost an hour, Doctor Peyman came out.

“They are Khurrites,” Doctor Peyman said. “One is a sister, the other is her cousin. Acceptable according to the parameters Ba'al Zebub has set out. The blind one, however, is not acceptable. I have contacted the payment office and ordered them not to render payment for this one. The Amorites know better. They told her that if we found out she was blind before she got shipped off, they would kill her.”

“How would we not notice she is blind?” Kasib asked.

“She's not completely blind,” Peyman said. “She can see shadows and colors. She claims she can perform the tasks expected of a wife.”

“Isn’t there anything you can do for her?” Kasib asked. “If she can see shadows, her illness should be curable.”

“If we were in the Hades cluster,” Peyman said, “or if I had more time to study their physiology so I could engineer a cure, maybe. But under these conditions? Until we bring a civilizing hand to this planet, she will have to live with her disability.”

“I overheard the General say that the Alliance hybrids are desperate for any female they can reproduce with,” Kasib said. “Rumor has it that's where the first few groups are headed. I believe the hybrids would accept her, flawed or not.”

“Our orders are clear,” Peyman said, his expression serious. “She needs to be returned to her family.”

“How will we do that if the Amorites threatened to kill her?” Kasib asked. “Look at the bruises!”

Doctor Peyman tasted the air, scratching his head behind his ear-hole. “I didn't have a good feeling about the last two I rejected. I suspect the Amorites abandoned them in the wilderness to die. I'll list her as having expired in transit and leave it up to you to come up with a solution.”

“What am I going to do with an unattached female?” Kasib asked. “It's disrespectful for her to even be in my presence! No self-respecting male will accept a female with loose morals!”

“Your options are limited,” Peyman said. “Either hand her back to the Amorites and hope they do the honorable thing, or deal with it on your own. Which will it be? Rejected for medical reasons? Or officially dead so there is no trace of her in the system?”

“Officially dead…” Kasib said. “I'll think of something. I didn't get to be Hudhafah’s personal assistant by not being able to figure out how to get things where they need to go.”

Peyman nodded. He went back into the medical tent to break the news to his patient. Kasib scratched his ear holes in wonder. How in Hades had he just gotten himself saddled with transporting a blind human female back hundreds of miles to an unknown home?

Chapter 54

Galactic Standard Date:  152,323.06 AE

Zulu Sector:  Command Carrier ‘Light Emerging’

Colonel Raphael Israfa

Raphael

Raphael's golden feathers rustled as he scrutinized the intelligence report just in from one of the three battle cruisers under his command. His lips moved as he read, a trick he'd learned to force himself to hear what he was reading as his ear often picked up the absurdity of something which his eyes would miss, as though he were listening to himself gossip about the latest newscast.

“How recent are these sightings, Ensign Zzz'ler’?” Raphael asked.

“The oldest is two days old." The ensign's voice translator helped her vocalize those portions of the Angelic language which were beyond her species physical capability to articulate.

"And you're certain every one of these ships was a non-military trading vessel?" Raphael asked.

"They even checked the cargo, Sir," Zzz'ler said. "Major Hck'lr made them open up the boxes and rifled through a few of the hidden compartments they thought we didn't know about. The goods were all Sata'anic in origin, but civilian."

That, in and of itself, was not unusual. Ever since the advent of free trade agreements, most goods were manufactured in the Sata'an Empire.

"Any weapons?"

"No, Sir," Zzz'ler said. "Lots of glowsticks, sleeping bags, and cots."

"The kind of goods which could be used to set up a large Sata'anic base," Raphael scrolled through the lists marked 'camping gear.'

"They were all boxed and priced for commercial sale," Zzz'ler said. "Major Hck'lr felt he had no choice but to let them go."

Raphael grunted and nodded, though he wasn't happy about his agreement. Zulu Sector was neutral territory, belonging to neither empire and largely unexplored. Either superpower's ships were free to travel the area at will.

"Why so many?" Raphael asked. "There's a lot of real estate between the outer edge of the Sata'an Empire and Zulu Sector. Unless we've caught every single ship they've smuggled into here, they must be building one Hades of a base."

He glanced up at Ensign Zzz'ler. “Sss’kkk skr,rr igginn’zzi,” Raphael said in Mantoid, a simple “thank you, dismissed."

Zzz'ler gave him a crisp salute and exited the room.

He scrolled through the smart pad, pinching the bridge of his nose as he read through report after report that didn't make any sense. Holy grail … holy grail … what in Hades was the holy grail? Too many of the ships were short-haul vessels, meant to be operated from a larger base of operations. There were no homeworlds out here to smuggle to!

He flipped through more reports, noting on an electronic tracking system each sighting and how long it had taken the ship to move from point to point, searching for places ships had lingered or dropped off the map. Pattern. He was searching for a pattern.

'Shay'tan's found the godsdamned Holy Grail…' Mikhail had radioed. Whatever Shay'tan was hiding out here must be huge.

He glanced up at the pictures of his son and sighed. Jophiel had included a picture of herself holding their baby. She was out of uniform, her long golden hair tumbling over her clothing to accentuate the rise of her breasts instead of her habitual bun. It looked as though she looked out of the picture straight at him, a small, wistful smile playing upon those luscious pink lips he still dreamed of kissing. It was very … personal.

Unfortunately, since that day, she hadn't called. All messages were now relayed via official military channels. He rubbed the tight spot in his chest where it still ached every time he thought about her … and the son he'd yet to meet. Mikhail had been right.

“Mikhail … where are you?”

He looked over at the wall full of pictures from his Academy days, the ache of losing his best friend joining the pain of losing the woman he loved. In every picture Raphael wore a huge grin while Mikhail stood stiffly at his side. Raphael had made it his personal mission to get his too-serious friend to crack a smile, but the best he could usually accomplish was to pry a smirk out of his reticent friend before Mikhail would school his expression back into the unreadable one that seven years under the Cherubim had instilled.

One picture, however, was from the day they'd beaten the socks off of a rival team in the iron man 3-day competition. Arms wrapped around each other’s shoulders in an easy camaraderie, Raphael wore a goofy expression while the too-serious Mikhail beamed a smile that would have lit up six solar systems. Raphael looked inebriated, but he still displayed that photo. It was the only time anyone had ever captured his best friend smile.

The sooner he could figure out what in Hades was going on out here and find his friend, the sooner he could go meet his son. Maybe then, Jophiel would speak to him …

Chapter 55

And when the woman saw

That the tree [was] good for food,

And that it [was] pleasant to the eyes,

And a tree to be desired to make [one] wise,

She took of the fruit thereof, and did eat,

And gave also unto her husband with her;

And he did eat.

Genesis 3:6

June – 3,390 BC

Earth:  Village of Assur

Colonel Mikhail Mannuki’ili

Mikhail

“Yalda brought over your share of the loot,” Needa said as he came in for breakfast. Although Needa could cook, she didn't enjoy it. Meals in Ninsianna’s parents household tended to be simple, functional, and tasteless. Better than remolecularized food cubes, but not by much.

“I have never had these … what do you call them?” Mikhail asked.

“Olives,” Needa said. “Olll ivvvvsss.”

“Olives,” he committed the strange new word to memory.  He reached into the bowl and pulled one of the small, black fruits out of what appeared to be oil.

“They are better with flat bread." Needa pointed to a basket of soft, still-warm bread that could have only come from Yalda. Needa’s bread always came out crispy and as hard as a rock.

Popping the decadent little fruit into his mouth, Mikhail moaned in pleasure as salty juices burst onto his tongue. A dribble of oil ran down his chin as he fished out the pit. Reaching for the flat bread, he sniffed the heavenly scent of the still-warm bread before tearing off a piece to dab the olive oil and pop it into his mouth. Turning to Needa, he gave her his most satisfied grin.

“You have learned our language remarkably fast." Needa used a rag to fish the covered crock where she simmered hard-boiled eggs at the edge of the oven for breakfast and pulled them out to cool.

“I had a good tutor.”

“I speak some Halifian and Anatolian,” Needa said. “It took me months to learn the few phrases I know, and I had to repeat them over and over again to memorize them. “

Mikhail turned this piece of information over in his mind and compared it to what little he knew about himself.

“I think where I come from we are expected to learn many languages.”

“You also heal remarkably fast." Needa finished up with her cooking and moved behind him to do her daily check of how his wing was healing. “It has only been four months since you almost died, and yet you barely have a scar.”

“This looks like a scar to me,” he pointed to the hideous crater under his shirt that reminded him he shouldn't be alive. The rod which had impaled him had shattered part of his ribcage, leaving nothing but bone fragments. The hole sank inward towards his heart and lung.

“You flew yesterday." Needa cuffed him off the side of the head.

“Hey! What was that for?”

“Save some olives for the rest of us, you big oaf,” Needa said. “You're eating us out of house and home!”

“Soorrriiiii,” he mumbled through a mouthful of flat bread that he'd just dipped into the delicious oil and stuffed into his mouth, unapologetic.

“Let me check the wing." Needa placed her strong hands on the tendon that had been taking its sweet time healing.

Mikhail obediently stretched out his left wing. Needa felt where the bones had knitted back together then down where the tendon had torn with her practiced hands.

“Does it still hurt?”

“It does today,” he admitted.

“That’s because you weren’t supposed to take your first flight with my daughter in tow!" Needa cuffed him on the side of the head a second time. “You overdid it. You're supposed to start slow.”

“She asked for it!" He snitched another olive when Needa wasn't looking and popped it into his mouth. “I only gave what I got.”

Needa finished her examination and grunted permission to tuck his wing back into a more comfortable position. Sitting down opposite him and grabbing an olive and a piece of flat bread, she regarded him with an unreadable expression while she chewed, chasing down the tasty treat with a draught of water. Finally she spoke what was on her mind.

“Ninsianna is fond of you.”

Mikhail inwardly cringed. He knew where this conversation was going. He'd promised Immanu he would keep his hands off of their daughter. Yesterday, in the heat of the moment, he'd allowed himself to do what was in his heart. To very publicly do what was in his heart.

“That won't happen again." He schooled his expression into the blank, serious expression he used to mask his feelings.

“That wasn't what I asked,” Needa looked directly into his eyes.

Mikhail let her words sank in. “What are you asking?”

“Are you fond of her?”

Mikhail puzzled over where this conversation was going before he answered truthfully.

“Very.”

“So what are you going to do about it?" Needa searched his face for answers.

“Nothing. I gave Immanu my word." He withdrew into his mask to hide the emotions swirling like a cyclone just beneath the surface.

“Mikhail,” Needa's expression softened, “we didn't know you then. We just don't want Ninsianna to get hurt.”

Mikhail tried to grasp just what Needa was saying and failed. He had the impression this conversation was alien territory. He went with what he knew.

“I gave Immanu my word. I will keep my word." He wished to withdraw from this conversation and the dangerous feelings it aroused. He might have pulled it off, too, if not for his expression of misery.

“Ask him…” Needa said.

“I don't understand.”

“Ask Immanu for permission to court his daughter,” Needa said. “It's our custom to ask.”

“But … he … said…." Mikhail was perplexed.

“His feelings about you have changed." Needa took his hand in hers and squeezed it. “Ask. We just want to see Ninsianna be happy.”

“I can’t!" His voice sounded anguished. “I can't remember who I am! What if I'm not free to be with her? What if I already have a mate? What if a ship arrives to rescue me and they order me to return to duty? I'm a soldier…”

“What does your heart tell you?” Needa asked. “Do you long for someone you can't name?”

“No.”

“When you look up at the stars, even though you can't remember, does it feel as though there is a hole in your heart because you miss somebody who is not here?”

“No. I only long for Ninsianna.”

“If you had to report to duty, when you were through, would you come back for her?”

“Good lord, yes! I would battle Shay’tan himself to come home to her!”

“Then sweet gods boy, go after that girl before you drive the rest of us insane!” Needa exclaimed.

“What?”

“The only two people in this village who don't know you two were made for each other are you and Ninsianna!”

“Are you giving me … permission?” Here he'd thought he'd betrayed their trust by not keeping his emotions under control, and now Ninsianna’s mother was now telling him to go for it? And who the heck was this Shay’tan he'd just mentioned off the cuff … the memory gone as soon as it was mentioned?

“Speak to Immanu,” she got up from the table. “Ask permission. It's our way.”

“Wha-  What am I asking for?" He was not certain how far he dared go with this.

“What is in your heart?" Needa came around behind him and placed her hand upon his shoulder.

“I … I want Ninsianna to stay with me … always,” he replied without reservation.

“Will you ever abandon her?”

“Not unless I'm dead!”

“Then ask Immanu for her hand." Needa gave him a quick kiss on the cheek and was gone.

Mikhail sat staring at the bowl of olives, unmoving. Just when he thought he understood human behavior, Needa had thrown him a curve ball. He would speak to Immanu at the first suitable moment. Grabbing one last olive, he popped it into his mouth and savored the tasty, salty fruit. Rare and delicious. Just like Ninsianna.

Chapter 56

June – 3,390 BC

Earth:  Just outside Assur Village

Jamin

“Are you going to sulk all day?” Siamek asked. “Or will you come practice with us?”

Jamin sat in a bushy area where the riverbank rose high above the water. Not far below, Ninsianna stood thigh-deep in the Hiddekel River, sans her shawl dress, cheerfully doing her family's laundry. Siamek knew him well enough to know that wherever Ninsianna was to be found, Jamin would be lurking just out of sight.

“Yesterday was supposed to be our wedding day!" Jamin shoved down the sob, not wishing to let on his heart was breaking.

“I know." Siamek's face was sympathetic. He sat cross-legged on the ground next to him. “You handled it fairly well, except….”

Jamin’s head snapped up. He regarded his oldest friend with suspicion. Whispers. Ever since the winged demon had moved into his village, his friends were abandoning him like a canoe with a hole in the bottom of it.

“Except?”

“Nothing,” Siamek avoided eye contact and stared at the ground. “Those of us who know you understand how hard this has been for you.”

Jamin sucked in a deep breath, steadying the maelstrom of anger and grief which threatened to erupt like a volcano. They didn't understand! None of them understood! Whenever he tried to speak of it, they slapped him on the back, made jokes about women being ball-busters, and told him to get over it. He didn't want to get over it. He wanted to win!

“Did she have to make a spectacle of herself?" Jamin turned back to stare at Ninsianna. “I mean, okay. It's a festival. And my father wants to incorporate him into the tribe. So there has to be a speech. And it wasn't surprising he won because he can fly over obstacles like they aren't even there. But did she have to jump on him and kiss him right in front of the entire village?”

“He's not a bad guy,” Siamek said. “He’s pretty reserved. I don't think he would have flown off with her like that if she hadn't covered him in mud. Ninsianna is a wicked tease.”

“You'd think she would have been a bit more sensitive!" Jamin was unable to prevent his voice from warbling like a pubescent boy. “Of all the days for them to make it known they are a couple, why did they have to choose our wedding day?”

Jamin looked down, the sight of Ninsianna’s happiness too painful to bear. A happy song wafted up with the breeze. A love song. A love song that he'd once sung for her back when she'd stopped rebuking his advances and started to encourage him. He coughed and pretended to swat a gnat, wiping the tear that escaped so Siamek wouldn't see it.

“You have to let it go,” Siamek said. “It's not right, how she treated you. But you've got to let it go. All you do is follow her around. It's not … healthy.”

“I don't follow her around!”

“It's all you do,” Siamek said. “You rarely practice with your friends anymore. You don't eat. You don't smile. You've lost weight. You look like goat shit. And you've been snapping and snarling at friends who've done nothing to deserve it. It's time to let her go and move on.”

The wind picked up and blew cool air across his cheek like a caress.

'Jamin … let her go...'

“I can’t go anywhere without bumping into … him!” Jamin swatted at the sensation. “And if I don't bump into him in person, then I have to listen to everyone twitter about how wonderful he is! Even my own father prefers his company to mine!”

“You’re not very good company lately,” Siamek said carefully and immediately held up his hand so Jamin wouldn't interrupt until he'd had his say. “Ah ah ah! Don't get in a huff! It's not an accusation. It's an observation. Ever since Ninsianna dumped you, you've been a miserable bastard to be around."

“You would be too if it had happened to you like that!”

“Yes,” Siamek said. “I would be too. But you're not the only guy who's ever had his balls cut off and handed to him by a female he thought he was in love with.”

“Yah, who?” Jamin retorted. “Shahla? Every warrior in the village has slept with Shahla. Except for maybe Ebad, who is so incompetent with a spear even Shahla won't sleep with him.”

“No,” Siamek said. “It's none of your business. But I've had it happen. And it stinks. It makes you feel … unworthy."

They sat silently for a time, watching Ninsianna slap the laundry against the rocks and dunk them into the river to rinse the soap made from rendered animal fat and wood ash. It was obvious the bulk of her laundry belonged to her new ‘brother.’

Siamek rose to his feet and held out his hand to help him up.

“C’mon,” Siamek said. “I came to drag your sorry ass back into the land of the living. It's time to move on. The others … you're beginning to scare them. They need a leader. Not an angry lion who snarls at them all the time.”

'Your people need you…' the wind whispered through the reeds.

“I'll be along later." Jamin's attention wandered back to the happy, singing woman who was clueless she was being watched. “What I brood about is nobody’s business.”

Chapter 57

June – 3,390 BC

Earth:  Just outside Assur Village

Shahla

She swirled her best shawl in the water, frowning at the sight of dirt smeared into its back. It was the prettiest shawl in the entire village. Her parents had spent half a year's harvest on the piece of linen used to make it after word had come through the village that Ninsianna had broken off her engagement with the Chief's son. She'd convinced them it would help her finally lure Jamin into a betrothal. Little had any of them known the bull-headed Jamin would continue to pursue his former harlot with single-minded determination, spurning her.

Her parents would be livid if they learned she was sneaking behind their backs to see Dadbeh, a low-ranking warrior whose parents were nothing but farmers, instead of increasing her family's social rank by marrying the son of the village Chief. Jamin had dumped her once already. Unless he had something more convincing to say besides he wanted a quick rendezvous behind the nearest goat shed, she wasn't going to fall for his charms anymore!

She glanced over to where Ninsianna stood upriver, talking to herself as she often did whenever she thought nobody was watching, as she scrubbed her family's laundry. How had a crazy woman who had the gall to claim the goddess spoke directly to her ended up with her boyfriend? Even Immanu, a shaman, had enough common sense not to make those kinds of claims! And why was she so happy?

“What’s with her?” Shahla asked.

“Didn’t you see?" Gita's pale, gaunt face lit up with a rare smile. “He swooped in and flew off with her after the competition. It was so romantic! I'm amazed you didn't see it!”

“Harrumph!!! Shahla pouted. “I was busy behind the goat shed with … oh … never mind!" She scrubbed the back of her shawl with a vengeance, trying to remove evidence of what exactly she'd been doing behind the goat shed the day before, and it had not been crawling through the mud chucking spears!

“You shouldn't make yourself so available to the warriors,” Gita scolded, her black eyes swirling with recrimination. “Why trade for the goat that already gives you milk for free?”

“I think Ninsianna already gives the winged one lots of milk!” Shahla said. “We need to take her down a peg.”

“Ninsianna is my cousin." Gita withdrew into the emotional shell she usually reserved for others.

“Everybody here is a cousin!” Shahla said. “I'm sick of everybody always sucking up to Ninsianna. Ninsianna this. Ninsianna that. You should try to be more like Ninsianna!"

“Shahla … it’s not Ninsianna’s fault Jamin chose her over you. He chased her for two years before she finally gave him the time of day.”

“Why do you defend her?" Shahla said. "She's terribly mean to you. She talks badly about you behind your back. And besides … she always steals away my boyfriends!" Shahla smacked her shawl against a rock to loosen the dirt.

“Maybe if you tried being more aloof?" Gita gave her that spooky look that always gave Shahla the creeps. “Guys are into the hunt. They only value a woman they have to pursue.”

“How’s that working out for you?” Shahla sneered.

Gita withdrew into her habitual shell. The one where she turned herself into a fly on the wall and you forgot all about her being there. Aloof her rear end! Like she was going to sit there like some pathetic spider waiting for whatever unwary insect flew into her web? She could almost picture Gita sitting there, alone in her web, waiting for a fly that never came. Shahla turned back to her shawl, the stain of her extracurricular activities screaming out at her from its back. How the heck would she explain that to her parents?

She looked up and realized Gita had gone…

Chapter 58

June – 3,390 BC

Earth:  Village of Assur

Colonel Mikhail Mannuki’ili

Mikhail

“Mikhail,” Immanu called, his expression rushed. “The Chief wants you to meet him at his house.”

“What's this about?” Mikhail asked.

“He's gotten disturbing reports from a nearby village,” Immanu said. “I think he wants your help.”

“When?” He wanted to speak to Immanu about courting his daughter, but by the worried expression on his face, now was not the time.

“Right away." Immanu gestured for him to follow.

Mikhail put down the buckets of water he'd been about to haul to the widow-sister’s house and straightened out.

“I should change first." His shirt had dirt smeared down the front.

“There's no time,” Immanu said. “The Chief has an emissary from the neighboring village.”

“You forget I no longer need to walk,” Mikhail said. “I'll meet you at the Chief’s house before you can walk there.”

Immanu nodded and hurried away. Leaping into the air, Mikhail flapped his wings until he felt the current catch the underside. He adjusted them into the wind to soar effortlessly into the sky. Flexing his primary feathers to catch maximum updraft, he winced as muscles overworked from yesterday’s little ‘twofer’ stunt complained. The bone ached where it had broken, but he pushed the pain to the back of his mind. It felt good to fly again, but inactivity had left him weak.

Reaching the apex, he caught a glimpse of Ninsianna in the river washing clothes. Squelching the urge to swoop down and shout ‘surprise,’ he dove into the doorway of their house, pinning his wings to his side just as he touched down so he'd fit through the door still quasi in-flight.

“Eeeek!!!"

Needa dropped the medicinal herbs she'd been tying into bundles. The last thing she'd expected was to have her new ‘son’ come flying through the door.

“Sorry,” he mumbled. “I just need to change."

“We're going to have some RULES around here, young man!!!” Needa snapped. “No flying inside the house!”

“Yes, Mama." He schooled an appropriate look of chastisement.

Needa smiled at the endearment.

Stepping behind the curtain that cordoned off his personal area, he emerged wearing his dress uniform shirt and jacket, but didn't bother changing his pants. Strapping his pulse rifle onto one hip and his sword onto the other, he straightened his collar and the medals he couldn't remember earning. He dipped his hands in the bucket of water kept in the room for washing before heading back out, his hands dripping water all over the floor.

“Got to go!" He took off the moment he hit the threshold. The backdraft from his wings scattered Needa’s herbs.

“Eeeee-vey!” Needa muttered to herself. She gathered up the herbs and resumed tying them into bundles. Life with Ninsianna’s avian friend was certainly interesting.

* * * * *

In the center of the village, at the apex of the hill, was a communal well which had been dug deeply into the bedrock. Surrounding that well was the central square, a place where people gathered after a day in the fields to draw water, purchase trade goods, reconnect with their neighbors and gossip. Surrounding that square sat the central granary, a small temple dedicated to She-who-is, and a few of the finest houses in Assur. Mikhail saw from the air that the Chief stood in front of his house waiting for his arrival, as well as Immanu, who got there on foot at exactly the same time as Mikhail did With him stood a man wearing exotic attire. The emissary cringed as Mikhail glided in for a landing, the wind from his wings knocking off the man's hat.

“This is the newest member of our tribe," the Chief stepped forward to shake Mikhail’s hand before introducing him to his guest. “Farzam … meet Mikhail.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Mikhail said to the unknown emissary. He rustled his feathers to all face the same direction and settled his wings into a tightly-tucked military posture before schooling his expression into one of cool neutrality and offering his hand. When in unfamiliar territory, serious watchfulness was his default emotion.

Farzam was unfamiliar with the concept of a handshake. The Chief pointed to his own hand and stuck it out. Farzam mimicked the gesture, awkwardly shaking Mikhail’s hand as he mumbled pleasantries.

“Let’s go inside to speak,” the Chief said, noticing the curiosity seekers gathered in the central square. Just when the people of Assur had finally adjusted to the sight of a winged man walking around their village, now they had to adjust to the sight of him actually flying. “Immanu … please … join us.”

Immanu gestured for Mikhail to go in first. As with all doorways in Assur, even at the Chief's house, Mikhail was forced to duck into the threshold.

This was the first time he'd ever been inside the Chief’s house. It was five times the size of Immanu’s, decorated with felted wool carpets, a low table, and stuffed cushions in a completely separate receiving room, not the one-room lower story that most houses in Assur possessed. The Chief motioned for them to sit. Clapping his hands, an elderly woman came out and offered them a hot tea made of herbs.

“Farzam has informed us that bands of mercenaries have been raiding area villages and kidnapping their young women,” Chief Kiyan nodded gravely. “Kidnappings have always occurred, but never so many at once.”

“How many?” Mikhail asked.

“They took eight females from our village,” Farzam said. "And dozens from allied tribes. There are rumors coming over the mountains from Anatolia that they are experiencing these kidnappings, as well."

“Kidnappings are usually some warrior's way of getting around her parents opposition to their marriage,” Chief Kiyan said. “The woman shows up happily married to her new husband in another village.”

"Either that," Immanu added, "or the woman is captured and held for ransom."

“But these women are never seen again,” Farzam said. "In any of the villages. It appears to be an organized pattern, but for what purpose, we don't know.”

“Farzam,” Chief Kiyan asked. “Could you please show Mikhail the weapon?”

Farzam laid a long, thin object wrapped in cloth in front of him and carefully unwrapped it.

“Do you recognize this?” the Chief asked.

Mikhail picked it up and touched his finger to the tip. Memories of learning to use such a weapon flooded into his mind. Immanu signaled the others to be silent while he spoke to himself in the clicking Cherubim tongue to strengthen the memory. He hadn't seen this type of weaponry amongst the Ubaid, but that didn't mean it didn't exist on this planet. The stone-tipped shaft he held now was even more primitive than the steel-tipped ones the Cherubim taught all novitiates to use, but the weapon was unmistakable.

“It's an arrow." He looked at Farzam. “Do you have the bow it was shot out of?”

“Bow?" Farzam's face had a puzzled expression.

“A long stick with a piece of sinew strung between the ends. You shoot it, like this…" Mikhail demonstrated stringing the arrow into an imaginary bow. He pretended to draw the bow and shoot the arrow at an object on the other side of the room, mimicking the ‘thwung’ noise as it left the bowstring.

“Oh … we have seen those … but only at a distance,” Farzam said. “We can't get anywhere near them. They hit us and leave.”

“Who?”

“The Halifians,” Farzam said.

Mikhail frowned. “The Halifians that attacked Ninsianna and I had no sign of this weaponry.”

“No,” Immanu said. “We have never seen weapons like this before.”

“That's why I asked you to come,” the Chief said. “According to Farzam, they hit Nineveh, Gasur, Arrapha, Qattara, and just about every other village in Ubaid territory. It's only a matter of time before they hit Assur.”

“What do you want from me?” Mikhail asked.

“You're the best warrior we have,” the Chief said. “And you're familiar with weapons that we are not. We want you teach us how to use these weapons in case we are attacked.”

Mikhail contemplated the Chief’s request. Although he was willing to train the villagers to defend themselves, lurking in the back of his mind was a prohibition against giving primitive cultures more technology than they could acquire on their own. On the other hand, if one tribe had bows and arrows, it was only a matter of time before the Ubaid acquired it on their own. Nor did Mikhail wish to see the people who had taken him in harmed.

“I'll teach you to use these,” he said. “But there are conditions you must meet or I will not do it.”

“Such as…” the Chief asked.

“The villages that were hit are all Ubaid, correct?" Mikhail turned to Farzam.

“Yes,” Farzam said. “We are all allied, which is why I am here.”

“Farzam will ask two warriors from each allied village to come train." Mikhail slipped into a degree of authority that came surprisingly easy given he couldn't remember his past. “They are to arrive in two weeks.”

“Who will feed these warriors?” the Chief asked, thinking of his pocketbook.

“You will help." Mikhail gave him an expression which communicated he wouldn't be questioned on military matters. “But we'll ask each warrior to bring two week's rations so they don't put a strain on your purse.”

The Chief thought it over, glancing between the arrow lying on the carpet between them and a locked door. “Agreed.”

“As you so aptly pointed out,” Mikhail remembered the Chief’s words his first day in the village. “We don't have the resources to maintain a standing army. Any Ubaid who wishes to train must put in the same number of hours on the field as everybody else. I'll not tolerate healthy young warriors sitting around watching the very young and old do most of the work.”

“Agreed," the Chief gave an empathetic nod of agreement.

“The training will be open equally to men and women,” Mikhail said. “Angelics don't share your ridiculous stratification into male and female roles. Anyone who wants to learn will have the opportunity to be taught.”

“But….” Farzam protested.

“Agreed,” the Chief said. “Every Ubaid will have the opportunity to train, whether male or female.”

“But…”

“There is a reason we have hung onto the most fertile land on the Hiddekel River,” the Chief said to Farzam. “From the moment they can walk, all villagers, male or female, are expected to defend themselves. Mikhail’s mate, Ninsianna, came in third in our Solstice competition, behind only Mikhail and my son Jamin, and the fourth and seventh-place winners were also female.”

“How many competed?" Farzam's expression grew skeptical.

“Over fifty,” the Chief said proudly. “Nearly one-fifth were women.”

Mikhail suppressed a smile at the Chief’s reference to Ninsianna. They hadn't stuck around to find out who had won, so enthralled were they at their pleasant flight over the valley. If not for Yalda showing up with half the olives, he wouldn't have even known he'd won. The fact Jamin had come in second place didn't surprise him. The boy had excellent weapons skills, but no common sense.

“If young women are being targeted for kidnapping,” Mikhail said. “Then the women must be taught to defend themselves."

“It would be better if they don't get kidnapped in the first place,” Chief Kiyan said, “rather than launching a rescue party.”

“That makes sense,” Farzam grudgingly agreed.

“The bow and arrow are well-suited for female physiology,” Mikhail explained. “Once you develop the upper body strength to draw the bow, either gender can use it.”

“Hmmmmm…." Chief Kiyan leaned his chin upon his fist. “Having female archers would free up the men to go hand-to-hand with the attackers.”

An image of sparring with an ethereally beautiful, white-winged female Angelic popped into his mind. Pinning her to the floor had not come easy. She'd gotten up, bumped fists with him, and then snapped orders for him to report to duty someplace else. She'd then sauntered off with one of the green insect-people he sometimes recalled. Whoever this female was, she far outranked him.

“Memory?” Immanu asked.

“I don't think you would want to come up against one of our females,” Mikhail came back into the present moment. “Hand-to-hand … or bow-and-arrow. I recall one of my female commanding officers nearly getting the better of me.”

“Who are your people?” Farzam asked. It was obvious he found it hard to believe a woman could nearly best somebody the size of Mikhail.

“They are the swords of the gods,” Immanu said. “Ask your shaman, Zartosht, to sing you the song of the sword and translate it for you. You're looking at a living legend.”

“Zartosht sang this song when he returned from your village after meeting the winged one,” Farzam said. “But I didn't believe it until I saw him for myself.”

“Last,” Mikhail said. “All warriors will learn hand-to-hand combat and mental discipline. A good warrior can take out a room full of assailants with his bare hands.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Mikhail noticed Immanu shudder at the memory of the eighteen dead Halifians buried near his ship.

“Mikhail, what of the two weapons that you carry with you?” Immanu asked.

“You don't have the means to replicate these weapons at your disposal,” Mikhail said. “They require materials and processes you haven't yet begun to master. Even if you did, I'm not sure I'm allowed to teach you.”

“May I see it?" Farzam pointed to the sword.

Pulling the sword from his scabbard, Mikhail held it flat and passed it to Farzam. The blade caught the light and reflected it around the room. To a stone-age culture, it might as well have been the interstellar hyperdrive of a command carrier.

Immediately following that thought, Mikhail realized he'd just unearthed another memory. He'd been sent here on a mission from a command carrier when his ship had been shot down. Unfortunately, any additional information to go with that memory fragment so he could complete that mission remained unhelpfully blank.

“This is a sword,” Immanu said. “The weapon sung about in the legend.”

“Impressive!" Farzam ran his finger along the blade. He yelped as he accidentally sliced it.

Chapter 59

June – 3,390 BC

Earth:  Village of Assur

Jamin

As soon as the others left, Jamin, who'd been eavesdropping from his room, lay into his father.

“Why are you putting him in charge of training our warriors?”

“Because he is the best at what he does,” the Chief said.

“-I- am the best!” Jamin said. “The only time I have ever seen him use a spear was at the solstice festival! He doesn't even know how to hunt his own food with one! While he was at his ship, he relied on Ninsianna to catch their fish.”

“Where he comes from,” the Chief said. “They can afford to maintain a standing army. I don't think he has ever had to provide for his own upkeep before. Just defend everybody else’s.”

“He is a drain on our village resources!” Jamin said. “He can't hunt. He can't fish. He doesn't know how to herd goats or sheep. And he doesn't have a trade. I overheard Needa tell her friends at the well the other morning that he is eating them out of house and home!”

“He has worked extremely hard helping the other villagers plant their fields and dig levies,” the Chief said. “And he hauls more water to the fields than a dozen men put together. He is trying to pull his own weight."

From the look in his father's eyes, Jamin didn't have to hear him utter the unspoken words 'you should too.'

“When we want to spend more time to train,” Jamin growled, “you say you don't have the resources to maintain a standing army. But when he says he wants to host warriors who aren't even from our village, you do whatever he wants!”

“He has knowledge of weaponry we can't even dream of,” the Chief said. “And he is a deterrent. There's a reason our village is the only one which hasn't been attacked. The Halifians are afraid of him. They are not afraid of you.”

“The Halifians don't attack us because I treat them with respect!" Jamin jutted his chin into the air to hide his twinge of guilt.

“You have consorted with our enemies.” His father's eyes bored into his skull. “And given them resources that would have been better kept inside this village! Resources you stole from me! They then turned around and used my money to purchase these new bows and arrows from some distant tribe.”

Jamin nearly blurted that they had done no such thing, for when he'd last visited Marwan, he'd seen no sign of such kinds of weapons, but he clamped his mouth shut, smart enough not to betray his plans. One thing he'd learned about treating with the People of the Desert was that they were not a single people, but a loosely tied coalition of clans whose tent-groups were only marginally tied by blood.

“I saw a threat,” Jamin crossed his arms in front of his chest. “And I took steps to eliminate it.”

“I saw an ally,” the Chief said. “And I took steps to bind that ally to our people as closely as possible. It's the difference between a warrior and a chief.”

“A warrior defends against all enemies,” Jamin snarled, “and fights all that come at him so that none dare touch him!”

“And a leader builds coalitions so that no one wishes to come at him in the first place,” the Chief sighed. “Jamin … you can't rule a village at the point of a spear. You can temporarily win it. But unless you learn to play nicely with others, you'll never to be able to hold onto it.”

A gust of wind blew the down the skylight with a small howl. 'Listen to your father. You know that he is right…'

“No warrior worth his testicles will train with a bunch of women,” Jamin warned. “Just you watch! This ridiculous experiment will fail!”

“We shall see,” the Chief said. “I admit that his demands are unusual. But he knows how to use these new weapons and we don't.”

“Let me be the one to teach the warriors to defend us,” Jamin pleaded. “I'm the best warrior you have. It should be me leading our warriors. Not this outsider!”

“I gave you leave to practice as many extra hours as you wanted,” the Chief said, “and you didn't. Do you think people haven't noticed you spend all of your time sneaking through the shadows following Ninsianna?”

“Who told you that?”

“It's no secret, son,” the Chief sighed. “It's not healthy. You've become obsessed with her." He gave Jamin’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze like when he'd still been a young boy. Jamin’s anger collapsed.

“I still love her,” Jamin said. “I can't believe she broke off our engagement to be with a man who can't even remember his own name.”

“You have to let her go,” the Chief said. “She has made her choice, and she has chosen him. This is not a battle you can win."

“It’s not right,” Jamin said. “How she treated me. If she didn't love me, then she never should have led me on the way she did.”

“Stop looking at this as your way versus his,” the Chief said. “Although he has few memories of his past, I've been a leader long enough to recognize that the army he comes from dwarfs anything we could ever imagine.”

“How do you know he's not lying?” Jamin asked. “Everybody lies about how brave they are.”

“He says absolutely nothing about his past,” the Chief said. “He doesn't remember. But I'm not blind. Whoever this emperor is who he still swears fealty to even though he can only vaguely remember him, he possessed the resources to build a sky canoe large enough for two of my houses to fit inside for a single soldier.”

“The sky canoe is broken,” Jamin said. “We only have his word it flies between the stars!”

“Every person in this village saw that ship come out of the heavens,” the Chief said. “Just because it's broken now doesn't mean there are no other warriors with sky canoes like his. And then he has a stick which fires lightning.”

“So he says,” Jamin said. “How come he never uses it?”

“He used it against you,” the Chief said. “You were terrified the day he shot lighting at you.”

“He has not used it since,” Jamin said. “We were startled by his appearance. That's all. I'm not sure what we saw.”

“Ninsianna had a vision of his sky canoe being smote out of the heavens by darkness,” the Chief said. “And then she had a second vision where evil beings come in a second sky canoe to consume our world.”

The wind gusted through the open window like an inferno, filled with heat from the merciless sun.

'Ki's agent has failed. The Evil One is coming…'

Jamin forced himself to ignore whatever conversation kept filtering in through the walls from outside the house.

“Crazy meanderings nobody can verify!” Jamin said. "It's all pretty convenient, don't you think? First he appears, and then his girlfriend makes up wild stories about even scarier demons so that we will accept him.”

“I don't like the way things have been transpiring outside of this village,” the Chief said. “The Kemet traders saw stars fall upwards, into the sky, as they traversed the great desert, not down. Given the winged ones appearance and the legends, preparing for the worst is prudent.”

'You -must- prepare…'

“Have you all gone mad?” Jamin blocked his ears to tune out the whispers which filtered through the walls. “Will you listen to yourself? Swords of gods and sky canoes and sticks that shoot lightning and demons that consume the earth? Just because we stumbled across one winged freak doesn't mean the world will come to an end. You're playing right into his hands!”

“Jamin,” the Chief said. “If you don't want to train under him, that's fine. Put your concerns into actions, not words. Stop following Ninsianna around and train the other men to use a spear and atlatl.”

“My warriors are already the best!” Jamin bragged.

“Not your warriors,” the Chief said. “The village warriors. All of the young men and women you've been putting down all these years because they are not as quick to learn as you are. You need to teach them. If the strife Ninsianna foresees comes to our village, we need more warriors than the handful you have hanging on your every word.”

“But the other men are inept,” Jamin said. “It takes forever just to teach them the simplest thing.”

“Do you want to be chief of this village someday, or not?” the Chief said. “Because the chief doesn't have the luxury of picking only the best. He has to work with what She-who-is has given to him. I'm giving you the opportunity to prove that you can do a better job of preparing our village for attack than the winged one can.”

'Think how the others will look up to you when you're prepared for the dark times to come…'

“But…” Jamin ignored the voice carried on the wind and picked up the slender arrow. “These are just sticks." He snapped it with one hand. “They are but twigs.”

“No buts,” the Chief said. “You think you can do better? Prove it.”

Jamin stalked out, shaking his head to be rid of that annoying ringing in his ears. His father was right about one thing. It was time to train his warrior troop in earnest. Hunting down Siamek and the others, he told them what he had in mind. Nobody wanted to train with a bunch of girls. They would make certain of it.

Chapter 60

Galactic Standard Date:  152,323.06 AE

Sata’an Empire:  near Alliance Neutral Zone

S.R.N. Tsalmaveth

Lieutenant Apausha

Lt. Apausha

“The second shipment is ready for inspection, Your Eminence." Lieutenant Apausha tucked his tail up his right side in the Sata’anic equivalent of ‘attention.'

Apausha was pilot of a cargo vessel in the Sata’an Merchant Marine, a non-military trading vessel, if such a thing existed in Shay’tan’s empire. Drawing a non-military duty in an empire whose entire society was built around war had been a fortuitous luck of the draw on his part, or so he'd thought when he'd first been inducted into the Royal Sata'anic Social Service as every young lizard-person did as soon as he hit puberty. Apausha didn't think it was so fortunate now. Merchant mariners were little more than black market smugglers for the elite members of society who grew fat off the labors of lower-ranking males such as himself.

“Thank you, Lieutenant." Ba'al Zebub rubbed his sausage-thick paws together, causing the fat rolls around his hands to jiggle as a hiss of pleasure escaped his maw. “Thirty females? How were they procured?”

“General Hudhafah made arrangements with some local agents,” Apausha said. “He instructed them to only take a few from each settlement in order to gain the greatest possible genetic diversity.”

Ba'al Zebub inspected the huddled females and snorted in disgust. Apausha had kept them segregated from his crew in order to maintain their modesty, and also to reduce fainting every time one of his crewmen laughed or twitched. This wasn’t the first time he'd transported a living cargo of questionable legality, but that didn't mean he had to mistreat them. Bribery and skimming were time-honored methods of greasing the wheels of progress in the upper echelons of Sata’anic society, and this was skimming or let Shay'tan turn him into an Angelic! Skimming was a practice lower-ranking men such as himself learned to accept and remain silent about lest they find themselves cannon fodder in Shay’tan’s latest war.

“What form of payment did our agents find acceptable?” Ba'al Zebub asked. No doubt he wondered how much this unauthorized little side-venture was going to cost him.

“Believe it or not,” Apausha said. “They wanted to be paid in gold. Sergeant Dahaka said the idiots danced like drunken serpents when he gave them a bag of gold for each female.”

“Gold? The stuff we add to paint to make it sparkle?" Ba'al Zebub gestured to the paint adorning the walls of the cargo hold. Gold was a mineral which was abundant in the Hades cluster, so plentiful that it was cheaper to shield their spacecraft in solid gold rather than a rarer metal such as iron.

“Yes … gold,” Apausha replied.

“Thank you, Lieutenant.” A feral glint came into Ba'al Zebub's  eyes. “You and your crew can go down to the nearest planet for a 24-hour shore leave. When you get back, I'll have you transport the cargo directly to the buyer.”

It was an 'honor' Apausha didn't want! His rotation home had been delayed once already. All he wanted to do was go home to his wife and seven soon-to-be hatchlings. But when duty called, lower-ranking males such as himself had no choice but to obey. How would Ba'al Zebub, the highest ranking male in the Empire after only Shay'tan himself, understand his desire to go home to his one wife when the Sata'anic high lord possessed thirty-two? Tucking his tail against his side even tighter, Apausha made the appropriate gesture of respect and thanked their god for the privilege of performing this duty.

"Shay'tan be praised."

Chapter 61

Earth:  End-June, 3,390 BC

Village of Assur

Ninsianna

Ninsianna wiped the tears streaming out of her eyes as she chopped onions. Although Mama usually decided what was to be eaten in their household, she'd long ago learned that helping her mother prepare meals was in her own self-interest. Although Mama was a spectacular healer, her cooking skills left a lot to be desired. Charred meat, hard bread, soggy lentils, and overcooked vegetables were always on the menu in Needa’s kitchen.

A laugh escaped her throat. When Ninsianna had been a little girl, she'd once joked about Mama’s roast goat always being burnt enough to break her teeth. Mama had run into her bedroom, crying. Papa had lectured her that, no matter how poorly cooked the meal, Mama’s diligence about ensuring everyone was fed was an act of love. As a healer, Mama had more important things do than cook and clean up after them, yet she always made time to cook their meals herself. No matter how badly Mama botched the meal, Papa ate it without complaint and thanked her afterwards for a fine supper. It was his way of telling her that he loved her.

Ninsianna snorted, chuckling as a random thought crossed her mind.

“What's so funny?” Mama asked.

“Mikhail tried milking the goat again this morning,” she said. “It's the only thing I've ever seen him try that he was terrible at doing.”

“Is this your way of saying there will be no milk with supper again tonight?” Mama stifled a laugh.

“Oh, there is some left,” she said. “Just not all of it. I swear … Mikhail and the goat are like two old adversaries going to war.”

“Who is winning?”

“The goat,” Ninsianna laughed. “I don't know why he keeps trying! I told him I would do it.”

Mama measured out a scoop of lentils and dumped them into a crock. Ninsianna handed her the onions and a pinch of herbs to add flavor. Tightly fitting the ceramic cover, Mama placed it into one side of the beehive-shaped oven to cook while Ninsianna stuffed wood into the firebox. Most houses in Assur had an outdoor oven and eating porch so that the inhabitants could take advantage of the breeze. Using the oven inside the house this time of year was out of the question. The bricks soaked up the heat and radiated them back into the living quarters all night long, making it unbearable to sleep.

“Mikhail is just trying to help,” Mama said.

“It's not necessary!” Ninsianna said. “You would think it was a matter of honor! He swooped in and grabbed her out of the field like a hawk this morning. And then he wonders why she fights him horn and hoof whenever he tries to get her into the milking shed? He can’t even fit in there all the way! He's too big!”

“Mikhail is still finding his place here,” Mama said. “Helping is his way of saying that he appreciates what we've done for him.”

Ninsianna chopped the greens she'd gathered earlier this afternoon from the garden. Chop-chop-chopping the vegetables with her obsidian blade, she considered whether to ask her mother what was on her mind.

“If you chop those any smaller,” Mama said. “They will disappear.”

“I was just thinking…”

“Yes?”

“Do you think he will leave?" She scooped the greens into a wooden bowl and moved on to slice some cucumber. “When another sky canoe comes to find him?”

“Mikhail loves you,” Mama said. “Even if he is rescued and has to finish whatever mission he was doing when he crashed here, he will come back for you. He will always come back for you.”

“How can you be so sure?" Ninsianna asked. “How can –I- be sure? I mean … if we … and then … well …. I just don't think…”

“Mikhail loves you." Mama gave her a hug. “He said that he would battle somebody named Shay’tan to come back to you.”

“Who is Shay’tan?”

“I have no idea,” Mama said, “but by the way he said it, I have no doubt in my mind he won't let anything come between you two.”

Ninsianna mixed the cucumber with salt and flaxseed oil as she digested her mother's words. “It's just … the vision….”

“What about the vision? You left things out, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Your father and I suspected as much. What else did She-who-is show you?”

“When the Evil One comes,” Ninsianna said. “Mikhail is not here to save me. I think it is him, but when I turn to embrace him, it's someone else! The Evil One tried … he tried to … Oh Mama!!!”

Mama hugged her while she sobbed. Finally, she forced Ninsianna to look her in the eye and asked, “did the Evil One actually succeed in the vision?”

“I don't know,” Ninsianna said. “Papa came in to tell me how to get out, and then I followed Mikhail’s voice back into the waking realm.”

“So there is your answer,” Mama said with a knowing nod. “The goddess gave you this vision so that you can be prepared when the Evil One comes for you. You know he feels he has a mission to complete. If Mikhail can't be here to save you, then you must be prepared to save yourself. The gods help those who help themselves.”

“But the Evil One is so powerful,” Ninsianna said. “In my vision, on the outside he is even more beautiful than Mikhail, but he couldn't hide the darkness in his soul. I think … I think he wanted to hurt Mikhail by hurting me and our… our … our …  I think he wanted to get even by hurting the people Mikhail cared about.”

“You said this Evil One is another winged creature like Mikhail, right?” Mama asked.

“Yes.”

“Then you must ask Mikhail to teach you how to defeat someone as powerful as him in case he's not here to do it for us,” Mama said. “All of us. Everyone in the village.”

"Jamin has caused a lot of trouble," Ninsianna said, "telling everybody that Mikhail is a demon. If we tell the villagers the Evil One is a winged one like him, won't they start to distrust him?"

"Tell them we prepare them to fight these other creatures She-who-is showed you," Mama said, "the ones you said looked like lizards."

Ninsianna gave her mother a quick peck on the cheek. “Mama … how did you get to be so smart?"

“Oh, no!!!” Mama exclaimed. “The fish!!! Ninsianna … it's burning!!!”

Laughing, Ninsianna ran to the oven and pulled out the fish. One side was charred and black, worse than anything her mother had ever tried to feed them. She just hoped Papa and Mikhail would forgive her when they got back from their meeting with the Chief. Maybe that’s why Mama was such a lousy cook … she always had more important things on her mind.

“I love you, Mama!” She gave her another hug.

Chapter 62

June – 3,390 BC

Earth:  Village of Assur

Colonel Mikhail Mannuki’ili

Mikhail

Mikhail walked in silence, rehearsing what he wished to ask within his own mind. The other villagers gave them curious glances as they left the Chief's house and moved through the central square, but they no longer gawked the way they had when he'd first come here. A potter sat beneath a canopy made of woven reeds, spinning a pot on a wheel while a gaggle of children watched. Just beyond him, merchants hawked their wares, woven mats, cloth made of linen, pots, beads, and a few who had bought goods from the last trading caravan and now sold them at a substantial markup. Farmers trailed in from the fields and stopped at the communal well on their way home for supper. Immanu was perceptive enough to give him time to gather his thoughts.

“I have a matter of great importance to discuss with you,” Mikhail said at last, his expression serious.

“Yes?"

“When we first met, you made me give you a promise.”

“Yes, I did." A deep smile line appeared on Immanu's cheek.

“I was wondering … um … hoping … I was wondering if you might … reconsider?" Mikhail felt like a small boy asking permission to do something that might cause him to be thrashed.

“Perhaps. What do you have in mind?”

“I seek permission to ask Ninsianna to be my mate.” He glanced at Immanu, fearful he might be angry.

“That's up to Ninsianna,” Immanu said with a grunt. “I learned my lesson the last time I tried to force her affections for a man. What does she say?”

“I haven't asked her yet. I've been trying to keep my distance.”

“Then first you must obtain her permission,” Immanu said. “If Ninsianna agrees to marry you, then you shall have my blessing."

“Hey!!!”

In his glee at being told it was okay to pursue the desire burning in his heart, Mikhail had neglected to pay attention where he was walking. He stared down at the poor girl he'd knocked to the ground with his wings, her basket of freshly-washed laundry spilled onto the dirt. Immanu laughed and greeted the black-eyed girl by name, the one he'd once mistaken for Ninsianna. Bending to help refill her basket, Mikhail gave her a rare smile.

“Sorry,” he said.

The girl trembled as he handed her back her basket of clothes, too timid to even speak. He instantly forgot her as he turned back to complete the conversation with the man he hoped would soon be his father-in-law.

“I'm not sure what your customs are in such matters,” Mikhail said. “I don't even remember what my customs are. I want to do this right.”

“When I met Ninsianna’s mother,” a tender expression blossomed on Immanu's face, “she was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. She is from Gasur, a tiny village located in those distant hills. She was apprenticed to their healer, so her entire village was opposed to her seeing anyone who might take her away from them. I had to woo her without anybody knowing.”

“How did you win her heart?”

“I used every excuse I could find to make the journey to Gasur,” Immanu gestured towards the horizon. “It was a lengthy trek. I had to sneak in under the guise of trade, so I would bring her things. Game I had hunted, food I had gathered, and small animals carved from wood.”

“Were you successful?”

“At first she was merely amused,” Immanu said. “But I finally convinced her to come for a picnic by the river. I was in training by then to become a shaman, so I taught her how to close her eyes and go into the dreamtime with me.”

“I thought it was forbidden for women to do that?”

“It is," Immanu said. "But she was fascinated by it. Healers use the dreamtime to heal their patients all the time, they just don't realize that's what they are doing. Silly prohibition, if you ask me…”

“Why haven’t you trained Ninsianna to be a shaman, then?” Mikhail asked. “She is naturally good at it.”

“I have,” Immanu gave him a conspiratorial wink. “Just not directly. I have never sent her from the house unless I was doing something dangerous. If I know it, chances are that Ninsianna knows it as well. But I realize now that not training her directly was a mistake.”

“How did you finally convince Needa to become your mate?”

“She-who-is showed her that she was meant to be my wife,” Immanu said with a cryptic smirk. “After that … it was easy.”

“I don't think She-who-is will intervene on my behalf,” Mikhail frowned.

“I think SHE already has,” Immanu said. “Or you wouldn't be alive.”

Chapter 63

June – 3,390 BC

Earth:  Village of Assur

Ninsianna

A thrill went through Ninsianna's body as her parents discussed the Chief’s request. That thread she could always feel connecting her to She-who-is hummed like a wooden flute. She could feel the goddess' plan coming together. Mikhail had definite ideas about how to institute a training program and avidly picked her father's brains. It was the most animated she'd seen him in all the time she'd known him. With her goddess-enhanced eyes, she could see the light which had always trailed off of him to someplace else begin to anchor firmly into their village.

She pushed her charred fish onto the edge of her plate. Mama and Papa did the same, picking edible portions away from parts too black and crispy to digest. Here she'd criticized her mother and now she'd gone and done a worse job than anything Mama had ever botched! She hoped Mikhail wouldn't think the worse of her for it.

Picking up the fish with two hands, Mikhail bit into it. The fish crunched. Black pieces of ash spilled onto his lentils and vegetables. Ninsianna watched as he consumed the entire burnt, charred, blackened piece of fish.

“That was very good, Mama." Immanu turned to his wife with his habitual post-dinner gratitude.

“I was not the one who prepared it!" Mama had a ‘don't blame me’ expression on her face.

Ninsianna looked down onto her plate. As she glanced up, she was rewarded by one of Mikhail’s rare, beautiful smiles.

“That was very good, Ninsianna,” Mikhail's grin made her heart flutter. “Thank you.”

Chapter 64

Galactic Standard Date:  152,323.06

Neutral Zone:  Diplomatic Carrier ‘Prince of Tyre’

Prime Minister Lucifer

Lucifer

“Lucifer, wake up!” Zepar exclaimed. “I have wonderful news!”

“Mmmffffff … what?" Lucifer rubbed his forehead to alleviate the brain-splitting migraine. He kept his eyes closed as he knew opening them would only make things worse. He felt next to him and discovered the bed was empty. “Where is she?”

“Who?” Zepar asked.

“My wife?” Lucifer said. “I distinctly remember getting married yesterday. Only … I can’t remember what happened afterwards.”

“That was four days ago, Sire." Zepar shook with excitement. “And it worked!!! The root-stock of your species is fertile. Doctor Halpas just ran the tests. Your seed took!!!”

“What do you mean it took?” Lucifer said. “I wanted to take my time and get to know this one. I don't even remember making love to her.”

He slid his eyes open just a slit and started letting them adjust to the light. Double. He was seeing double again.

“Ahm,” Zepar shifted from one foot to the other. “The root stock is not entirely sentient, Sire. Attractive, yes. But not sentient.”

“She spoke to me,” Lucifer said. “I remember….”

“What do you remember, Sire?” Zepar asked. “You were upset when you got back to the shuttle and realized she couldn't even obey a simple command. You got another one of your migraines.”

“But…" Lucifer recalled being enthralled with the attractive female, but also Zepar warning him the reason the Emperor had tinkered with their DNA was because they weren't very smart. Everything Hashem tinkered with ended up having a much higher IQ.

“Oh, no,” Zepar said. “You didn't have another one of your blackouts … did you?”

“No!” Lucifer said quickly. The last thing he wanted was to admit was he'd buggered an animal and thought she was sentient. Zepar had set up some pretty strange sexual encounters over the years, but Lucifer prided himself on remembering just who he'd fucked and how satisfied they had been afterwards. “Where is she?”

“I took the liberty of setting up a room to house her until it's time to deliver the child,” Zepar said. “Would you like to check on her? She may only be a pre-sentient creature, but she is carrying your heir.”

“Yes,” Lucifer said cautiously. “I would like to … see … the female I … um…" Lucifer couldn't quite bring himself to say the word ‘married.' He felt sick to his stomach, although that could have been from the migraine. Had he really buggered a non-sentient animal?

No! What Zepar said didn't fit his fuzzy recollection of the female Ba'al Zebub had ‘gifted’ to him. He dimly recalled her touching his forehead in concern when the migraine had started, then standing between him and Zepar and calling him ‘ibilisi.' Ibilisi? What was an ibilisi?

His head felt as though it were about to split in half. He dressed as quickly as he could and followed Zepar through the ship to a room that had once been general living quarters for 30 crewmen. With so few hybrids left alive in the universe, his diplomatic carrier, which had been built to house 600 crew along with luxurious quarters for 20 diplomatic families, now had a crew of only 35. They had many empty rooms such as this. Two crewmen guarded the door to the ships most precious cargo. The human female carrying the child he'd tried for 225 years to sire.

Sitting on a bunk along one wall, rocking and uttering guttural sounds that were most definitely not a language, was the beautiful, ebony-skinned female Ba'al Zebub had forced him to marry. Zepar had changed her into more comfortable attire than the gaudy Sata’an bridal tunic, but it had torn where she kept grasping at the hem. Her eyes were vacant as she sat in a fetal position in the corner. She became agitated as they drew close. The eyes of a caged animal.

“Hey,” Lucifer held out his hand. “Do you remember me? We got married yesterday … um … four days ago.”

The female became noisy as he approached, but she didn't make eye contact. She uttered a string of guttural sounds. Lucifer listened for the hint of either language, or the subconscious longings his ‘gift’ allowed him to sense beneath the speech patterns of all sentient creatures, and found none. It was just noise.

“I never even found out your name,” Lucifer reached out to touch her cheek. He projected soothing images through his voice into her mind, something which usually worked even with lesser sentient species.

The female let out a blood-curdling screech and jumped off of the bed, scurrying to a different bunk in the opposite corner of the room. As soon as she got there, she sat back in the fetal position, rocking and making the guttural sounds she'd made earlier.

“This is what she's been like the entire time,” Zepar said. “We suspect Ba'al Zebub sedated her so that she wouldn't scratch your eyes out when you mated with her. Probably why he was so insistent you do it right away.”

“She is definitely pregnant?" Lucifer couldn't describe his feeling of … disappointment. For some reason he'd thought she was more intelligent, although he had no memory of mating with her. None at all.

“Yes, Sire." Zepar's hands shook with excitement. “It worked. The genetic tests confirm that your genes are dominant on all traits except for your wings. Your son will have at least a sentient-level IQ.”

“Except my wings?”

“The Emperor pulled one hell of a rabbit out of a hat to graft avian DNA onto a human,” Zepar said. “Your child won't have wings. But every other Angelic trait is a dominant gene. Just like the other species he tinkers with, sentience is a survival mechanism.”

“He?” Lucifer asked. “It's a boy? You know that already?”

“Yes, Sire,” Zepar said. “And he will be just as smart as you are. You can breed him back to an Angelic female and your grandchildren will have wings. Only without the fertility problems so much inbreeding to maintain them has created for our species. The gene is there. It's just recessive.”

“Hashem always hinted that he'd help creating the hybrid races,” Lucifer said. “Probably why he hasn't been able to fix us. It was not his work in the first place.”

“You've been trying for 225 years to sire a child, Sire,” Zepar placed a reassuring hand upon his shoulder. “Is it really so terrible if your son appears as the Eternal Emperor does? A human male without wings?”

A human male … without wings. Just like his father. He could think of no better homage to pay his adopted father than the solution to fixing his hybrid armies … and a grandchild who looked just like him.

“No,” Lucifer flashed Zepar a grin. “It's an acceptable tradeoff. Now I can stop fucking every female Angelic in the galaxy and start looking for something a little more meaningful.”

“Not yet, Sire,” Zepar cut off his train of thought. “One offspring won't solve our species' problem. You need to sire as many as possible!”

“How long until this female delivers my son?”

“We believe around nine months,” Zepar said. “But I have even more good news. Shay’tan will release a small number of females for other males who've been experiencing your difficulties to marry.”

“Why would he do that?" Lucifer was skeptical of the old dragon's motivations. “It's in his best interests if we don't reproduce. It puts our armies on equal footing.”

“The Sata'an Empire is anxious to open up their worlds to trade,” Zepar said. “Including the human homeworld. But Hashem won't allow it. His precious seed world policies not only prevent us from harnessing resources on our own pre-sentient worlds, but Shay’tan’s as well. It goads the old dragon to have some of his most profitable trade goods boycotted.”

“It is so." Lucifer wracked his scrambled brains trying to remember what strings Ba'al Zebub had attached to receiving the human as a gift. He drew a blank. If there was anything worse than selling your soul to Shay’tan, it was selling your soul and not being able to remember the terms of the contract. The old dragon was absolutely inflexible about the sanctity of a contract. “Sorry … I think I had too much to drink last night. Refresh my memory?”

“Shay’tan finds your proposal to quietly gift females to high-ranking officials to garner support to open the human homeworld and similar pre-sentient planets for trade to be intriguing,” Zepar said. “That way, everybody can have access to humans. And get rich as hell. Shay’tan would like nothing better than to tweak Hashem’s nose.”

“My … proposal?”

“The one you hammered out with Ba'al Zebub yesterday, Sire,” Zepar said. “Are you certain you're not waking up from another one of your blackouts? You seem awfully disoriented.”

“No, I'm fine!" The last thing he wanted was for word to get around that he was having blackouts again. This time, he wasn't just losing hours, but weeks of his life.

He'd watched videos of himself making great, rousing speeches before Parliament that he had no recollection of making. The blackout-Lucifer who played Parliament like a fiddle looked no different than any other speech he'd ever made. But he couldn't remember making them. Not for the first time, Lucifer wished the consequences wouldn't be so dire if he went to a real doctor instead of the shady, fly-by-night quacks Zepar dug up to give him a clean bill of health.

“Would you like me to sedate her so you can mate with her again?" Zepar pointed to the female who hissed at them like a feral cat.

“No!" Lucifer was filled with self-loathing. “She is already pregnant. I'll do whatever I have to do to produce offspring, but other than that, I would prefer to mate with someone who can at least … enjoy … my talents. Just … make her comfortable. And warn the guards that she is to be treated kindly. She is carrying my child.”

“Of course, Sire,” Zepar said.

They moved through the maze of corridors, back to his personal quarters. The Prince of Tyre was a luxurious ship, sleek and tasteful compared to the gaudy ostentatiousness of Shay'tan's diplomatic flagship … and largely empty of both diplomats and crew, yet another reminder of how far his species had fallen. One day, he hoped this ship would be filled with Angelic crewmen, all brought into existence because he'd found the solution to their problem.

“Now … remind me about this plan I concocted while happily imbibing a little too much Mantoid nectar,” Lucifer said. “From the hangover I'm nursing right now, I must have swallowed an entire bottle to drown my misgivings about fucking a pre-sentient animal!”

Zepar outlined the plan as they walked back to his quarters, making Lucifer chuckle. Zepar was a scheming little bastard, but only he could cook up a plan ballsy enough to not just solve the hybrid fertility problem, but also tweak the noses of both ascended deities who toyed with the mortal creatures of this galaxy as though they were chess pieces. Nothing too nefarious. But it would make him look like a hero while both emperors would look like fools.

“You're due back in Parliament tomorrow,” Zepar reminded him. “Shall I reschedule? It will take a week to get the ‘Prince of Tyre’ back to Haven-3.”

“No,” Lucifer said. “Leave the ship in the neutral zone with orders to scoot into the uncharted territories if that bitch, Jophiel, tries to board us. The last thing I want is my father catching wind I found the root race until I'm ready to act. I'll take a needle-ship back to Haven-3 and come back when needed. When did you say Ba'al Zebub would have that next shipment?”

“It will take several weeks,” Zepar said. “Something about Shay’tan insisting all human females go through their matrimonial training academies prior to marriage.”

“Figures,” Lucifer scoffed. “The old dragon is nothing if not consistent. Do whatever it takes to secure those females.”

“The others won't be any more pleased than you were to discover their new ‘wives’ are little more than farm animals,” Zepar said. “With your permission, I would like to see if there is something I can do to train her to act a little more … well … Angelic.”

“Yes, of course,” Lucifer said. “But don't hurt her. While you're at it, see if you can do something to make her less fearful." He glanced back down the hallways they'd just traveled towards the direction of the human female and absent-mindedly twirled one of the feathers on his wing. "I don't understand why she doesn't like me? All females like me.”

All except for that Bitch…

“I'll do that, Sire,” Zepar scurried off to the laboratory he kept on the ship.

Chapter 65

July – 3,390 BC

Earth:  Village of Assur

Ninsianna

Ninsianna ran her fingers through the bucket of kishk, her nose crinkled at the slightly sour scent as Mama added rennet from the stomach of a slaughtered sheep. Together they stirred in the salt and worked it through the kernals of unground grain until the mixture was finally absorbed. Whenever summer rolled around, the goat produced far more milk than they could use. Kishk … curdled, dried milk, was a way to preserve the highly perishable dairy product for times of year when the goat didn't produce enough. Although lately there had been a lot less excess!

Ninsianna laughed.

"What's so funny?"

"Oh, nothing," Ninsianna said.  She laughed again. "I was just thinking how determined Mikhail looked this morning when he coaxed ‘Little Nemesis’ into the milking shed."

Mama stirred the half-full bucket.

"If he gets any more 'determined,' I fear we shall have no milk at all."

"Never have I seen a man so vexed by a goat!" Ninsianna laughed. "He had hoof prints … on his cheek … when when he came out with the milk! I swear, if he'd had his sword with him, we'd be eating Little Nemesis for dinner!"

"Now hold the cloth, child," Mama said as she hoisted up the bucket to strain the mixture through a length of linen. "Pull it tight so the frame doesn't collapse into the dirt."

Together they spread the saturated grains out onto the length of linen mounted onto a frame to dry the kishk in the sun. Once it was dry they would store it in a pottery urn and, whenever they wanted a porridge, they could simply add water and have their milk and grain in a single dish.

“Ninsianna!” Papa's voice trailed out of the open doorway to their house. “Come here, child!”

“Yes, Papa!" Ninsianna rinsed the curds off of her hands and went into the house, pausing when she saw Papa was set up to perform a shamanic ceremony. “Oh … should I leave?”

“No, Ninsianna,” Papa said. “It's time to teach you the right way to go into the dreamtime so you'll never get stuck there again.”

“Oh …” she said, her expression puzzled. “Isn’t that forbidden?”

“Times change," Papa said. "Which means we must change along with them or risk being left behind.”

A thrill of excitement tingled up her spine. This was what she'd always wanted, to be treated the equal of any shaman. But Papa didn't know she'd been stealing dregs from his journeys for many years and developed abilities she suspected even he didn't have. She voiced the appropriate trepidation. “Am I capable of doing this?”

“You drank the sacred beverage which led you to Mikhail,” Papa said. “Those are upper level shamanic abilities. And now She-who-is speaks through you. All I can do is fill in any gaps in your knowledge so that you don't get stranded again due to some lack of basic knowledge. Come. Sit.”

Ninsianna sat and recited the names of each item he used. She knew all but one. “What is this one, Papa?”

“This,” he said, “is kratom. It's similar to blue water lily in that it aids the transition into the dream world. But it's more powerful. You must never blend it with any other herb or it could kill you. Nor should you use it if you suspect you may be with child.”

Ninsianna fondled the tiny, yellow flowers and dried, green leaves. Unlike a normal flower, it was spikey and grew in a little ball, while the leaves were thick like the leaves of a tree.

“Where does it grow?”

“We trade for it with the caravans from the lands east of Shush,” he said. “Kratom helps your mind leave your body to search for information.”

“What kind of information, Papa?”

“Nothing too frightening your first time out. We shall spy on your friends and then you can tell them about it later. But the ability to let your mind see where your body can't travel is good for spying on your enemies.”

“How does it work?"

“There are three levels of this ability,” Papa said. “The first ability is called empathetic feeling. Every living creature has an aura, an eggshell of energy which spreads out around them. When you pass close to someone, your eggshells touch and exchange information.”

“Would those be the colors that I see?” Ninsianna asked.

“Most people can't see the colors,” Papa said, “But most people have this ability to some degree. It's the sensation of knowing someone is sick because when you talk with them, you can feel their sickness inside your own body. The feeling is vague, but you can hone the ability so that you know the difference between your own feelings and those which belong to somebody else.”

“Like Mama?”

“Yes. Like Mama. Mama rarely sees the things that we see, but she can sense the echo of what somebody else is feeling. When she was your age, I taught her how to focus her mind to see. The gift doesn't come naturally to her, but she can do it.”

“But seeing is so easy!” Ninsianna exclaimed. “I have always been able to see. Even when I was a little girl! What I have a hard time understanding is the echo of aches and pains that Mama describes.”

“You inherited the ability to see from me,” Papa said. “As I inherited the ability from my father, Lugalbanda. But I have a hard time feeling what others feel as Mama does.”

“How come Uncle Merariy didn't inherit the ability to see?”

“She-who-is doesn't always convey the gift equally,” Papa said. “Even amongst family members. Some get more. Some get less. Your ability is greater than mine, while my brother got no ability whatsoever.”

There was a bitterness to Papa's voice as he spoke those words.

“Is that why you don't like him?”

Papa sighed.

“Don't let the mistakes of my past color your relations with our family,” Papa said. “Merariy and I said terrible things to one another that we were never able to take back. He was the eldest son. He felt he should have been trained to be shaman by our father, even though he lacked natural ability. I broadcast that fact to the entire village because I didn't want my father to choose him over me." Papa's eyes were filled with remorse. "I tried to mend bridges with him later, but he has become bitter.”

“He is the village drunk,” Ninsianna said with disgust. “And his daughter hangs around with that trollop, Shahla. I'm embarrassed people even know she is my cousin.”

Papa gave her a scrutinizing look. “Green is not your color, child.”

“She'd better keep her hands off of my … ahm … I don't care if she is my cousin!" Ninsianna's eyes flashed with jealousy. “She follows Mikhail around as though she were a lovesick puppy!”

“Mikhail wouldn't notice if they covered themselves in honey and threw themselves naked at his feet," Papa laughed. “He only has eyes for you!”

Ninsianna was quiet. It was not his eyes she wanted on her. It had been almost a week since the solstice festival and he hadn't laid a hand on her since! She swore that if he didn't take the initiative soon, she would corner and tie him in the milking shed instead of the goat so that she could have her way with him!

“Tell me more about how you see into the dreamtime, Papa?”

“The second way to see is to follow the threads.”

“Those are the connections that bind all living creatures together through the dreamtime, right, Papa?”

“Yes. It only works if you've formed a connection to the other person. But sometimes you can follow a thread from a person you know well to a person they are connected to who you don't know very well.”

“Like … a friend of a friend?”

“Exactly,” Papa said. “Depending upon the kind of relationship you have, the threads can be connected to different parts of your body.”

“Where do I find these threads?”

“Most connections are through your gut … right … here." He pointed to a spot two inches above her belly button. “Now … close your eyes and picture somebody you have a strong connection with until you get a sense of where they are connected to you."

Ninsianna reached down to her tummy and found the connection. “Got it.”

“Follow that thread until you bump into the person you're thinking of,” Papa said. “You should get a vague sense of what they are doing.”

“I can see … Mikhail,” Ninsianna reached out as though following an invisible cord. “He is … busy. Working. In the field, I think. In Yalda and Zhila’s field. Papa! I can see the field!”

“Following threads is the simplest way to remote view,” Papa said. “You can project images into their mind or receive them. Although, if the person is untrained, they'll have a hard time differentiating their own thoughts from somebody else’s.”

“What if you need to see someplace and you're not connected to anyone there?” Ninsianna asked. “For example, what if I wanted to see the village where the Kemet traders come from?”

“That, child,” Papa gave her a wolfish grin, “is what the kratom is for. The third kind of seeing is called remote viewing. It's dangerous because your consciousness leaves your body and travels separate from it, as though you can fly connected only by a thread. Sometimes you fly over the earth to see. Other times you travel through the dreamtime. That was the type of seeing you were doing when you drank the sacred beverage to gain your vision of Mikhail.”

“I don't think it would be practical except in a dire situation,” Ninsianna said. "After I journeyed, I slept like the dead."

“If you do it enough times, you can train your mind to travel outside of your body without the aid of hallucinogens. But it's dangerous. While your mind surfs the dreamtime, your body is vulnerable.”

“Is that what happened when She-who-is gifted me with the second vision?” Ninsianna asked.

“I think so,” Papa said. “That's the other danger. The dreamtime is large and interesting. Sometimes people get lost. Or become so interested in what is on the other side that they just let go of the thread that connects their mind to their body and cross over to the other side.”

“Like grandpapa Lugalbanda did when grandmamma died?” Ninsianna's voice lilted with pride.

Papa didn't meet her gaze.

“Yes,” Papa said. “A shaman can will himself to pass when his time here is finished. It's why we are entrusted to perform the death rituals. We can guide the dead person's spirit part way because we travel it so often ourselves, but we can't bring them all of the way or we'll die, too.”

Ninsianna shuddered. “I hate the death rituals!”

“If you wish to be entrusted with the life-giving abilities of a shaman,” Papa's expression grew serious, “then you must embrace the death-aspects, as well. You can't have one without the other. You can't have life without death. Nor can you have death without rebirth. You must always strive to possess balance within yourself, or you'll create imbalance in the world around you.”

Ninsianna reached for the kratom. “Papa, show me how.”

“Remote viewing. First, you take…..” Immanu guided his daughter through the mother-of-all acid trips.

Chapter 66

Galactic Standard Date:  152,323.07 AE

Neutral Zone:  Diplomatic Carrier ‘Prince of Tyre’

Lieutenant Apausha

Lt. Apausha

Lieutenant Apausha had smuggled many goods into Alliance territory, some of them even onto ships owned by business magnates, but this was the first time he'd ever rendezvoused with a flagship as magnificent as the Prince of Tyre. Even Ba'al Zebub's ornate flagship suffered in comparison to the sleek, white ship which looked like a slender ray of light with a pair of cat's whiskers on its nose-cone.

"That's one hell of a ship," Apausha's radioman and navigator Hanuud admired her out the viewing window. "Too bad we aren't stationed on such a beauty."

"What's wrong with the Peykaap?" his pilot Wajid patted the console of the smuggling vessel which had gotten them through more scrapes than they cared to reminisce about.

"Nothing," Apausha pushed down the bad feeling which rumbled way down in the pit of his stomach. "It's none of our business. Now let's make this drop-off and get the Haven out of here, Shay'tan be praised."

"Shay'tan be praised," his two crewmen repeated after him. They guided the Peykaap in to dock alongside the Alliance flagship. A disembodied sense of dread made his dorsal ridge stand on end. He'd just transported something from Sata'an-flagship to Alliance-flagship. Why in Haven was Lucifer even allowing them this close to his ship? It didn't make sense. These sorts of deals were supposed to be done by minions … not at the uppermost echelons of society. The entire thing stank.

He allowed his ship to be searched and his mean to be frisked for weapons before stepping on board the Prince of Tyre to speak to whoever they were supposed to hand off the cargo to. He was relieved to see it was not Lucifer himself, but some underling, though not by much.

“Chief of Staff Zepar,” Lieutenant Apausha greeted, recognizing him from the streaming video newsfeeds. “As you requested. Thirty human females. All in good health. Great care was taken to protect their modesty and transport them as humanely as possible.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant.” The dirty-winged Angelic rubbed his hands. “My crew will take care of them right away.”

“Thank you, Sir." Apausha tasted the air with his forked tongue and decided he didn't like the way Zepar smelled. He wasn't happy about turning the females over to a pair with such questionable morals. Every man in the Sata’an Empire had heard about the Alliance Prime Minister’s appetites … and the Chief of Staff who pimped him out like some prize stud stallion.

“Your ship is utilitarian." Zepar's voice was hypnotically reasonable. “Stay and rest a while. We have prepared a private room and a meal for you and your two crewmen.”

“Your hospitality shall be appreciated, Sir,” Apausha said with a bow.

Like … or dislike … he would take Zepar up on his offer. The Peykaap had been built for stealth, all engine and hidden compartments to hide contraband, not a lot of comfort for a living cargo. What little space had been available had been assigned to the females. His men could use a long, hot shower right about now, a luxury every shipboard Sata’an relished.

After a feast and long naps relishing the luxurious, if somewhat bland accommodations typical of Angelic spacecraft, they made their way back to their own ship. They were escorted, of course, but the Angelic guards were unfailingly polite. They'd just delivered thirty of the most precious cargo the Angelics needed. Since lower-ranking Sata’an males were as much cannon fodder in the eternal struggle for domination of the galaxy as the hybrid races, they were as weary of war as the hybrids were. Perhaps this whole free-trade business might turn out to be good for everyone?

Zepar come out of a room leading one of the females Apausha had delivered earlier. Two burly, cold-eyed Angelics guarded the door.

“Sir,” Apausha greeted.

Zepar glanced at them, hissed something in a language that was neither Galactic Standard nor one Apausha recognized to the two goons guarding the door, and shoved the female down the hall. It was the state of the woman, however, which would remain forever burned into Apausha's mind. The Sata’an bridal dress was ripped beyond recognition and she was nearly naked. The poor creature was bloodied and battered, with blood dripping down her legs from rough, probably forced sex. She'd been the feistiest one amongst their cargo, but now she had an empty, haunted look in her eyes, as though she were dead and her body just didn't know it yet.

Flitting his forked tongue to taste for pheromones, Apausha caught the scent of semen. In the room beyond, he could hear a second female begin to scream as someone roared like a ravenous beast. A disembodied sense of horror ran down his spine to the tip of his tail. The roar was so deep, so primal, it felt as though the ship itself shuddered with its power.

“Man … that’s just…” radioman Hanuud said.

“Wrong…” his pilot Wajid finished.

Their two Angelic escorts looked to the door as though they wished to intervene. The two cold-eyed goons standing on either side of it obviously outranked them. One Angelic stepped towards the door. The second grabbed his comrade by the arm and muttered something under his breath. The two goons none-too-subtly flexed their muscles, their eyes as ruthless as those of the worst Tokoloshe pirate. The implication was clear.

"Shay'tan protect us," both of his crewman whispered together, gesticulating to their foreheads, their lips in their hearts in an invocation to their emperor and god.

“Let’s get the Haven out of here…” Apausha shoved his men down the hall before Zepar realized they knew what was going on. He would speak to Ba'al Zebub about his reservations. The Sata’an were a lot of things, but this struck him as just … plain … evil.

Chapter 67

July - 3,390 BC

Earth:  Village of Assur

Colonel Mikhail Mannuki’ili

Mikhail

Mikhail looked at the eight volunteers, plus Immanu and Ninsianna, who had answered the Chief’s call for archers. Seven were female, eight if you included Ninsianna. The last was an elderly man in his late sixties.

He'd asked them to meet at the edge of the rapidly dwindling river so they'd have some relief from the opressive afternoon heat, but now he wished he'd chosen a field closer to the village in the hopes of enticing a few more archers to join their ranks. Much to his chagrain, Jamin had undermined his efforts by insinuating any warrior willing to train alongside women lacked a manhood.

Mikhail snorted in disgust. The Chief had made the request voluntary, not mandatory, and the warriors from surrounding villages were not due to arrive for a few more days. Still … they were his first command. He would train these women as best he could.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Mikhail said, “we don't have the resources for a standing army. You'll have to train in addition to things you already do at home.”

A groan went through the group, but he knew the candidates had already been apprised of this fact.

“However,” he said. “Many of us have the same duties every day. We all draw water from the river to water our crops. We all go into our fields and rake out the weeds so our crops don't get strangled out. These activities, if done mindfully, can help you build strength to draw the bow or defend yourself against an enemy.”

“That never occurred to me,” one of the young women said.

“It has for me,” the old man said. Mikhail recalled the man's name was Behnam. “You don't get to be my age and not figure out a few shortcuts.”

Mikhail pulled out one of the crude bows he'd fashioned earlier and some hastily assembled arrows. The workmanship was nothing to brag about, but they would suffice until he'd a chance to fashion some more.

“Halifian insurgents have been raiding villages up and down the river and kidnapping young women,” Mikhail said. “They can get away with it because they have these." He held it up so the trainees could see. "With one of these, a warrior can shoot at you from hundreds of paces away and never get close enough for you to strike back.”

A nervous murmur went through the troop. There was a good reason, he suspected, why the volunteers skewed towards females. Women had a lot more to lose. This was the first time anyone had ever offered to formally train them. Although the Chief was pragmatic about not forbidding women to learn weaponry, he'd never actively encouraged it before now, either.

“This is how this weapon is used." He slipped an arrow onto the string and drew his bow. Taking aim, he let it fly towards a target set up 100 paces down the field. It hit nearly dead-center.

“Ooh!" A buzz of excitement went through the future archers.

“It will take time to build the upper body strength to wield this weapon.” He pulled another arrow from his quiver and let that one fly as well. “But once you master it, it doesn't matter whether you're male or female. Women tend to be better shots because they practice more.”

To accentuate his point, he strung two arrows simultaneously and let both fly. They landed within the inner circle, although not dead center the way he would have preferred. He surmised he’d had little practice with the weapon since the Cherubim masters had taught him to use it as a boy.

“Can this weapon also be used for hunting?” Behnam asked.

Mikhail paused. Although he had no recollection of ever using the Cherubim weapon thus, why hadn't he remembered the primitive weapon, and its possibilities to put food on the table earlier? Gods only knew he was a decent enough shot. All this time he'd been a drain on Immanu's resources when he'd possessed the means to provide all along.

“Yes,” Mikhail said. “You can shoot game before it has a chance to sense your approach." He gave Immanu an apologetic look, hoping his future father-in-law didn't have the same shameful thought that he did. "Immanu … if you would, please?”

In rapid succession, Immanu threw three weighted balls of straw into the air. Reaching into his quiver in rapid succession, Mikhail grabbed each arrow, strung the bow, and shot each bale down. The candidates murmured enthusiastically.

“I could get me some serious roast duck with such a weapon,” Behnam said with a toothless grin.

“Or goose,” Immanu added. The two gave each other a look two males might give before placing a wager.

“Hunting sounds like excellent practice for the day you might need to defend yourself against an armed assailant,” Mikhail said. “Therefore, hunting is an after-class activity I encourage.”

He made a mental note to follow his own advice. He glanced at Behnam who eyed his bow with an eager, covetous eye, his toothless lips smacking as he doubtless imagined what it would be like to use such a weapon to hunt the elusive waterfowl who rarely came close enough to shore to catch. He would ask him, not Immanu, to teach him the best places to hunt.

“When will we get our own weapon?” one of the candidates asked, a curvy, dark-eyed beauty. She looked down at her feet, her cheeks pink with embarrassment.

“I'll loan you a bow for training today,” Mikhail said, “just to give you a feel for it. These ones belong to me, but if you want to have one of your own, you'll need to make it yourself.”

“We don't know how to make such weapons,” a slender girl said, barely at the threshold of being a woman.

“Every archer should know how to fashion their own bow and arrows from materials found in nature,” Mikhail said. “That way, if you're ever stranded, you'll be able to make a weapon to hunt and survive. You will learn how to make your own in the coming days. Until then, you need to take turns." He gestured to five more bows leaned up against a bush. "Line up … and take a bow.”

He'd feared a lack of bows would be a problem as he was only marginally practiced in building the weapon and it had taken him far longer to find suitable wood than he'd anticipated, but with so few candidates they would only need two groups. He hoped to get them into the scant underbrush to make their own bows before the trainees arrived from the other allied villages. The low turnout was not his problem. If the Chief was not willing to make the order mandatory, Mikhail wouldn't argue with him. The best way to win support for your own cause was to show your method worked under fire. Mikhail gestured for the first five candidates to line up.

“What's your name?” he asked the voluptuous young woman who had asked him a question earlier.

“Yadidatum,” a dimple appeared on one cheek. She looked down at the ground, blushing. “It means ‘one who listens.’"

“Pleased to meet you Yadidatum." He turned to the one, lone elderly man. “And I recall that you're called Behnam, right?”

“Yes,” the elderly man flashed a toothless grin. “It means ‘reputable.’”

“Pleased to meet you, Behnam." Mikhail moved down the line to a young woman who couldn't have been more than twelve years old. “And you, young lady. Who are you?”

“Pareesa,” the girl said with an enthusiastic grin that only the very young possess. “It means ‘fairy.’”

“Very good, little fairy.” Mikhail moved to speak to a woman with reddish streaks in her brown hair. “And you, Miss?”

“I'm called Orkedeh, after the flower,” the pretty thirty-something year old woman said. Her figure was that of a married woman with children.

“Glad to have you, Orkedeh,” he said to her. “And Immanu … my Ubaid father … who I'm sure you all know.”

The candidates buzzed around him like excited bees, eagerly grabbing the unfamiliar weapons and running their fingers along the sinew.

“Let's move closer to the target,” Mikhail said. “It's too far away for your first shot. But in two weeks you should be able to hit that target from here. This is how you string the bow.”

He demonstrated how to insert the sinew into the notches at either end, no easy task. The candidates did so with determined expressions on their faces.

“Ouch!” Yadidatum exclaimed as the sinew slipped her grasp and thwacked her in the leg. “That hurt!"

Mikhail showed her how to push down on the wood of the bow, rather than pull up on the sinew, to get it strung. “Grip your bow like this … with your non-dominant hand. This is your aiming hand.”

The other candidates followed suit. Behind them, the second string of candidates waited their turn.

"Put your arm straight out, at a right angle to your body,” he explained. “If you don't hold your arm straight, you won't shoot straight."

He glanced over at Ninsianna, his internal radar always aware of her presence. Although trying to not play favorites, a smile escaped one corner of his mouth. Between visiting the flintknapper to teach him how to make arrowheads, the butcher to get sinew and feathers, and trips into the sparse underbrush to harvest wood, more than a week had been lost. He’d had no time to woo her in the manner Immanu said was their custom.

“Now, put three fingers on the string beneath the notch, like … this …” he demonstrated. "Be careful not to bend the fletching … the feathers … as you do. The fletching is what makes your arrow fly straight."

The candidates followed his example, except for young Pareesa, who plucked at the fletching with curious fingers.

"Are these your feathers, Mikhail?"

"No," Mikhail stated bluntly. He rustled his feathers with indignation and turned to the older archers. “Draw back your arm all the way to your cheek … like this. Your three fingers should line up along your chin.”

The archers complied, pulling back the sinew with eager awkwardness.

“Oops!" Pareesa's string slipped her fingers. Her arrow sprang out and onto the ground. She gave Mikhail a sheepish look, her brown eyes sparkling with mischief. “Sorry.”

A flash of a memory, him making the exact same mistake the first time he'd taken up the bow, caused him to almost grin. Instead he schooled a serious expression and gave her the exact same words he recalled the Cherubim master had told to him.

“That will happen until you build up more strength in your fingers,” Mikhail said. “For now, just hold on as best you can … and don't aim towards anyone you don't want to hit."

He turned to the larger group. “It will take a few weeks to build the upper body strength to draw the bow. Don't get discouraged if, at first, you can’t hit the target.”

He walked behind his trainees, correcting their stances, as they held their bows drawn ready to shoot. Every one of these trainees, including the youngest, drew their bows with serious intent. He made them hold it until their arms began to shudder with the effort of holding the ready position.

“Very good,” he said. “Now … look down the string along the arrow and line it up with your target. Where you look, that's the direction your arrow will shoot … and … ready … aim …. shoot!”

The candidates let fly the arrows. Yadidatum’s shot hit the ground a few feet in front of her. Pareesa hit the target, but it bounced off without sticking. Behnam hit the straw beneath the target and it stuck in … not bad for an elderly man. Orkedah and Immanu both made it approximately three-quarters of the way.

“Not bad for a first try,” Mikhail nodded approval. “Yadidatum … don't close your eyes when you release your arrow. That's why it fell flat. Immanu, Orkedah, not bad. We'll work on building strength and control in your upper body so you can get more distance. Pareesa, Behnam, nice job. Excellent for a first shot.”

The candidates congratulated and slapped each other on the back. Up next was Alalah ‘to sprinkle’, a middle-aged woman in her forties; Gisou ‘flower’, a young girl around 17 or 18; Homa ‘phoenix’, a short, sturdily built young woman around 20, and Kiana ‘nature’, a mid-thirtyish woman with long brown hair that reached below her backside. And of course, Ninsianna. Mikhail coached them how to shoot, with similar results. Alalah, the oldest, hit the target on the first try, though by no means a bullseye.

“Nice shot, Alalah,” Mikhail complemented her. “Switch! We'll keep switching back and forth until you all get the feel for the bow.”

The candidates took turns shooting over the next two hours. Towards the end, his archers-in-training began to cheer and joke. Camaraderie was important for warriors who might someday need to support each other in a battle situation. Satisfied they were on the correct track, he switched to something different.

“Now it's time to do some strength training,“ he said. “Did everybody bring their buckets?”

The candidates brought two buckets as requested. Mikhail demonstrated how to fill them with water and lift them various ways to build upper body strength. The young women twittered and giggled as he demonstrated each position. The elderly man vigorously lifted his two buckets with all of his might.

“Behnam,” Mikhail said. “It's not a competition…”

“I can’t let the young ladies get the better of me,” Behnam flashed his toothless grin. “A man's got to have his pride!”

Mikhail suppressed a grin. Although he couldn't remember what he'd done back in … wherever … it was that he'd come from, he was having a good time. Teaching seemed to come a lot more naturally to him than milking the goat. He had the candidates lift the buckets in an exercise designed to build up the pectoral, back and triceps muscles.

“My arms are about to fall off,” Homa complained.

“Do you think this will make my boobs look bigger,” Gisou asked. She turned pink with mortification when she realized everyone had heard her.

“I don't get it,” Yadidatum complained. "I keep getting water on my dress." The curvaceous young woman heaved the buckets upwards in a jerking motion and sloshed water everywhere.

“It might help if you imagine your arms are wings,” Mikhail demonstrated the proper form. “Like an eagle.

“Like your wings,” Pareesa giggled.

“I don't have hands on my wings,” Mikhail replied with a deadpan expression. “I have to lift my buckets of water with my arms the same as everybody else."

This response struck the young women as hilarious for a reason he could not grasp. Raphael used to think everything was funny like this…

Raphael? He stopped and tried to coax the memory out of his scrambled subconscious.

“Mikhail?" Ninsianna came up beside him. “Are you okay?”

His mind was in two places at once as flashes about going through basic training with his friend flitted through his mind and then disappeared. He grasped at the memories like a man grasping at fireflies, most of them escaping, but a few of them ending up in a jar.

“Mikhail,” Ninsianna said. “They're waiting for you to finish the lesson.”

“Oh, sorry,” he came back to the present moment. “I just had … I was thinking … about a friend of mine.”

“Another memory?”

“Yes … a good one.”

He glanced down at Ninsianna and what little concentration he had still possessed after the flash of memories disappeared in a puff of longing. What was it he'd been doing again?

“Buckets … water … upper body strength … draw the bow,” Ninsianna prompted, getting his mind back on track.

“Oh, uh, yes," he said. "From now on, ladies and gentlemen, every time you go down to the river to get water, I want you to do these exercises. Not only will you build upper body strength, but you'll also get your daily chores done." He gestured towards the village perched above them on the cliff, indicating they were dismissed. "I will see you all here at the exact same time tomorrow.”

Immanu gathered the bows and gave Mikhail a knowing nod before excusing himself. They were alone at last. Mikhail turned to Ninsianna, nervous about how to proceed now that he wouldn't be breaking any promises.

“Ninsianna,” he asked. “Would you like me to show you how to shoot some more?”

She absent-mindedly looked down the field at the target, wearing that dreamy expression she often wore when half of her mind was here, and the other was off in a daydream, talking to She-who-is. “Okay.”

“Hold your bow the way I showed you." He stood behind her to help her aim, relishing the close proximity of his body to hers. She held the bow just a little too low, aimed just short of the target. He ran his fingers along the underside of her forearm to nudge it up into the correct 90 degree angle.

“Like this?” she asked.

“Mmm…hmm…” He held his left hand in place, just barely touching the underside of her wrist to encourage her to maintain the correct form. With his right, he reached around to touch her drawing hand, his hand lingering on hers.

“Now slowly draw back the string with your other hand,” he murmured in her ear.

He thanked the goddess it wasn't him taking the shot right now, because his heart raced so fast he swore he would have missed it! Ninsianna rattled his concentration more than the most terrifying battle situation. All he could think about right now was the light scent of soap root that lingered in her hair. Flaring his wings to block any wind that might throw off her aim, he helped her pull her drawing arm back that last little bit.

“Like this?” Ninsianna asked. Squinting down the shaft, she aimed at the bullseye.

She leaned back so the length of her body nestled neatly into his. Heat radiated into his torso, along with a most pleasant tingling sensation. He was afraid to breathe. If he did, the moment would be broken and he would lose his chance to do what he'd wanted to do ever since the first time he'd laid eyes upon her.

“Your drawing fingers should come to your chin,” he murmured into her ear, realizing she was focused on getting the shot, not him. “Don't flinch as you release the string. Just loosen your fingers and the string will do the rest.”

Ninsianna took the shot and squealed, jumping with delight as she hit the bullseye. She threw her arms around his neck and hugged him, whacking him with the bow. Mikhail closed his eyes and took a deep breath, composing what he wished to say.

“Mikhail,” her golden eyes flashed with delight. “That was great. Thank you.”

The carefully rehearsed speech he'd been practicing all week flew out of his mind as he stared into her golden eyes. Tilting her chin up with one finger, he bent down and tasted the sensuous lips he'd been dreaming about kissing again. Some instinct caused him to curl his wings around their bodies so they were both enveloped in a feathery cocoon. Tangling her fingers in his hair, Ninsianna pressed into his body as she explored his mouth with her inquisitive tongue and moaned his name.

His manhood rose up to greet her, pressing insistently into her abdomen as she melted into him. Even without his memories, he knew no woman had ever instilled such desire. His heart beat faster, threatening to break his control, Cherubim training or not. He had no intention of making love to her until after they had completed the steps required by the customs of her people to mate. If he didn't draw back now, he wouldn't be able to.

“Ninsianna,” he shuddered. “We have to stop.”

“Mmm hmm….” she murmured, not stopping at all.

“Ninsianna,” he said. “If we don't stop now, I'll not be able to stop.”

“Mmmmm….” Her voice lilted upwards, more like a 'yummy sound' when you eat something delightful rather than the agreement the words were supposed to convey. She melted further into his body and slid her hands between his back and his wings. Oh, gods! What, was she trying to kill him with desire? She kissed down the side of his neck, causing his manhood become so hard he thought he might explode. Not now, not now! He fought to prevent himself from taking her right there in the middle of the field.

“Ninsianna … we can do this later!" He desperately tried to steer this encounter the way he'd intended for it to go. Not the way their mutual desire seemed to be herding them to rut in the middle of the field like howling, ravenous beasts.

“Later?" She moved her kiss down to the spot on his chest where she'd pulled out the steel rod. He felt as though his heart would leap right out of his ribcage into her dainty hand. Sliding her hands down his back to his buttocks, she tilted her pelvis into his as she sought his lips once more.

“A-af-after we ask your parents….” he stammered, barely caging the urge to rip off her shawl and mate with her on the spot.

She drew back and looked into his eyes, her lush, pink lips drawing into a moue.

“Ask my parents???" Her voice was pure innocence, as though the siren of three seconds ago had never existed.

“Ask your parents if we can marry?"

He held his breath, waiting for her answer.

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Yes!” Ninsianna squealed the way she'd squealed after her near-perfect shot and threw her arms around his neck, kissing him until he was senseless.

Mate. Mate. She had agreed to become his mate. Oh, goddess! He would not survive another kiss!

He did what came naturally to all winged creatures when they are very, very happy. He flared his wings to their full wingspan and carried his squealing beloved up into the air. Beating his wings to gain height until he found an updraft, he leveled off in a lazy glide.

Ninsianna pressed along the length of his body, wrapping her legs around one of his in the position she knew would allow her the stability to kiss him mid-air.

“Tell me that you love me, Mikhail,” she kissed his neck.

“I love you more than life itself."

He drew her closer and kissed her until she was as breathless as he was.

Chapter 68

July - 3,390 BC

Earth:  Village of Assur

Jamin

*Thwunk*

Jamin grimaced. A less-than-perfect shot. He'd only hit the edge of the charcoal-smear heart that he'd painted on the target. Not dead-center. Dead-center meant dead. Less than dead-center meant … he'd seen living proof of what less-than-dead-center meant when it came to the hearts of demons. He'd seen the scar on the winged demons chest the day he'd stripped his shirt and run the gauntlet on what should have been his wedding day.

He grabbed a spear from the dwindling pile and hurled it with every ounce of hatred he felt towards the heart-shaped target. The others had gone home for the night, even Siamek. None of them understood the threat the winged demon represented to their village.

He realized he was being watched…

“Gita,” he said, not even glancing over to meet her bottomless black eyes. “You shouldn't lurk in the shadows. You might get hurt.”

“How did you know I was here?”

“I don't know,” Jamin said. “I just knew.”

“You're the only person who ever sees me besides Shahla.”

Her voice had the same sadness he felt. The accursed emotion he was trying to drown out by focusing on his anger. He grabbed the next spear and hurled it with all of his might. He could feel her eyes follow the shaft as it lodged in the heart-area dead center. A perfect shot. Sticking out of the top of the target were feathers. Feathers he'd stuck in after the others had gone to represent Mikhail's wings. He turned to her, giving her the wolfish grin a predator might give as it removed its blood-soaked fangs from a prey animal's torn jugular.

“He doesn't deserve your hatred." Gita's voice was the whisper of the hot summer wind. “It's not his fault the goddess sent him here to protect us.”

Jamin lurched towards her, hand raised as if to strike her.

“What do you know of the goddess?!” Jamin shouted. “Fairy tales! Fairy tales made up to justify bad behavior!”

Gita stepped back, her black eyes large and wary, but she did not run, for they had always had an understanding.

"Bah!" Jamin spat at her

He grabbed another spear and hurled it with all of his might at the target, hatred fueling its flight into the heart of his enemy. The spear pierced the bale of emmet-stalks bound together to represent their enemies and came out the other side. Aha! The winged demon wasn't the only one who could pierce the heart of his enemy!

He turned, his victory cry dying on his lips as a sorrow only he could fathom clouded Gita's jet-black eyes. Yes. They had always had an understanding. He'd taken Gita under his protective wing because only she understood what it was like to watch your mother die.

“Ninsianna is not worthy of your love." Gita's black eyes swirled with a sorrow so profound even he couldn't fully grasp its depths. “You've got to let it go or it will destroy you.”

Jamin's voice lilted upwards, half a shout, and half a little boy's cry of anguish.

“He took her from me!" He grabbed another spear from the pile, his fists clenched around the shaft so tight it felt as though his knuckles might break.

“She's not worthy of -his- love, either." Gita's black eyes looked straight through him as though he wasn't even there. “Just you wait and see…”

A shudder went down Jamin’s spine. Prophecy. It was said her mother's people had possessed the gift of prophecy. His mother's people, if the whispers he'd overheard the night Merariy had reappeared in their village were true. His father had been in a fog of grief, having just lost his mother and baby sister in childbirth. It had been Immanu who had made the decision to welcome his estranged brother … and his traumatized five-year-old daughter … back into the tribe. Not the Chief. He didn't know why, but there was bad blood between the factions.

He looked away, unable to meet her gaze as Gita took the measure of his soul and found him wanting. He looked back and was not surprised to find she'd disappeared back into the lengthening shadows. Picking up another spear, Jamin hurled it with all of his might at the feathery target…

Chapter 69

Galactic Standard Date:  152,323.07 AE

Ascended Realms

Emperor Shay’tan

Shay’tan

“You look pleased with yourself today,” Shay’tan said.

Hashem drummed his fingers on the three-dimensional chessboard that was also a model of the galaxy, smirking at the sight of his white knight sitting amongst the black pawns in Zulu sector.

“Oh … it’s nothing,” Hashem said evasively.

Shay’tan pondered his next move. Aha! Hashem was so focused on the outer reaches of the galaxy that he'd left his center exposed. He chuckled at his own genius.

“Check,” Shay’tan said.

Chapter 70

Galactic Standard Date:  152,323.07 AE

Alpha Sector:  Command Carrier ‘Eternal Light’

Supreme Commander-General Jophiel

Jophiel

“Sir, there is an alpha-priority-one message from Haven-4,” Lieutenant Klik'rr said.

Jophiel glanced up from the endless stream of reports that buried her desk, news of the latest Sata'an incursion into Romeo sector taking a back burner as the hair stood up on the back of her neck. There was only one thing that mattered on that planet. Whatever she'd been doing was immediately forgotten.

“What's wrong?”

“Sir … it's your son,” Klik'rr's green antennae twitched in concern as he handed his commanding officer the message. “He is very sick." The nervous twitch of his mandibles communicated what the cold, mechanical vocal range booster couldn't convey. “They request you come right away.”

“What's wrong with him?" She instinctively reached for the small wallet of photographs of all her offspring that she kept hidden in the breast-pocket of her uniform shirt. Klik'rr’s words sounded far away.

“It’s the wasting sickness, Sir,” Klik'rr's prayer-like grasping front legs wrung his pinchers, his body language conveying the emotion that the voice enhancement box couldn't adequately express. “He's not expected to make it, Sir. Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Recall Colonel Israfa from Zulu Sector right away,” she stood, not really hearing the words. “Just him, not his command carrier. Tell him to take a needle and meet me at Haven-4 … stat.”

The room began to fade from view. Her heart pounded in her ears. She swooned, grabbing her desk to help her stand. Klik'rr grabbed her arm and guided her towards the door where two more airmen stood, waiting to guide her down to her shuttle. As usual, Klik'rr had anticipated her every need.

“I took the liberty of informing the ATO you would be flying out of here right away, Sir. Your transport shuttle leaves in twenty minutes.”

“Yes, of course,” she mumbled.

The hallways she walked through, the people she passed, was all a blur as guilt tore at her mind. She'd abandoned him. In her heart, she'd known he needed to stay close to her and she'd cast him aside to pursue her career. She didn't notice Lieutenant Klik'rr guided her into the waiting shuttle or buckled her in. The crew watched her go in silence, word already racing through the ship that their Supreme Commander-General’s infant son was not expected to survive the night. Although they prayed to different minor deities from each of their homeworlds, a unified prayer went out to spare the life of one, tiny baby.

“Get Raphael on the Light Emerging on the horn,” Lieutenant Klik'rr ordered the moment her shuttle lifted off. “I need to convey the sad news that his son is dying.”

Chapter 71

July – 3,390 BC

Earth:  Village of Assur

Colonel Mikhail Mannuki’ili

Mikhail

“Mikhail,” Pareesa said. “Oh Mikhail!" Pareesa reached out with the end of her bow and jabbed him in the wing. As the troop's youngest and most fearless member, she often ribbed her reticent mentor in a way the others did not dare.

“I'm sorry,” he apologized. “I was … thinking."

He looked longingly at the lovely visage which distracted him. Ninsianna testing her bow, her arm lining up in perfect symmetry with her luscious breasts.

“Yeah,” his impish young student joked. “I know exactly what you were thinking of!" Pareesa pointed to where Ninsianna prepared to crawl into the reeds. “You drifted off mid-sentence.”

The other students giggled at his absent-mindedness. All knew the source of his distraction and good-naturedly teased him whenever his mind began to wander. Ever since Immanu had given them permission to marry, he'd been having a hard time keeping his baser impulses under control. Ninsianna was worth the wait, so wait he did even though it was driving him to distraction. Mikhail forced his thoughts back down onto the planet.

“Today we shall hunt ducks." He motioned for his archers to follow him to a lazy, marshy portion of the river that made a natural pond. With rains scarce this time of year, most inland pools of water had started to dry up. Waterfowl migrated to the more reliable Hiddekel River as soon as their young were capable of flying.

Twelve more archers had joined their troop from allied villages, studied the basics of mastering the new weapon for two weeks, and then gone home. Their villages had been the victims of raids and Nineveh had suffered a second attack. The allied archers were determined to master the new technology and go home to teach every able-bodied male … and female … unlike Assur, where archery training was voluntary and still being undermined by Jamin.

“Mikhail,” Yadidatum asked. “Doesn't it bother you to shoot birds?”

“Why would it?”

“I mean … you … well…" Yadidatum pointed at his wings. "You're part bird.”

Mikhail paused, pondering her question. It had never occurred to him that he might share DNA with the avian population. This planet had species he'd never seen before, if his faulty memory could be relied upon, such as the gigantic mated pair of golden eagles which circled the Hiddekel River with their powerful, Angelic-like wings.

“I'm not sure what I'm descended from,” he said. “But I don't think I'm part duck. People hunted similar waterfowl back in … back … where I'm from. Water fowl are common throughout the galaxy, I suspect.”

“Quack, quack,” Pareesa flapped her arms like a duck.

“And I definitely don't quack,” he gave Pareesa a mock serious stare.

The others giggled, causing his mouth to twitch up in the smile he failed to suppress. Like the fairies she was named after, Pareesa inspired the others towards mischief, her youthful energy turning what might have been dreadfully boring training exercises into camaraderie. She was also an exceptionally talented archer.

“Shhhh,” Behnam signaled as they got close to the cove. “We'll crawl the last few feet.”

“Ready your bows,” Mikhail whispered.

This was Behnam’s first hunt using the bow, but the old man had been setting snares for decades. Mikhail followed his lead. Once the first shot was fired, the waterfowl would take to the air, giving them seconds before the birds were out of range.

“Remember,” Alalah said. “We have a point to prove. We have to show our families that our newfound skills provide value.”

“Then maybe my mother-in-law will stop grumbling about babysitting while I come to lessons,” Orkedeh said. “My husband doesn't understand why I want to spend hours on end shooting little sticks at targets.”

“You only come because it's an excuse to get away from your eight kids,” Alalah said. “It's mommy sanity time.”

Alalah, Orkedeh and Kiana all chuckled.

“They just don't understand because Assur has not suffered a raid yet,” Kiana said. “They'll feel differently once we are attacked. As soon as my kids get big enough, I'll to teach them all to shoot. My two oldest girls are almost strong enough to draw a bow."

“Maybe Mikhail could teach us to make smaller bows?” Pareesa said. “One a child of seven could draw? My little brother wants to shoot squirrels and help my parents get more meat.”

“We can do that,” Mikhail said. "It would please me if you teach others to defend themselves."

He didn't add that he was disappointed at the low turnout and the Chief’s lack of enforcement. The Emperor indoctrinated his species into military training academies as babies…

Memory. He grabbed at the elusive fragment, but it escaped as fleetingly as it had come. Damantia! Something about the Emperor starting training young.

“If you bring home fresh duck,” Alalah whispered, “your families will stop complaining and tell you to practice more. There's nothing like fresh roast duck to convince someone of the value of an investment in time.”

The archers strung their bows. After Ninsianna had complained about the string burning her aiming arm, he'd fashioned wrist and finger-gauntlets out of scraped goat hide. He suspected it was not a new invention, simply one he'd forgotten he remembered. The other archers had copied the idea, making gauntlets of their own.

“Not yet..." He waited for Yadidatum to get her arrow hooked into the string.

The ducks quacked nervously at the humans creeping through the underbrush, but were not worried enough to take flight. Few predators could follow them into the water fast enough to catch them. That was about to change.

“Now!" He took his first shot at a plump male that was beating up on a smaller female. He immediately reached into his quiver for the next arrow.

Ten more arrows whistled through the air as his students let fly their first shot, including his. They reloaded as panicked waterfowl took to the air. Reaching for a third arrow, he glanced over to see Ninsianna wearing the same intense look of determination she'd worn the day she'd thrown her spear into the competition bullseye.

As soon as the third arrow was out of his quiver, he reached for a fourth, but the ducks were out of range. He'd shot three, more than enough for his family to feast tonight. Dead and dying ducks littered the water, enough to prove the worth of archery practice to their begrudging families.

“Okay everybody, that's enough!” Arrows required a substantial investment of time to make. There was no point in wasting arrows on long shots when so many fat ducks had already been harvested. “Now we get to wade in and retrieve them.”

Everybody stripped down to their loincloths and waded into the river, swimming to retrieve their supper before the current carried it downstream. If that happened, not only would they lose their ducks, but their arrows as well. Some arrows had been lost, of course. Not every shot was a kill, especially with archers as newly trained as these. But overall it had been a fruitful hunt. Mikhail averted his eyes as his largely female troop bounded out of the water, ducks in both hands.

“I got one!" Yadidatum retrieved her arrow from one of the ducks. Mikhail had made them mark their arrows in a unique pattern so they would always know whose arrow belonged to whom.

“I got three." Behnam held three ducks by the feet. “And I didn't lose any arrows.”

“I got four,” Alalah announced.

“Hey … so many … you should share!” Gisou said. “I only got one.”

“I have six kids to feed, plus my husband and mother-in-law,” Alalah said. “Why do you think I practice so much?”

“That's one more than Mikhail,” Homa said. “I only got one duck, and I have four brothers and sisters, my parents, and my grandmother.”

“Mikhail only took three shots,” Ninsianna said, “and got three ducks. You took four shots and lost three arrows, Homa.”

“You should practice more,” Alalah said. “Then your parents won’t nag you so much about cleaning the house.”

“Why do you think I'm always here?” Homa laughed. “If they can’t see me, they can't order me to clean up after my sloppy older brothers!”

“I got two,” Ninsianna said. “Papa got two. And Mikhail got three.”

“What will you do with all those ducks?” Orkedeh asked. “I got two, just the right amount to feed my eight kids.”

“Mikhail always gives some to Yalda and Zhila,” Ninsianna said.

“I'll give them a duck,” Mikhail said. “And I think we should present one to the Chief.”

“Oooooo!” Pareesa jumped up and down. “Let’s do it right in front of that pompous, goatheaded son of his and show Jamin a thing or two!”

Just three days ago, Pareesa had shouted at Jamin and called him a pompous jerk after he'd tormented her little brother into a fit of anger about her taking archery training.

“Pareesa,” Alalah said. "That's not a kind thought. Or language. Your mother would be very upset.”

“I think giving the Chief one of our ducks is an extremely kind thought,” Pareesa's eyes sparkled with mischief. “Doesn’t everyone agree?”

“Our family has seven ducks between the three of us,” Immanu said. “One of which we shall give to Yalda and Zhila. I think we can spare two for the Chief.”

“Yes,” Mikhail said. “And we should throw two more into the take to give the archers who didn't get enough. If you and Ninsianna agree.”

“That would be fine with me,” Immanu said.

“And me,” Ninsianna said.

Showing up the lazy boys who refused to learn the latest technology was sweet payback. Mikhail wouldn't participate in the archer's gesture towards the chief, but he wouldn't forbid it, either. The archers gathered their kill and headed off to the village square to make their presentation, their spirits high as they marched arm-in-arm. Immanu took the ducks they'd chosen to keep and excused himself, leaving Mikhail and Ninsianna alone.

“Jamin will spit stones when Pareesa presents his father with those ducks,” Ninsianna said. “You realize the little mischief maker will do it so the whole village sees?" She slipped her arms around his waist.

Personally, it pleased him to watch the little fairy give Jamin his comeuppance…

“What does or does not upset Jamin is his problem." Mikhail inhaled her scent. “I won't deliberately antagonize him, but I will not shield him from others who notice he is undermining the well-being of the village.”

“Chief Kiyan enjoys gifts,” Ninsianna laughed. “He'll be pleased with the ducks, and also that his investment in archers is paying off.”

“Very publicly rewarding him for training a bunch of women and one very old man." Mikhail nuzzled her hair as he encircled her in his wings. “It will make the ducks taste decadent as far as he is concerned.”

“Mikhail?" Ninsianna pressed her ear to his chest so she could hear his heartbeat. “Where do you want to live after we are married?”

“I haven't given the matter any thought,” he said. “What is your custom?”

“I love my parents,” she said. “But their house is rather small. I want to make loud, happy noises when you make love to me!" Ninsianna stood on tiptoe and suggestively rubbed her abdomen against his manhood, causing him to sharply inhale.

He pondered the question. He would like to live someplace where he didn't have to scrunch up his wings to fit. Ubaid houses were small, especially for someone as big as him. At first he'd hoped his people would come for him and help him repair his ship so he could take her to the stars she often dreamily told him she wished with all of her heart to see, but the more time that passed, the less likely rescue seemed. Even that gnawing sensation that he had a mission to complete had begun to fade the moment he'd asked Ninsianna to marry him. His place was here now, with her. He would adjust his expectations to meet those of the Ubaid who had welcomed him into their midst.

“Would you like me to build you a new house?” He looked up at the hill where Assur rose above the banks of the Hiddekel, built bumble-tumble on a hill and jammed too close together. “Where?"

“Not too far away from my parents," she said. "Just not with them. It would be embarrassing if they overheard us." She nibbled on his lower lip until he deepened his kiss.

Fire burned through his entire body. “If you keep teasing me like this, we aren’t going to make it to our wedding night.”

“That's the idea… “

“I promised your parents we would wait,” he said. “Your father agreed to let us marry on Lammas day.”

“What if I don't want to wait?" She slid her hand down his back to the ticklish spot just beneath the beltline of his pants.

“I know you don't want to wait, little imp,” he said. “But you will. I gave your parents my word."

“And how will you do that when all you want to do is to make love to me?" She rubbed her thigh against the bottom of his testicles. They spasmed so hard he thought he would lose it on the spot, clothing or no clothing.

“The same way I always do."

With a laugh, he carried her up into the sky where she loved to soar. It was the only way to distract her, and himself, from doing what they both wanted to do.

“Kiss me,” she murmured as the wind whistled past them in flight.

All was right with the world. So he did.

Chapter 72

July – 3,390 BC

Earth:  Village of Assur

Jamin

A crowd of villagers thronged into the central square. In their midst, the winged demon's archers marched in formation, quivers and bows draped across their backs as though they thought they were ancient heroes of yore. They were led by the youngest member of their group, Pareesa, an arrogant little snit who had, of lately, begun to get too big for her britches. Four ducks dangled from her hand, their blood still dripping as though she were some ancient goddess of the hunt. Her dark hair had been tied up off of her neck and she wore her shawl belted high around her thighs as though it were a man's kilt, not the proper shawl dress Ubaid women wore. She strode towards them, her face deceptively innocent as she gave them a coy look as though to communicate, 'hah!'

“Look at all those ducks,” Firouz said.

“So many,” Dadbeh said. “They’ve got … what? Two each?”

“Three,” Firouz said.

Jamin scowled. “What the hell do they want?”

Villagers danced around the group, asking about the ducks each archer carried in both hands. His worst fears were answered when they marched right up to his father's door and pounded until the Chief came out. Alalah held out one of the ducks like an offering to She-who-is.

“We wanted to thank you for letting us learn archery,” Alalah said, “by presenting you with the first tangible fruits of our efforts.”

“Why … thank you!" Chief Kiyan's face brightened at the sight of his newest, and until a few moments ago, his most questionable investment of village resources. He took the two fat ducks from Alalah’s hands. “Please tell Mikhail I said thank you.”

“We will,” Alalah said.

Jamin rubbed the stiffness in his back, particularly sore  after the particularly brutal session training he'd run his warriors through using their spears.

"The only reason they're doing this is to gain favor with my father!" Jamin hissed. The man was a fool to be so easily flattered.

“Maybe we should learn to use the bow,” Dadbeh said.

“Can you teach us, Jamin?” Firouz asked.

The two warriors looked to him to teach them, the way they always had since they'd all been naught but boys.

“It's a waste of time!” Jamin said. “Look. They’re just little sticks you can break with one hand. We are learning to use real weapons!" He held out the sturdy spear he'd used to hunt lions, fierce beasts worthy of a man’s investment of time! Of all the village warriors, only he had ever taken down a lion alone.

“Those weapons look real to me,” Kiarash said. “And those are definitely real ducks.”

“There is a big difference between shooting tiny ducks who can't defend themselves,” Jamin said, “and an armed assailant. Don't forget why we train in the first place!”

The warriors nodded. While only Kiarash had been a warrior long enough to witness the particularly brutal battles that had occurred in the time of their grandfathers, they'd had many skirmishes against the Halifians and Uruk to their south.

Siamek leaned into him and kept his voice low.

“We should at least look into this weapon?" Siamek said. “Even if it's only a toy. It makes us look bad if the girls are the only ones putting meat upon the table.”

“Who would have thought a bunch of giggly girls could hunt like that?” Tirdard said with unbridled admiration.

“You just say that because Yadidatum is one of the archers,” Dadbeh teased, elbowing the youngest of their group.

“Oh, Yadidatum,” Firouz said in a mock-low voice. “Let me insert my arrow into your lovely bow."

Firouz grabbed his manhood and pretended to aim it like an arrow, straight at where the curvaceous Yadidatum stood showing one of the villagers how to aim.

“Ahh, yes, brave Tirdard,” Dadbeh said in a high mock-female voice. He tilted his pelvis towards Firouz’s ‘arrow.' “Such a big, firm arrow you have. String it right here. Ahh! Ahh! Ahhhhh!”

The other warriors laughed. Jamin scowled, not thinking it was very funny. His authority was being usurped by a bunch of girls!

“When you think about it,” Kiarash grunted. “It makes sense. So long as they carry those bows, our women won't be easy targets. My daughters are yet young, but I shall find out if I can get Alalah to give them lessons."

As the oldest warrior of the group, Kiarash often took a longer view of things. His father's spy, that's what Kiarash was! The man his father had tasked with babysitting Jamin and the other warriors he led. Well if his father's judgment was compromised insofar as the winged demon was concerned, than so was his spy!

“It's a waste of time,” Jamin said. “All I hear are complaints from their husbands and parents that while they are off in the woods shooting sticks at trees, they are not doing the cooking and cleaning!”

“And that differs from our families complaining we don't have time to do our manly duties … how?" Kiarash gave him a pointed look.

“They are women,” Jamin said. “It’s all good and well to shoot at helpless little ducks. Another altogether to keep your cool when a man runs after you with a spear.”

“Yeah,” the younger warriors agreed.

“They will panic and run the first time we need to rely upon them." Siamek said. “It’s great they can help put food on the table, but to rely upon them to watch our backs during battle would be a fatal mistake. Do you really think a woman will creep up on our enemies and take them out just as they're about to gut us alive?”

Jamin grabbed his spear and stalked over to the onlookers buzzing around the archers like curious bees. His warrior troop closed ranks behind him as a good troop always should be.

“With one of these,” Jamin bragged, “I can take down an auroch or a wild boar. Not just some scrawny bird.”

“And when was the last time you brought home one of those?” Pareesa shot back. “Oh … I forgot … last September. It's a good thing your father doesn't rely upon you for meat or he would starve to death!”

Jamin's cheek twitched as an overwhelming rage roared out of his subconscious and screamed 'hit her!' Last September, he'd been laying on his deathbed, lingering between life and death from a gore-wound to his gut. How dare this little bitch make fun of him! He clenched his fist at his side as he caught the warning glance from his father.

“Ahh … little fairy,” the Chief laughed. “What a fierce little huntress you've turned into. I hope all the women in the village follow your example.”

Hatred welled in Jamin’s gut as his father turned his back on him and gave Pareesa a hug, affection he hadn't received from the man since the day his mother had died. The moment the Chief looked the other way, Pareesa rolled her eyes at him. The little snit knew exactly what she was doing!

“It's our pleasure to present you with this token of our gratitude,” Behnam grinned. The toothless old man held up several ducks strung together upside down by their feet.

“Thank you." The Chief turned to the crowd. “Everybody … look! Anybody, no matter how young or old, male or female, can become a skilled provider with these new weapons. I hope more of you will invest the time to learn to use them.”

“I want to learn,” Varshab, one of the fiercest warriors from his father’s generation and the Chief's enforcer said. “Alalah … is it too late to join?”

“It's never too late,” Alalah said. “Mikhail trained twelve archers to teach others in allied villages. Since there are too many to teach himself, we will help teach anyone who wants to learn how to use this weapon. Including children. It's the future of warfare.”

"Aha!" Kiaresh said. The older warrior broke rank and headed over to talk to the woman who was approximately the same age as him.

“Not to mention it's a damned handy skill to put supper on the table." Gisou held up her ducks. “No more dried salted meat!”

By this time, the entire village had piled into the square. The conversation turned to whether or not villagers could find the time to train. The archers spoke of performing exercises while carrying buckets of water and raking their fields.

Jamin scowled. This incident had cost him face and his own warriors slithered into the crowd to where Orkedeh and Alalah recruited villagers for the next round of lessons. Pareesa sauntered up to him like a cat taunting the family dog, confident the dog would not dare growl with the master looking on, and stuck out her tongue. Something inside of him snapped.

“You shall not mock me so!"

Jamin swung at her, intent on slapping the smirk off of the little snit's face. Pareesa danced out of the way, unafraid like any other woman should be. Her high, sweet little girl's voice carried above the din of the gathered villagers as she scrunched up her face and laughed at him.

Pareesa thought this was funny?

His vision turned red as his hands clenched into a fist. He swung at her once more, this time intending to punch the little bitch in the face and knock her onto her ass.

“You will not do that in my village!"

Jamin suddenly found his arm twisted up behind his back in a move so painful it bent him all the way down to the ground. He yelped, unable to break the hold which had him incapacitated. His father. Had intervened. He fought and was unsuccessful at breaking his father’s hold. He kicked back, amazed his father was still stronger than he was.

“Get in the house!” the Chief shoved him towards the front door. “Now!"

Varshab moved to back his father, a large, silent troll who forever watched Chief Kiyan's back. A twitter undulated through the crowd. Whispers offended his ears that it was about time the Chief had taught him who was boss. Mortified and fuming, Jamin skulked into the house.

The crowd dissipated. He expected to be beaten told to do some horrible, unpleasant task such as empty out every chamber pot in Assur and use it to fertilize the fields. What he didn't expect was the look of defeat on his father's face as he came in and plunked down on a cushion, not even waiting for Jamin to be seated as was their custom during a disciplinary proceeding.

“Jamin,” his father's expression was weary. “Your behavior concerns me. To be a good leader, you must also be tolerant and wise. You're too much of a hothead. It's far past the time to learn a little restraint.”

“She disrespected me!” Jamin said. “If you don't demand respect, pretty soon you won't have a village!”

His father stared down at his hands, making a tented triangle, and then tapping it to his lips.

“The Ubaid have held onto these lands not only because we are strong,” his father said. “But because we treat others fairly. We must form good relationships within our own village and outside of it with the tribes around us. You must learn to do both –if- you want to be chief.”

“Only the strongest is fit to be chief!” Jamin said. “I'm the strongest warrior you have.”

“If strength alone is all it takes,” his father shook his head, “than you will never be chief. Like it or not, you're no longer the best warrior this village has.”

Jamin exploded. He jabbed his finger into his seated father's face.

“Are you saying you've replaced your own son with a demon?”

“You haven't been replaced,” his father sighed. “But if you believe the strongest, the fastest, and the best warrior should be chief, then you're no longer the man for the job. This village needs a leader, not a bully. To be a leader, you need more than pure brute force.”

The wind gusted through the open window. 'He is right, favored one. You must learn temperance…'

“I will be chief!” Jamin shouted above the voice carried in the wind. “Me! I was born to it.”

“Perhaps….” the chief shook his head. “But I've allowed you to become arrogant in that assumption. I have failed you. All I can do now is teach you what I should have been teaching you all along.”

Jamin stormed out of the house, ignoring his father's calls, out past the gates of the village to where the livestock pens ended and their fields began. Shahla waited, likely waiting to hook up with one of the other warriors. It had been a long, dry spell. He was done mourning the loss of his unfaithful fiancé!

“Shahla!” he greeted. “I haven't seen you in ages. How have you been?" He reached out and tucked a loose strand of her hair behind one ear, a gesture he knew she found irresistible.

“I'm okay." Shahla glanced over his shoulder, no doubt watching for whoever she waited for. “How have you been?”

“I have missed you." He lowered his voice as he stepped into her personal space. He knew from past experience how badly Shahla craved to be held. “I almost made the biggest mistake of my life. Thank the gods I came to my senses.”

“I thought you loved Ninsianna!" Shahla's voice grew caustic.

“My father wished to improve his standing by forcing me to marry into the second highest-ranking household in the village,” Jamin said. “Immanu has no son and Ninsianna has inherited both his gifts and those of her mother. My father wished to tie her to our village before some distant tribe stole her away. It's how her mother ended up here instead of Gasur.”

It was not a lie. It had been the argument he'd used to get his father to order Ninsianna to marry him.

“Well my family is the third highest ranking family in the village," Shahla jabbed her finger in his face in a way she had never before dared. "And my father has more money than your father does from his trading.  Why should I believe you now?”

Those were the arguments he had given his father before his father had forbade him to create an alliance to the slippery Laum. Of course, that was before he'd found out Shahla had lain down with every warrior in the village, a thought which now filled him with revulsion.

“Because you love me,” Jamin said. “I have realized it's better to have true love than to trade my happiness to please my father."

He only felt a slight twinge of remorse at the lie. It was not totally a lie. Shahla did love him … or more precisely … she loved the prospect of hitching her star to his future position of power. And he had realized the next time he allowed himself to fall in love, he would only let down his guard with someone who loved him back. That person just didn't happen to be Shahla, who only wanted to be a future chief's wife.

Shahla wrapped her hands around the back of his head and pulled him down for a kiss.

“Oh, Jamin! I missed you.”

He dragged her behind the goat shed, but even as she willingly disrobed, she was not the person he wanted to fuck. Even now, he couldn't bear the thought of touching anyone except the woman he'd spent every waking moment obsessing about since the day he'd awoken gored by an auroch. He shoved Shahla into the dirt and took her from the rear so he wouldn't have to see her face. He pictured it was Ninsianna he fucked instead of this village strumpet and he wanted to hurt her. He wanted to hurt Ninsianna the way that she'd hurt him! He pushed into Shahla, roaring as he found release.

Shahla skittered away from him, clutching her shawl-dress to her chest. He'd always enjoyed rough sex, but this was the first time he'd ever hurt a woman. Shahla’s shawl was filthy and her cheek bled where he'd shoved it into the ground. She cringed from his touch, crying. Every warrior in the village had fucked Shahla, but her tears tugged at his heartstrings, making him regret what he'd done. Gita was right. He'd mistreated Shahla every bit as badly as Ninsianna had mistreated him.

“Don't you love me even a little?” Shahla wept.

Jamin opened his mouth and shut it again, unable to say the words. He couldn't make eye contact as he tried to force the lie out of his mouth and couldn't make the sound expel.

“It's complicated,” he whispered. “My father …”

“It's all that winged demon's fault!" Shahla clutched his face, forcing him to make eye contact. “You need to get both of them out of this village, Ninsianna and her winged lover. You need to strike at the heart of your enemy before he ends up ruling this tribe!”

Strike at the heart of his enemy…

The plan Jamin had been percolating ever since he'd spoken to the Halifian leader bubbled to the surface. Shahla might not be the woman he loved, but she'd always been unwavering in her support. Would it be so awful if he formed an alliance of convenience for the sake of the tribe?

“You're everything I could ask for in a wife." His heart screamed ‘no’ as he took her into his arms and said the words he knew she wanted to hear. “Someday, when I am chief, we can have many fine sons together.”

Shahla burst into tears. “You really love me?”

“Why do you think I can't keep my hands off of you?” he evaded. “But so long as that demon feeds my father delusions of grandeur, this is all we can ever have.”

“Wh-What can I do to help?” Shahla asked between sobs.

Yes. What could she do to help? He knew exactly what she could do to help. The tribe had no idea he'd met with the Halifian leader. The people of the desert had bragged they could make easy money catching females foraging for wild grains in the underbrush and selling them to the Amorites, and Jamin happened to know of a certain group of females that liked to go into the bush every day to shoot little sticks at squirrels. Females who had sided with a certain winged demon and, perhaps, could lure him into an ambush?

“Let me know the next time one of the archers goes hunting,” he said. “Especially that mouthy little snit, Pareesa. I'll take care of the rest.”

Shahla sniffled and nodded affirmation. She reached down to caress his dick. If he closed his eyes and pretended it was Ninsianna, he could perform a second time. This time, he pretended he whispered words of love into Ninsianna’s ears, that it was her soft breasts he cupped in his hands, her lips whispering sweet nothings into his ears, her feminine mysteries he slid into as he brought Shahla up for an orgasm and made her cry out in release. He exhaled her name as his heart reached into the void no woman could ever fill. Ninsianna. The woman he had loved and lost…

Or maybe not…  If there was one thing he'd learned from meeting with Marwan, it was how to set up a merry goose chase so you could hit the real target…

Chapter 73

Galactic Standard Date:  152,323.07

Haven-4:  Galactic Youth Training Academy

Colonel Raphael Israfa

Raphael

Raphael found the Alliance’s most formidable general in the quarantine chamber, reduced to a crumpled pile of sobbing feathers. She sat there, rocking their infant son, praying to She-who-is to spare his life. It was a surreal juxtaposition, the cold, sterile Angelic nursery, the sobbing mother, and the IV’s, monitors, wires, and other equipment hooked up to the tiny baby clinging to life in his mother’s arms. She'd wrapped her wings around herself and their son, enveloping him in her soft, downy feathers as she instinctively tried to shield him as she sobbed helplessly upon the floor.

“Jophie,” he was hardly able to speak through the lump that threatened to burst his throat. “I am here.”

Jophiel cried harder, pulling her wings around herself. He sat beside her, pulling her and the son he'd never met into his embrace. Jophiel shifted one wing so he could move closer. He shifted his other to complete the feathered cocoon. Their wings touched in front as they shielded their baby from whatever force was trying to take him from them. Raphael's golden feathers interlocked with her snowy white ones in a basket weave of parental protection.

“Hey, little guy,” he murmured, seeing his son in person for the first time. “Daddy is here." He touched Uriel's tiny hands and was glad the baby grasped one finger. He was tiny for a 4-month-old, thin and discolored like a child who had not eaten for months. Anger surged through his veins at the sorry state of his son. Why hadn't the nursery alerted them sooner?

“He won’t eat….” Jophiel sobbed. “All he does is cry. They call it the wasting sickness. It's become common amongst the hybrid races and they don't know why." She rested her head upon his shoulder. "All our great technology, and they don't even know what causes it!”

“Shhhh…." He kissed her temple. “Who knows what purpose She-who-is has? But it's not your fault. You were only doing what our Emperor demanded.”

Jophiel rested her head upon his shoulder, her eyes red-rimmed from nonstop crying. Uriel's chest heaved in hiccups as he fought to inhale each and every breath. His tiny wings twitched as though some great pain wracked his little body. Raphael fought back tears as he, himself, tried to keep things together for her, for his son, for himself. He knew if he succumbed to the emotions threatening to overwhelm him, he would fall into a pit of despair so deep he might never find his way out.

“Does the Emperor know?"

Did the Emperor they served even care about the pending expiration of so tiny a cog in the wheels of his great Alliance?

“I don't know,” she sighed. “Even if he did, there is nothing he could do for him.”

“I thought…”

“Contrary to popular belief, the Eternal Emperor is neither omniscient nor omnipotent!" Bitterness marred her voice. “He is powerful. And a great geneticist. But he doesn't have the power to grant life. That power is reserved to She-who-is.”

“I wouldn't know,” Raphael said. “I have only ever seen him once, at a distance. I just thought….”

“The Emperor will do nothing to help us!” Jophiel exclaimed. “I begged him to let me retire. I have borne the Alliance twelve babies and given them all over to him without question. I didn't want to give this one up, Raphael! I didn’t! But if -I- refuse to replenish our race, the other females will follow suit!"

Sobbing, she buried her face into Raphael's shoulder.

"Damn him! Damn him and his shortsightedness in creating a race of beings that would breed itself into extinction!!!”

Drawing her close, Raphael rocked with her, both parents instinctively breathing each labored breath along with their tiny son as fought to cling to life.

Chapter 74

Galactic Standard Date:  152,323.07 AE

Ascended Realms

Asclepius – an old god

Asclepius

“Asclepius, I have a favor to ask…”

“What is it, old friend?"

Asclepius reached out with the neutrinos comprising his consciousness to mingle with his fellow old god. Despite being an ascended being, Hashem had chosen to remain bogged down in the heavier, semi-corporeal state of the material realm. It took a long time, in ascended deity terms, to communicate with his brethren. Asclepius waited for Hashem to finish pulling his physical form through the barrier that separated matter from what mortals called the spirit-world.

“You're a physician,” Hashem said. “I need your help.”

“You know it's forbidden for me to interfere unless I descend, like you,” Asclepius said. “But perhaps I could answer questions. What do you need?”

“I need help saving the life of a small child,” Hashem said. “I'm a geneticist, not a physician. I can improve life from its building blocks, but I'm not good at saving life it if things go wrong. The child is dying.”

“You were warned when you spliced together your armies that there would be consequences,” Asceplius said. "The species were genetically incompatible. You should have followed your own dogma and allowed them to evolve those traits naturally."

“The child is innocent,” Hashem said. “I don't believe SHE would hold a tiny infant responsible for my mistakes.”

“Who is this child?” Asceplius asked.

“The son of my highest ranking general,” Hashem said. “He has the wasting sickness. We haven't been able to figure out why some children simply lose the will to live.”

Asceplius sighed, pondering how much to tell. Integrated into the consciousness of She-who-is, fully ascended beings began to approach omniscience. Not true omniscience, as the knowledge they had access to was either via their own connections, or those belonging to the goddess. But it was close enough that whenever they focused their thoughts upon a single problem, all available information sprang into their minds unless, for some reason, SHE did not know or wished to keep that information secret.

“Why do you choose to remain in an in-between state when you could have the power other ascended beings possess?” Asclepius asked, not for the first time.

“Each galaxy has old gods who refuse to leave,” Hashem said. “It’s not like she prevents me from ascending.”

“Unlike that old rascal Shay’tan!” Asclepius snorted. "It tickles HER fancy to keep a dragon for a pet!"

“You could always descend,” Hashem suggested. “I would really enjoy some company down there. It's lonely being the only ascended being in the galaxy besides Shay’tan.”

“And I would pay the same price you have paid,” Asclepius said. “Ignorance. It takes time to pull a physical form back and forth between the realms. I don't like being disconnected from the stream-of-consciousness of She-who-is.”

“Will you help me?" Hashem's thought patterns approached a state of pleading. “I have gone and botched things and now the child of my only real friend is paying the price.”

“She-who-is wouldn't target a child for your meddling,” Asclepius said. “It’s not like you're the only old god who amuses himself by dabbling in the material realms.”

“I don't think SHE will mind if you enlighten me,” Hashem said. “Do you have any idea what causes the wasting sickness?”

“When you created your armies,” Asceplius said. “You created physical shells enticing enough to lure spiritual consciousnesses out of the upper realms to finish evolving. When you did so, you bound yourself, and them, to the rules of the material realm.”

“I don't understand,” Hashem said. “What does that have to do with the wasting sickness?”

“Why do you refuse to leave your naturally evolved subjects to fend for themselves?” Asceplius asked.

“They are like my own children,” Hashem said. “To abandon them like you and the others have done … I just couldn't.”

“Then why do you demand that the beings you created do what you, yourself refuse to do?” Asceplius scolded. “They incarnated back into mortal form to experience the pleasures of the material realm … and then you turned around and denied it to them. They are not cattle to be bred for slaughter so you can perpetuate your own military might!”

“But the hybrids face extinction,” Hashem said. “Within three generations, they will die out. I lost the root race.”

“If I tell you how to save this child,” Asceplius warned, “there will be consequences. What Jophiel does, the others will follow.”

“If her child dies,” Hashem said. “It will have the same result. Jophiel begged me not to give up this child. She wishes to be with the father and raise him as her ancestors did before inbreeding became a problem. If the child dies, I'll lose her anyways.”

“The inbreeding is your own fault,” Asceplius scolded. “The hybrid races lived naturally until your constant intrigues with Shay’tan forced them all into the military. Is it any wonder the lifesparks are refusing to inhabit the shells you offer them anymore?”

“How can I fix this problem?” Hashem asked.

“As you're so fond of saying, old friend,” Asceplius answered, “It's your choice. You must decide whether to allow Jophiel to follow her heart, or allow her child to die so that you can maintain the status quo. Either way, the current course is unsustainable.”

“Jophiel is like a daughter to me,” Hashem said. “I choose to pay the price. How do I solve this problem?”

“You created the hybrids out of mammals,” Asceplius said. “Mammals will choose starvation over the denial of physical comfort. In your effort to maintain genetic diversity, you have forgotten this fact. You separated them from each other, into cold, sterile environments, until the most physical amongst them have started to waste away.”

Hashem pondered the solution Asceplius suggested.

“I could never understand this need to be touched,” Hashem said. “But I see it in my experiments all the time. I have spliced together countless perfect adaptations, only to have them die when their parents reject them.”

Asclepius resisted the urge to chastise Hashem about his cluelessness. The other old gods jokingly called Hashem a trans-dimensional alien. Never been in the material realms before, didn't 'get' it. Hashem spent too much time living in his own head and not enough in the ‘real’ world even though he'd chosen to linger in the material realm. It was rumored that She-who-is had paired the not too 'street-smart' Hashem to play against the earthy Shay’tan on a wager with the Dark Lord.

“You can't deny physical beings love,” Asclepius said. “That's why they accepted your offer to descend in the first place, and that's why they are now declining your offer now, no matter how tempting the mortal shells you offer them to inhabit.”

“Either way, the hybrid races are doomed to die out,” Hashem said. “Your way just means it will happen sooner.”

“Shay’tan has within his grasp the solution to your problem." Asceplius hoped She-who-is wouldn't be upset he'd volunteered that last little tidbit of information. Hashem and Shay'tan were not the only gods who liked to play chess...

“What?” Hashem asked. “Please explain…”

“It's forbidden to discuss this,” Asceplius said. “I have already said too much.”

Hashem understood the code words ‘It's forbidden.' The old gods had developed such code amongst themselves when they needed to divulge a piece of information that She-who-is, or more importantly, He-who’s-not, might not approve of. It meant ‘pay attention to what I just said because it's important.’

“And the child?" Hashem pretended he hadn't heard.

“Tell the parents they must care for their son themselves,” Asceplius said.

“Can’t you help?” Hashem asked. “You were, after all, once a physician?”

“You know that interference is forbidden,” Asclepius said. “I don't want to anger HIM.”

Asclepius sensed the ripple of fear which radiated through his old friend's consciousness at the mere mention of HIS name. It was not She-who-is who forbade all use of ascended powers in the material realms, but the Guardian, He-who’s-not. Anyone who caused more than the tiniest ripple in the fabric of consciousness of the universe would have to deal with HIM.

Hashem released his hold on the ascended realms. It took an enormous act of will to cram a consciousness as big as his across the barriers which separated time and space. The other old gods would never admit it, but they admired him. If and when Hashem decided to stop mucking around in the real world, he would prove a formidable contestant for his own universe.

As would Shay’tan. Oooh … scary thought…

Asclepius focused his consciousness towards the child. Its parents huddled together, breathing along with their dying son as he struggled to take every breath. Asclepius took pity on them. Just because he'd long ago shed his material form didn't mean he couldn't remember what it had been like to feel pain. It was just a nudge...

Reaching out with his mind, he directed a tiny tendril of consciousness into that part of the infant's body that struggled to hold onto the lifespark and strengthened it. Small enough that HE wouldn't notice.

Let Hashem do the rest … and pay the price.

Chapter 75

July -  3,390 BC

Earth:  Village of Assur

Colonel Mikhail Mannuki’ili

Mikhail

He'd just barely begun to drift off to sleep when he heard a frantic pounding on the door.

“Mikhail! Wake up!!!”

It took him a moment to recognize Gisou's voice, one of his archers. Rolling out of his cot and knocking aside the curtain which separated it from the main living quarters, he hurried to yank open the door. Before him stood the normally giggly Gisou, her shawl-dress ripped and dirty and her hair disheveled as though somebody had tried to rip it out.

“Gisou? What happened.”

“They have Pareesa!!!” Gisou threw herself into his arms. “They grabbed us on our way home from the bush a few miles upriver. I think … I think I shot one of them!”

The others came up behind him.

“Mikhail, what is wrong?” Immanu asked.

“They got Pareesa!" Mikhail said. A cold, familiar chill settled into his body, instructing him what to do even though he couldn't remember ever having taken the training. He peeled the frantic young woman off of his chest and grabbed her by the shoulders, bending to make eye contact with her so she would stop sobbing and tell him what he needed to know. “Gisou … how long ago?”

“We were in the woods tracking deer when they ambushed us,” Gisou blubbered. “They dragged us with them, but then Pareesa untied my bindings and I got away. I had to hide until they gave up looking for me before I could run back to summon help.”

"How far?"

"I'm not sure," Gisou said, "perhaps three hours run."

“How many men were there?” Mikhail asked. "And what tribe did they belong to?"

“There were eight, maybe nine, of them." Gisou wrapped her arms around herself. “They had three women with them. Tied up. I didn't recognize what tribe. I don't think they were Ubaid.”

Needa pushed past his wings and took the trembling girl into her arms, shooting him a stern look when he started to object and insist he needed to debrief her.

“Come inside, dear." Needa led the frantic girl indoors and sat her down at the table. “Ninsianna … get that blanket.”

“Did you see which direction they headed?” Mikhail asked.

“I think they were heading into the hills,” Gisou said. “I speak a little Halifian. I overheard the leader say something about meeting with slave traders. I think they are planning an attack.”

“Immanu,” Mikhail ordered. “Go warn the Chief we have raiders on our perimeter. Ninsianna…" He hesitated, that part of him that loved her not willing to do what that part of him which had trained her needed her to do.

"Shall I get my bow?" Ninsianna asked, her golden eyes filled with a combination of fear and excitement.

"Go wake up the other archers," Mikhail said reluctantly. "You may need to provide cover for our warriors if they attempt to raid the village. Take a position on a rooftop like we discussed so you are not within a direct shot of enemy bows. You will be in charge.”

Ninsianna followed him back to his cot and watched as he grabbed his pulse rifle and sword from underneath his bed. “Where will you be?"

Mikhail began to utter clicking meditations in the Cherubim language, the meditations so deeply ingrained into his psyche that even memory loss had not been able to erase them from his mind. The meditations about how to kill. His blood turned into ice as his training kicked in and transformed him from an Angelic soldier into a Cherubim assassin.

Some part of his mind watched himself prepare for battle with detached curiosity, the Cherubim training to separate his ability to feel from his ability to think giving him an edge over an ordinary soldier. Young girl or trained archer, the raiders had taken one of his own. He would get her back. His only concession to emotion was to pause long enough to kiss Ninsianna before leaping over the threshold, into the air, and into the light of the waxing moon to search for his littlest archer.

“The gods will have no mercy on the ones who took Pareesa,” Immanu's words filtered after him into the wind.

Chapter 76

July – 3,390 BC

Earth:  Village of Assur

Ninsianna

They came at them not from the direction Gisou had encountered Pareesa’s captors, but a much larger band attempting to raid the houses at the western edge of the village. As had happened in the other villages, attackers peppered the defenders with arrows to push them back a safe distance while a second group tried to gain access by giving each other a hands-up over the outermost walls. The Chief's intelligence indicated they always attacked at night, while people slept, so that the villagers wouldn't have time to organize a defense. If not for Gisou’s warning...

"Light the arrows!"

Ninsianna gave the signal. Small bursts of fire ignited from the other rooftops where the archers crouched, dipping arrows wrapped in a thin rag soaked with tallow into clay pots with live coals. The Halifians may have discovered the weapons first, but Mikhail had taught them to create 'tracer arrows' only within the last few days, a strategy which had never occurred to the raiders. Ninsianna drew her bow back to her cheek, her arm aimed high so that the descending arrows would land in the midst of the advancing raiders. The other archers followed suit. Her arm trembled, wrent with tension from the bowstring.

"Shoot!" Ninsianna shouted. She loosened her fingertips the tiniest bit so the movement wouldn't cause her aim to go amiss. On either side the other archers did the same. The whoosh of arrows sounded like the goddess' breath, the wind, followed by the screams of injured and dying men.

"Again!"

She pulled another arrow from her quiver, a regular one this time, and led the archers through a second volley, and then a third. The fiery rags betrayed the attacker's nighttime position. Unfortunately, she and the archers were still awkward with their inexperience … or how many arrows they'd carved to fill their quivers.

"I wish Pareesa was here," Yadiditum shouted. "She's our best archer!"

"Pareesa, nothing!" Homa said as she restrung her bow. "I wish Mikhail was here!"

"Keep shooting!" Ninsianna shouted, but cover fire could only do so much. With shouts of rage, the Halifians slew the three Assurians defending the narrow alley between the outermost row of houses built wall-to-wall to create a barrier from just such an attack and poured through the gap like scarab beetles swarming a carcass in the desert.

"They're inside the village!" Alalah shouted.

Ninsianna looked from the Halifians swarming both sides of the rooftop where the archers were perched and made a decision. She didn't need the whispers of She-who-is to realize they were about to be trapped.

“Fall back!” Ninsianna shouted as the warriors retreated. “Alalah, Orkedeh, that roof over there! Take Kiana with you.”

Old Behnam crept up to her, elbow over elbow on the woven reed mats which covered the roof.

“I suggest three groups,” Behnam said. “I'll take that rooftop there. The mud brick crenellation should provide a bit of cover."

Ninsianna gave him a grateful nod. Behnam might be old, but until he'd become too frail to fight hand-to-hand, he'd been a warrior of her grandfather Lugalbanda's generation and also one of the few men in the village who had ever indulged Ninsianna's curiosity about the art of warfare until Mikhail had come to their village. His suggestions were welcome.

“Yadidatum! Homa. Follow Behnam,” Ninsianna shouted. “Gisou, you’re with me!”

They ran along the rooftops, the houses of the outer ring built so that the wall of one house met the next one to create an impenetrable outer wall, until they reached a place they could descend safely. One by one, they scurried down the pine log leaning against the side of the house, branch nubs left intact to make a ladder, and ran to the new positions she'd determined was the best place to make a second stand. They scurried up ladders to their new perches on rooftops on the next ring of houses across the street and resumed shooting cover fire.

"Ninsianna, we're almost out of arrows!" someone shouted.

Ninsianna took the next shot, and then the one after it before her quiver came up empty. She looked around, frantic to find something to shoot at the men who fought hand-to-hand against the raiders in the street below. She heard a noise whipped the bow around even though she had no arrows left to fire. Her breath came out as a pounding exhalation as she recognized Pareesa’s nine-year-old brother Namhu skittering up onto the roof carrying a quiver of his sister's arrows and a miniature bow.

"Namhu!" Ninsianna scolded. "Don't come up behind us announced!"

“I just thought Pareesa would want you to have these," Namhu said. The boy handed her the extra arrows, his expression apologetic.

“Thank you!” Ninsianna said, giving silent thanks to She-who-is.

“I can help you fight,” Namhu said eagerly. “Pareesa taught me.”

In spite of what was happening on the ground below, Ninsianna smiled. She opened her mouth to tell the boy he was too young, and thought better of it. That was not what Mikhail would do.

“Yes,” Ninsianna said. “You can help us fight. You have younger sisters at home, don't you?”

“Four of them,” Namhu said. "And a baby sister!"

“These men will try to steal them,” Ninsianna said. “Go home and tell them Mikhail wants them hide in your grain cellar. If they come after you, kill them, but don't shoot at them unless they find your hiding place. Do you think you can do that for me?”

“Yes,” Namhu said.

She held her breath as the boy skittered back down the ladder amongst warriors fighting for their lives and stray Halifian arrows to make his way home. Words of the Song of the Sword came into her mind, the part about raising armies from the dust. Yes. You didn't get much closer to raising armies from dust than recruiting a nine-year-old boy to do a man’s job, or at least sending him home to defend his family if the men failed. The Halifians had a long history of taking children for ransom or even selling them into slavery.

She watched her Papa fight the attackers hand-to-hand with the other warriors from the ground. He got off a few good shots before the attackers got too close to effectively use the weapon. Both sides switched to more traditional methods of fighting, hand-to-hand combat.

Conversations she'd listened to between Mikhail and her father about the need to fortify village defenses came into her mind. Through his eyes, she could now see all the places he'd warned them that they were weak, but in their arrogance, they'd bragged that no one had ever breached Assur's walls. She watched their warriors get beaten back by Halifian mercenaries, who had constant experience performing raids. In such close quarters, it was difficult to shoot the enemy without accidently shooting one of their own villagers. She didn't want to hit her own people.

She wondered where Mikhail had gone and if he had found Pareesa.

Chapter 77

July – 3,390 BC

Earth:  Outside Assur

Colonel Mikhail Mannuki’ili

Mikhail

The cry of a small animal, its sleep disturbed by a clumsy foot, betrayed the enemy's position. The last time they'd done battle, Mikhail's wing had been broken. It never occurred to them to look up as a dark shadow obscured the moon and an avenging Angelic swooped down from the sky, sword drawn, like a terrifying bird of prey.

No memory was necessary to do what what his body had been trained to do since boyhood. Memory did not matter in this heightened state of battle readiness, only sensation; not feeling, but a larger, more expansive sense of simply knowing. Muttering the Cherubim meditations which separated his ability to think from his ability to feel as his boots hit the ground, Mikhail flared his wings and crouched, arms in a ready stance to take them on from whichever direction they came at him. Breathe in. Breathe out. Become one with the battlefield. Use senses beyond the normal five.

The subtle glow of the enemy's thoughts preceded their actions like a faint, white echo; a phantasm of intent which had not yet manifested into action. Some part of his mind perceived where their arrows were aimed before the kidnapper's fingers finished drawing their bows. Three arrows came at him simultaneously. He swung upwards and knocked the two deadliest arrows out of the air with his sword, but the third arrow slammed into the tender flesh of his wing.

Pain radiated down into his axial muscles, but the injuries were not sufficient to incapacitate him. He filed the pain impulses away in the back of his mind for processing later. The only data which mattered during battle was how badly the injury would inhibit his ability to fly. Mikhail straightened, showing them they'd been unsuccessful. Swinging his sword in an invitation to bring it on, the enemy hesitated, and then rushed at him all at once.

“Mikhail,” Pareesa cried out. “Look out!”

A fourth man came out of the shadows and rushed at him from the rear. That sixth sense he could only access during battle felt the subtle touch of the fourth attacker's hostile thoughts and the place on his back where the enemy intended to bury his spear. Mikhail spun and cut him down before Pareesa's words even had a chance to register. Warm, red blood splattered onto his his hand.

"May She-who-is welcome you into the Dreamtime," he whispered as he sliced backwards a second time to pierce the kidnapper through the heart and guarantee he was permanently out of the equation

Two more enemies rushed at him with spears. Mikhail snapped one spear with his blade and kicked the enemy in the chest to knock him back into the second man. He grabbed the second spear and used it to skewer both of them as though they were meat set out to roast upon an enormous fire. He felt no emotion as they screamed and writhed, but simply decapitated them to put an end to their suffering.

The three unknown women tied up alongside Pareesa sobbed in terror as the little fairy struggled to get herself free.

Several more enemies came out of the shadows and fired arrows at him, but he could see the intent to release the bowstring before they actually did it. Swinging his sword to create an arc, he knocked the arrows out of the air. One slipped past his sword and thudded into his shoulder, causing more pain than even he could ignore. He whispered the Cherubim prayer for unfeeling, for discipline of the mind, for the ability to choose which stimuli he wished to feel. Work. Methodically. Take out the biggest threat. Ignore your pain. You can attend to your injuries later.

Take … out … the leader.  He leaped after the bowman he calculated was the best shot, cutting him down with one swing of the sword. He cut down a second enemy who rushed at him to defend the first with an obsidian blade. Mission … free Pareesa. He picked up the knife and tossed it to her to cut herself free before turning to deal with the remaining three kidnappers.

They were out of arrows. The enemy came at him with their spears.

The arrow which had lodged in his shoulder inhibited his ability to move. He snapped it off, and then put his sword back into its sheath, beckoning to the trio in a universal gesture of ‘bring it on.' They circled, trying to figure out their best angle of attack. He studied them, watched them, observed the flicker of knowing as their minds replayed various scenarios and then settled upon a course of action. He could see the forward rush of their energy before they even moved. They shouted and all rushed at him at once.

He leaped into the air, flapping his wings to gain just enough height that the three stumbled into each other, off balance as their spears met empty air. He dropped back down and grabbed the first one by the neck, twisting the man's head to snap his neckbones. The second enemy he threw to the ground and pinned his neck beneath one boot, stomping his neck to crush his larynx.

The man gurgled and writhed, unable to catch his breath.

The third enemy came at him a second time with his spear. A ‘whoosh’ cut through the air before Mikhail had a chance to take him out. Pareesa appeared from the shadows, a Halifian bow in her hands as she shot the last raider in the heart with his own arrow.

“That will teach you to kidnap women!” Pareesa hissed at her dying assailant.

She ran towards him, and then stopped and pointed her bow at him, her brown eyes wide with fear as she strung another arrow.

"Mikhail … your eyes…"

That sixth sense of knowing, the one which ruthlessly calculated action, could see no echo of intent in his young mentor's aim. She was frightened. This was a side of him she had never seen.

He tilted his head, unable to recall how to speak her language.

"Osoreru koto wa arimasen," he said in the language which filled his mind. Don't be afraid.

He held up his empty hands to show he'd sheathed his sword.

Pareesa trembled, but stood her ground even though, in her spirit-echo, he could see she only wanted to throw herself into his arms and weep. She was a natural warrior, but she was also a twelve-summer girl. In her eyes, he could see the reflection of his own unearthly blue eyes, no longer just irises in a sea of white, but filled with an internal luminescence. His mind whispered this was normal, that this was part of what he became when the gods wielded him as a weapon, that all was well so long as he never lost control of his anger. He stored the information into that portion of his brain which grasped at patterns to fill in the spots where his memories had been erased. Right now, this detail was unimportant.

Pareesa lowered her arrow.

“I overheard the Halifians say they were sending a larger band to attack Assur," Pareesa said. "I'm okay. You must go and help Ninsianna!”

Without a word, he leaped into the air, ignoring the arrow still stuck in his wing as he raced through the ink-black sky to defend to the woman he loved.

Chapter 78

July – 3,390 BC

Earth:  Outside Assur

Ninsianna

A night owl.

Ninsianna heard a rustle of feathers as her love swooped down from the sky and landed in the attackers midst, his sword already drawn. As he'd done that night at his ship, he cut down his assailants like a scythe harvesting wheat, ensuring with an automatic backstab to the heart or quick decapitation that his attackers wouldn't be getting back up. Leaping into the air when necessary, not only did his wings help him levitate before dropping down to strike again, but they also provided him with two additional fighting limbs, blunt instruments, as though they were clubs.

The first time she'd seen him thus, she had mistaken his efficiency for darkness seizing control of his body, but now that she knew him, her goddess-enlightened eyes saw the pattern to his moves, the smooth choreography of the beautiful killing dance, the ice which ran through his veins as he separated that part of himself that could feel from the part that could kill. His sword sang with delight as it swung through the air and made contact with human flesh. Although his dance was deadly, Ninsianna recognized from the blue light which streamed through his body that he had turned himself into an instrument of HER will.

With Mikhail’s return, new hope kindled in the defenders. The warriors rushed in to engage their attackers once more, having enough sense to stay clear of Mikhail’s arcing silver blade. He stood head and shoulders above them all, a mighty winged oak anchoring her people's resolve, urging them to stand together and fight as an army instead of every man for himself. Ninsianna released arrow after arrow, signaling the archers to provide cover for the tide of Assurians who now teemed forward, the mere sight of the demi-god fighting in their midst giving their warriors heart. Chief Kiyan sensed the shift and directed the flow to block the attackers escape.

The enemy recognized Mikhail was now the greater threat, not the defenders rushing at them with spears. Their leader shouted for his men to regroup and focus on the symbol of Assurian hope, wings flapping as he reaped Halifian lives like stalks of grain.

The Chief had fought enough battles in his lifetime that he recognized the shift in tactics away from killing him to killing Mikhail. The older warriors from his own generation moved solidly behind the Chief, both following and protecting their leader. The Chief was still their secondary target. There were too many enemies surrounding him to come to Mikhail's aid. The Chief turned to his son who battled their enemies with no rhyme, reason, or heart.

"Jamin … provide cover!" The Chief pointed his spear towards Mikhail. Siamek and the younger warriors fell into line behind him, ready to follow Jamin into the thick of battle.

Jamin took a step towards Mikhail, turned into a golem[1] once more, and froze…

Ninsianna could almost see the flashback that leaped into Jamin's mind. Damn! Not only was Mikhail still exposed, but so now was the Chief! Chief Kiyan witnessed his son's hesitation and signaled Siamek to step forward and take over the task. The Halifian mercenary the Chief had been battling moved forward to stab him while he was occupied, stepping out of the cover provided by an Assurian warrior who had been blocking Ninsianna's shot. The pathway suddenly clear, she drew her bow and let the arrow fly, shooting the Chief’s opponent in the heart. The Chief glanced up and met her gaze, nodding appreciation before he moved on to engage the next attacker.

With a shout, Siamek led the younger generation of warriors to fight at Mikhail's side, smart enough to stand out of his flight path as he hacked and whirled. The young men moved with disorganized determination, but with Mikhail moving methodically from the greatest threat to the least talented opponent, their individual skills made up for their lack of coherence. Halifian taunts quickly turned into screams of the dying as the tide of battle turned in favor of the Assurians and the enemy only sought to escape.

Within a matter of heartbeats it was over. Forty-five Halifians and eleven Assurians lay dead. As one wounded Halifian reached for his bow, Mikhail cut him down without so much as a backwards glance.

"Come, we must tend the wounded!" Ninsianna shouted to the other archers.

They climbed down from the rooftops and moved through the carnage to help their wounded warriors. The chief approached Mikhail to thank him.

"Oh, no!" Ninsianna shouted and held up her hand.

Chief Kiyan gave her a puzzled look, still panting from his recent exertions.

“I wouldn't do that if I were you,” she warned.

“I was just going to ...”

Ninsianna pointed to the bodies piled at Mikhail's feet.

“Give him a moment. Once he has calmed down, he will appreciate the sentiment, but not now. Let him be until the blood lust passes from his veins.”

Thankfully Mikhail took to the air without a word, circling the village and keeping watch, no doubt, as his shadow passed repeatedly back and forth across the moon. The villagers came flooding out their houses to help the wounded and grieve for the Assurians who had died. Her father came up behind her and put his hand upon her shoulder.

“You described it,” Papa shook his head. “But I didn't believe it until I saw it for myself. It's as though the gods themselves act through him. Now I understand why the old songs describe his kind as the swords of the gods.”

With the sight granted to her by the goddess, her purpose for sending Mikhail here to reside amongst her people was becoming clearer. The words of the Song of the Sword came into her mind, the meaning of one particular verse so palpable it felt as though the goddess herself was singing the words.

'A sword of the gods to defend the people, and raise armies from the dust…'

“He had help, Papa.” Ninsianna gestured to the warriors and archers who had helped win the battle. “Mikhail has done this before. We haven't. If he hadn't been here, we would have been overrun. You must go to the Chief first thing in the morning and demand he order all of the warriors be trained to fight like that, male or female, young or old.”

“Like Mikhail?”

“Yes.” She felt the thread which energized her whenever she was given a vision by the goddess. “She-who-is sent him to prepare us. The demons that are coming will be a lot worse than these Halifians. Mikhail must prepare us to battle not just men, but demons, because he won't always be here to defend us.”

“But you and he are about to be married!” Papa said.

“And so we shall,” Ninsianna said. She remembered her vision and shivered. “But when the darkest one of all arrives, Mikhail won't be here to defend us. She-who-is has shown me this will be so.”

“But Mikhail loves you,” Papa said. “Why would he not protect you?”

“I don't know why, but he won’t,” Ninsianna said. “She-who-is has shown me that we must learn to defeat these demons ourselves.”

“I'll speak to the Chief,” Papa said. “I sent Kiana to get your mother so she can help our wounded. Go to Mikhail as soon as he lands. I saw an arrow sticking out of his wing.”

Ninsianna’s heart leaped to her throat, but she forced herself to remain calm. “I will find him and bring him home.”

* * * * *

She found him perched on the roof of her parent's home, crouched in the same leopard-like pose he'd assumed that night at the ship. The unearthly ice-blue glow still gleamed in his eyes as he watched her, muttering in the clicking Cherubim language.

With her gift of tongues, Ninsianna now understood the prayers he uttered in the clicking language, begging forgiveness from She-who-is for the lives he'd been forced to reap. Asking HER to guide the souls of his enemies into the dreamtime. Although he killed with frightening efficiency, his gift weighed heavily upon him. The fact that the Cherubim had instilled in him as part of his training mantras dealing with the aftermath of battle indicated that they, too, must be moral creatures.

“I will go inside to get supplies to dress your wounds,” Ninsianna called up to him.

She waited until he made eye contact, his eyes glittering with that internal blue light that she assumed must be every bit as eerie as the golden light that burned within her own eyes whenever She-who-is decided to speak through her. It was an emotionless gaze, but neither cruel nor inhuman. Mikhail gave her a nod.

Ninsianna forced herself to give him a small smile before stepping inside the front door of their house. The moment she got inside, her false sense of bravado shattered. Time. He needed time to go through whatever process these Cherubim had instilled in him to come down off of his blood lust and return to being Mikhail. How long had it taken him the last time? Several hours, perhaps a quarter of a day. She gathered her supplies, lit a lamp, and took a calming breath before going back outside.

“I'm ready for you now,” Ninsianna said. She instinctively knew it would be easier to reach that part of him that was still Mikhail in the Cherubim tongue, perhaps because that was the language of the masters who had turned him into a weapon. “You must come inside because it's too dark out here for me to see.”

Still muttering prayers for forgiveness, he spread his wings and glided down to the earth like a dark shroud, nary a feather rustling as he folded his wings against his back, oblivious to his own pain. His attention was still turned inward, in towards whatever deity he prayed to who was neither this emperor he served nor She-who-is. He didn't make eye contact, although she sensed he was more aware of her presence now than at any time since he'd known her. The energy was still Mikhail … but whatever source of power he drew upon, it was not the energy of She-who-is.

“Inside with you,” she feigned normalcy as she did her best impersonation of her Mama. “At the table. Near the light. Sit down so I can patch you up.”

He ambled inside and sat upon the nearest stool. By the eerie blue glint in his eyes, he was not fully back yet from wherever he went when he entered the killing dance, but she could see the beginnings of emotion. The blue light her goddess-enhanced eyes had seen stream forth like a sunrise during battle waivered, whatever source he channeled no longer necessary in the safety of their home. She had no idea what went on in the larger universe, but if this was how the Cherubim defended the Eternal Emperor, she could see how he'd reigned supreme for thousands of years.

She spoke to reassure him as saw the arrow to the wing wasn't his only injury.

“I must look at this shoulder wound first." She touched above a dark stain in his shirt. "This is dangerously close to where you were wounded before. I may need to put a few stitches in so it doesn't keep opening up.”

She watched the cold lack-of-emotion loosen its hold as the blood-lust drained from his body. Touching his shirt, she slipped the neckline far enough aside to confirm the wound was from an arrow which he'd torn out. This was the second time he could have been killed by an object that had landed dangerously close to his heart, but luckily whoever had shot the arrow had possessed little strength in the draw.

“You need to have to take this off so I can get at it,” she tugged at his shirt. “Let me help you?”

His lips moved silently in prayer, praying for the men he'd killed instead of prayers to ease his own pain. He sat passively as she undid the strange fasteners and slipped off his shirt. She quashed a curse as she realized the arrowhead had broken off and imbedded itself into the major pectoral muscle, but thankfully it had not pierced his rib cage. It would be less painful if she removed it now, while he was still under the spell of whatever he did to become an instrument of HER will, than later, when he would feel every awkward dig.

“I need to dig this out.” She touched his cheek to make certain he understood her. “Are you ready?”

Eye contact. The eerie glimmer was still there, but fading. The flowing blue spirit-light had settled inward, no longer visible to her goddess-enhanced eyes except for the glimmer of blue still glittering in his eyes. His prayers had changed, only the occasional word audible. He prayed now for the wisdom to use his gift wisely. She must work quickly, while the coldness of the blue light still shielded his ability to feel. It occurred to her that training warriors not only to kill, but also to dull their own pain, was masterful. These Cherubim must not only be formidable warriors, but also powerful shamans.

“This will hurt." She gave him an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry?”

She pressed her obsidian blade into his flesh and pried out the flint as though she dug a tuber out of the ground. Mikhail exhaled and breathed into the pain. She could feel his muscles quiver beneath her touch, but he kept his expression otherwise blank. The arrowhead made a sucking sound as she pulled it from his flesh. His prayers stopped and started, no longer automatic as he fought to stay on the threshold of the killing dance long enough for her to finish.

“Souvenir,” she placed it on the table. “Now I'll stitch you up. This will hurt, too, but hopefully not as much.”

Mikhail grunted his consent.

Gently touching the old scar beneath the new wound, she suppressed the urge to kiss him. Allowing him to linger in that cold mental place he went after battle would spare him a small amount of the pain she inflicted upon him. Threading her bone needle with horse hair thread, she punctured thirty stitches into his pectoris major where it spanned his shoulder and chest. The muscle trembled beneath her fingertips with each of the thirty stabs, but while his flesh betrayed he was in pain, Mikhail's chiseled features remained distant and stoic.

“I must pull the arrows out of your wings,” she said. “The arrowheads have shot through. If I pull off the fletching, I can pull the shafts the rest of the way through your wings without needing to tear the arrowhead back through your flesh.”

She knew he was fully back by the way he flinched as she touched his wings. The Cherubim had taught him to suppress his pain, but as the coldness wore off, so did his ability to ignore it. He closed his eyes and slowly exhaled as she pulled through first one arrow, and then the other. He didn't utter a single syllable of pain, but by the tremble of feathers beneath her fingertips, the coldness of the killing dance no longer protected him from feeling what she was doing.

Even when not in a meditative killing dance, he had the highest pain tolerance of any person she'd ever met. Plucking out enough feathers to get at the two wounds with her needle, she sewed those up as well. Examining him to see if he had any wounds she'd missed, at last she was satisfied.

“Mikhail,” she placed the palm of her hand upon his cheek. “My parents will be bringing wounded here to treat. You will get no sleep down here in the common area. I want you to sleep in my bed tonight.”

Eye contact. Mikhail nodded, his eyes filled with the pain he refused to let show on his face. The prayers had stopped. He was now fully back. With a sigh, he pulled her into his arms and buried his nose into her neck, only the subtle tremors of his muscles beneath his flesh betraying the emotion he'd been suppressing.

"Ninsianna," he whispered her name. He sounded … exhausted. As if he might fall over.

“Come,” she led him up to her tiny room. “Let’s sleep.”

He curled up behind her as they spooned together in her narrow bed, holding each other as they fell asleep. There was nothing sexual about their first night together. Just two creatures seeking comfort in the arms of the person they loved. Ninsianna sensed as she had that first day on the ship that what he needed more than anything in the world was for her to touch him and let him know he was not alone. Touch would succeed where words failed.

Snuggling her head onto his arm and whispering goodnight, she felt him shiver as he wrapped his arms and wings around her and drew her close.

Chapter 79

Galactic Standard Date:  152,323.07

Haven-4:  Youth Training Academy

Colonel Raphael Israfa

Raphael

Jophiel had fallen asleep, her head resting upon his shoulder. Was it just wishful thinking? Or did Uriel's breathing seem a little easier?

The room suddenly smelled of ozone, as though they were in a forest and a thunderstorm had just passed, scrubbing clean the air. The dust sparkled in one corner of the room even though Raphael could detect no source of light that would cause the strange phenomenon. It took a moment for his mind to recognize what he was seeing, an ascended being coalescing into physical form. Unfurling the golden wing which kept his mate and son cocooned from the world, he witnessed the Eternal Emperor materialize inside the isolation chamber.

“Your eminence,” Raphael tried to extricate himself from Jophiel and the baby without waking them.

Wearing a perfectly ordinary laboratory coat, buttoned up wrong so the collar sat askew, if not for the fact the Emperor's picture adorned every household in the Alliance and his golden eyes, had Raphael not witnessed his mystical appearance, he might have mistaken the Emperor for a doctor.

“Please,” the Emperor gestured, palms-down. “Don't get up. As you were.”

Raphael threw his son’s life at the mercy of the old god.

“Isn’t there anything you can do for him? Please, your eminence. He's just a baby!”

The Eternal Emperor Hashem gave him a weary sigh.

“Contrary to popular belief,” the Emperor said. “I am neither omnipotent, nor omniscient. If I had the power to solve all problems, then problems wouldn't exist."

The Emperor's bushy eyebrows rose high above his golden eyes, making him appear griefstricken. Jophiel had spoken of the Emperor as though he were a trusted father figure as they had lain together in the afterglow of the mating appointment which had given them Uriel, but this was the first time Raphael had seen this side of their Eternal Emperor himself. How could one so powerful appear so mortal?

“Then Uriel will die, won’t he?" Raphael was unashamed of the tears which welled into his eyes. He was just glad Jophiel was not awake to hear their son was doomed.

“No, he won't,” the Emperor sighed. “I've gone to an old friend whose talents lie in a different direction than mine and pleaded intervention. Your son will live, but I must bear the consequences for that choice. We must all bear the consequences that are soon to come.”

Raphael clapped his hand over his mouth to prevent his sob of gratitude from escaping. His natural inclination to gush was tempered by how old and weary the Emperor looked right now, as though he carried not just the weight of the Alliance, but the entire universe upon his shoulders. All this time, while he and his fellow citizens had been praying to the Emperor for help, perhaps it was in reality the Emperor who needed their help?

What was it Jophiel had said? No creature could coordinate something so vast as this empire alone, not even the Eternal Emperor…

“What do you need me to do, Your Majesty?"

“Do what you already want to do in your heart,” the Emperor said. “I will no longer discourage Jophiel from raising her child herself." He met Raphael's gaze. "Nor from choosing to be with you, if that is what she so desires. But what Jophiel does, the others will follow. Do you understand that? Do you understand the price of this course of action?”

“Our race will die out,” Raphael said.

“Either way, your species is doomed," the Emperor said. "But I have heard a rumor that Shay’tan has the solution to this problem within his grasp."

"What solution, Sir?"

“I don't know what that means!" The Emperor's brow furrowed deep with frustration. "The price for choosing to stay here with you in the material realms is ignorance!"

The Emperor pointed at Raphael.

"Finding out information is where your natural talents lie, young man. I need your help. In exchange for this bargain I have made to save your son's life, you must help me find this solution which Shay’tan has purportedly found. Whatever it is, the fate of the Alliance rests upon it.”

“I won't let you down, Your Majesty,” Raphael said. "I give you my word."

Whatever cards Shay'tan held up his scaly sleeve, Raphael would bet anything it had something to do with the mysterious buildup in Zulu Sector and his missing best friend!

Jophiel stirred just as the Eternal Emperor shimmered out of the room.

“Who was that?”

Raphael kissed her forehead and pulled her closer. “Shhhh….”

He offered Uriel his finger so his son could wrap his tiny fingers around his larger one.

“Look, Jophie. Uriel is breathing is easier. I think our son is going to live.”

Chapter 80

And [Lucifer], who was their leader,

Said unto them:

'I fear ye won't indeed agree to do this deed,

And I alone shall have to pay the penalty

Of a great sin'

And they all answered him and said:

'Let us all swear an oath,

And all bind ourselves by mutual imprecations

Not to abandon this plan
but to do this thing.'

Then swore they all together

And bound themselves

By mutual imprecations upon it

And they were in all two hundred;

Who descended …

And all the others together with them

Took unto themselves wives,

And each chose for himself one,

And they began to go in unto them

And to defile themselves with them ….

And they became pregnant,

And they bore great giants...

Book of Enoch, Book 1 – Watchers

Galactic Standard Date:  152,323.07 AE

Tango Sector:  Diplomatic Carrier ‘Prince of Tyre’

General Abaddon aka ‘the Destroyer’

Commander of the Angelic Air Force

Abaddon

The Alliance's highest-ranking Angelic Air Force general had always been a man of fierce passions and parsiminous words, the kind of old-style general who got things done because his men trusted him to be the first one into battle and the last one to exit the battlefield. To not leave until every man who followed him either got out safely, or flown out, dead or alive, oftentimes by Abaddon's own burly grey wings.

He was a hard man, forged in the fires of Shay'tan's hammer, the Alliance's oldest serving general and still as fit as the day he'd graduated from the military academy. He'd taken his first kill to win back a homeworld so remote nobody even remembered the planet's name and come up through the ranks the old-fashioned way, one dead Sata’anic lizard at a time. Age had made him wiser, but no less likely to seize the dragon by the tail. If anything, age had made him better, shaped his appearance into the sword the Alliance needed him to be. Steel grey hair, grey eyes, grey wings, but it was his fierce courage which had earned him that fourth star.

For 635 years he'd served the Alliance, loyally, without question, and when that day came to fight a battle too great to win, he would die for the Alliance. Gladly.

Retirement? Where in Hades would he go? Born into the military, having served his entire life in the military, and already having buried every Angelic he'd ever cared about, the last thing Abaddon wanted was to be put out to pasture; to twiddle his thumbs while the Alliance he'd spent his entire life defending ran itself off a cliff. If their entire species was about to journey into that dark night, Abaddon intended to make the journey with them. To go down in a blaze of glory so bright that posterity would forever remember his name. Abaddon. The Destroyer. Angelic of death. A name given to him not by his own military forces, but by Shay'tan himself after he'd punished the old dragon with a particularly brutal defeat.

“Prime Minister Lucifer,” General Abaddon stepped off his shuttle onto Lucifer’s flagship and gave the Alliances highest ranking civilian authority a grudging salute. “What is this urgent matter that can’t be discussed over regular communication channels?”

“Please,” every aspect of Lucifer's demeanor was coached to reflect his status so that Abaddon wouldn't forget who outranked whom. “This matter is too sensitive to discuss in the open."

Abaddon regarded the charismatic adopted son of their Emperor with cool grey eyes, giving him neither fawning adoration nor disgust. Lucifer was a force of nature; manipulative, brilliant, flamboyant, flawed. He'd served the boy-prince after the Emperor had disappeared because that had been Hashem's will, but over the centuries Lucifer had earned Abaddon's grudging acceptance. Unlike the Emperor, Lucifer had never made the mistake of taking the military for granted.

“Zepar,” Lucifer called on his comms pin as they walked, his demeanor devoid of warmth, “have you gift wrapped the package?”

“The treatment appears to have worked,” Zepar’s muffled voice could be heard crackling over the comms pin. “She will be compliant.”

“Send her down." Lucifer scrutinized Abaddon with the intensity of a cobra watching a mouse it was about to consume for dinner.

Abaddon had known Lucifer for as long as he'd been alive; disapproved of his well-known appetites nearly as long. But like him, Lucifer cared first, and foremost, for the Alliance he'd birthed in the Emperor's long absence. The cold, calculating stare Lucifer gave him now, however, made even The Destroyer shudder.

“General Abaddon,” Lucifer's eerie silver eyes glittered like twin moons as they took their seats. “I have a gift for you.”

Two Angelic guards guided an elaborately dressed humanoid into the room. A female? Bah! With Lucifer it was always something female! Lucifer sat across the table, tapping his pencil to the beat of the Alliance National Anthem while he waited for Abaddon to figure out whatever stunt he was up to now.

It took a moment for Abaddon's brain to process what his eyes refused to see. His eyes widened as he realized what he looked at.

“Is that…???” Abaddon trailed off. His falcon-grey wings jutted out with surprise as he rose to his feet and nearly knocked over his chair.

“Yes,” Lucifer donned a wolf-like grin. “I found the root race.”

“Where?!!" Abaddon stalked around the attractive, brown-haired female, his wings betraying the awe he kept from showing on his face. His sword-hand trembled as he touched her Angelic wedding dress, or at least what used to be a wedding dress until the Emperor had forbidden them to form permanent unions. Abaddon was one of the few still-serving members of the military old enough to have actually seen one.

“They were right where Hashem left them,” Lucifer waved his hand in a contemptuous manner. “You know how my father is. Always starting little seed worlds and then forgetting where he put them. Ooopsies! We’re all dying out and father forgets he ceded a thirteenth seed world to Shay’tan during the last galactic war. Heaven forbid he should have to kiss the old dragon's scaly tail and concede a couple of moves in that chess game of theirs to save our species.”

Abaddon's lip curled in a snarl at Lucifer's flippant belittlement of their species' predicament. His nostrils flared as he clamped down on his anger.

“He’s known where they were all along?” Abaddon growled. Amongst a species that prided itself on self-control, The Destroyer was infamous for his temper.

“Of course he has,” Lucifer said. “It was Shay’tan who brought their existence to my attention. Not that the old dragon is doing it for our benefit. You know how Shay’tan is. Everything comes at a price.”

“Why didn't Hashem have me send in a spy ship to see if the root stock was still there?” Abaddon asked.

“He knew exactly where they were all along,” Lucifer said. “He abandoned them to die when the Sata’an Empire annexed their homeworld. Their planet doesn't have any interesting resources, so Shay’tan simply ignored them until he learned the root stock itself is a valuable commodity”

“Valuable?” Abaddon said. “What you’ve just found is priceless!”

“Ahem,” Lucifer coughed, skillfully changing the direction of the conversation onto the topic he wished to discuss. “It's my understanding that, like me, you've suffered a few … delays?”

“That's none of your business!” Abaddon growled. The issue of his inability to sire offspring was a very sore topic.

“Well, here is my solution to that problem,” Lucifer ignored the harsh tone. “I have mated with three of them, with three happy results now on the way.”

"Three? At once?"

Abaddon circled the female, examining the pliant, drugged woman as she stared off into space, swaying to an internal tune. It was no secret Lucifer had met no success reproducing despite heroic, some said inhuman, efforts to spread his seed around to as many Angelic females as possible. News that after 225 years he'd suddenly sired three offspring was an effective sales pitch for whatever he was selling.

“She appears as the Emperor does," Abaddon said at last. "Without wings.”

“This is the root-stock the Emperor used to create our race,” Lucifer shrugged. “Because they evolved naturally, without interference from either emperor, they don't share our issues.”

“Will they breed true?” Abaddon asked.

“That, I can't tell you,” Lucifer said. “My own little buns in the oven have yet to make their happy appearance. However, tests indicate only half will inherit our wings, but all of them will inherit the other desirable traits our species possesses. Like the Merfolk and the Leviathans. Only, unlike Mer-Levi, the dominant genes are humanoid, not aquatic mammal, so our offspring will look like us.”

Abaddon imagined what it would be like to hold one … no two … of the offspring he could beget upon such a creature as Lucifer talked. He could almost feel them in his arms. His children. His son playing at his feet as he taught him how to use a wooden sword. The child had his mother's dark hair and his wings. The other looked just like him, only she didn't have his wings. A daughter. Only she'd inherit his grey eyes. And his temper! Oh … what a hellion she would be. What a magnificent child!

Abaddon scratched his chin, deep in thought.

“The Mer and Levi love each other and their children, no matter which parent they look like," Abaddon said. "It wouldn't displease me to bear offspring who look like this human. After all … our own Emperor appears to us in this form." He snorted. "It's preferable to extinction.”

“She is at peak fertility for the next two days," Lucifer said. "Why not take her back to your ship and give her a test drive? If your medical technicians don't confirm she is pregnant within three days, you can return her. Where else can you get a money-back guarantee like that?”

As Lucifer spoke, Abaddon found himself fantasizing about what it would be like to make love to a creature of legend. It had been a long, dry spell. What would it be like to be touched by such a creature?

Abaddon held out his hand. The woman hesitated, as though unsure what to do. Lucifer bent towards her and whispered something in her ear. She made eye contact, and then reached up to take his hand. Raising her knuckles to his lips, Abaddon asked if she would like to attempt a mating, the new ‘normal’ custom amongst Angelics ever since Hashem had announced his ‘be fruitful and multiply’ policies to ensure maximum genetic diversity.

“What will this gift cost me?” Abaddon asked. Neither Shay’tan, nor Lucifer, ever gave gifts without strings.

“The Emperor has enacted some policies which undermine the stability of the Alliance,” Lucifer's mouth formed into a dissatisfied moue. “All I ask is support in Parliament when I ask them to override the Emperor’s seed world restrictions and open the human homeworld to trade.”

Abaddon considered the matter and nodded agreement. What Lucifer proposed was not unreasonable. Parliament did have the authority to override the Emperor by a two-thirds vote of both houses. In fact, during the Emperor's little two-hundred year 'sabbatical' it was the only way they'd been able to get Alliance business done. If Lucifer’s demands became unreasonable, he would simply refuse to follow through. He'd been around the block too many times to get sucked into political intrigues. It was the reason, he suspected, he'd been passed over for promotion when the Emperor had created the position of Supreme Commander-General in favor of Jophiel. That little slight still smarted.

“Why is she so quiet,” Abaddon asked. “What did you do to her?”

“The humans grew up on a primitive planet,” Lucifer shrugged. “We found it helpful to give them a sedative until they adjust. Their level of technology has actually regressed, not moved forward, since my father abandoned them.”

“How primitive?” Abaddon asked.

“Shay’tan said my father knocked them back into a Stone Age as a ‘control’ group for the other twelve colonies,” Lucifer said. “Then he abandoned them when Shay’tan annexed that part of the galaxy. It's a good thing he did! Otherwise they would have gone extinct like the other colonies he tinkered with!”

Abaddon sucked in his breath. It was a good thing age had mellowed him or he would have exploded in a fit of rage. He'd been ordered to enforce a ‘hands-off’ policy on more than one of Hashem’s precious seed words, often to the detriment of the Alliance at large. Especially when he suspected Hashem’s motivation for declaring a world off limits had more to do with tweaking Shay’tan’s nose than the evolutionary frailty of an emerging pre-sentient species.

“Is she sentient?" Abaddon swallowed his anger. “Will she bear me sentient offspring?”

“Yes,” Lucifer said. “But there's a good reason my father tinkered with our DNA. The root stock is not as … how shall I put this … as intellectually gifted … as our Angelic females. She will make a loving, loyal mate who will bear you many fine offspring who are every bit as intelligent as you are. My father always ensures sentience is a dominant gene no matter which species he tinkers with. But you'll need to find somebody else to talk to if you want to discuss troop movements.”

“I'm a man of action,” Abaddon snorted, “not some pansy intellectual in an ivory tower.”

“And that is why you're in charge of the Angelic Air Force,” Lucifer said. “While intellectuals such as my father retreat into their own little worlds and espouse high ideals that don't work when faced with real problems.”

Abaddon raised one eyebrow at Lucifer to let him know the skillful ego-stroking would get him nowhere. The temptation of a potentially fertile human standing in front of him, on the other hand, was a different story.

“What happens if the mating is successful?” Abaddon asked. “Will she put our offspring into one of the Emperor’s training academies and deny me the right to see my own child?”

“Ahhhhh….” Lucifer said. “The heart of the issue. It's not right, female Angelics using their wombs so casually to fill the ranks of the Emperor’s armies. Our species used to take one mate for life."

“I'm old enough to remember when the Emperor’s breeding program was new,” Abaddon said wistfully. “What seemed like a male fantasy come true turned out to be my worst nightmare. What I wouldn't give to turn back the clock to a time when our species was allowed to love.”

Old dreams, long buried and forgotten, rose to the surface as Abaddon stared at the beautiful, dark-haired female with the mahogany brown eyes. He'd loved a woman once, but before she'd come into her heat-cycle she'd been killed in battle, her last words to whisper his name as she had died in his arms. He'd missed the opportunity to create a child with her so they would always have a symbol of their mutual adoration, even if the Emperor's law prohibited them from ever consummating their love a second time. This woman reminded him a bit of that long-lost love, gone so many centuries that her memory had faded, all except the shape of her eyes as the light had gone out of them and left him on the battlefield, grieving.

Lucifer was a skillful enough politician to leave Abaddon to his thoughts as he calculated the consequences of his actions should he choose, or not choose, to agree to Lucifer's proposal. Abaddon, on the other hand, was experienced enough dealing with Lucifer to know exactly how he was being 'handled.' It was an old dance they performed, the old general and the puppet-prince. This little coup d'état was about more than simply begetting offspring. Hashem had upset 200 years of Lucifer's plans when he'd suddenly returned and Lucifer wanted a little of that control back. Could Abaddon blame him?

"What are the terms of your agreement?" Abaddon asked.

“You must keep the existence of your bride a secret,” Lucifer said. “Just until I've match-made enough humans to infertile hybrids such as yourself to reach a critical mass.”

“What kind of critical mass?” Abaddon asked. “Just how much support do you need to get this override through Parliament?"

With the exception of Lucifer, who in theory spoke on behalf of the Eternal Emperor and not his own species, no hybrid was permitted a vote. Retired military personnel were, however, permitted to serve in other civilian capacities and were avidly sought out by the homeworlds they had often spent their entire lives defending. If Lucifer could pull enough strings to get his free trade deal rammed through Parliament, they would all benefit.

“Matters of the heart are … delicate,” Lucifer skillfully directed the conversation. “The females must be willing. Humans accept Angelics because we look like them, but the other hybrids terrify them. It would be unfair to help ourselves and not our brothers-in-arms, don't you agree?”

“Yes,” Abaddon said. “She-who-is loves all of her children.”

“I need time to help them acclimate to Leonids and the Centauri,” Lucifer said. “You must keep your bride a secret until I have found a solution for our brothers.”

Abaddon had done some heavy fighting alongside the other hybrids as well as the newer sentient races in his years as an Alliance soldier. If there was one thing he'd learned under fire, it was that it was not the shape of the species which mattered, but the valor which lay within their hearts. He was not about to grab a prize for himself and deny it to the others. They would all succeed … or fail … together.

“Of course,” Abaddon said.

“I've taken the liberty of summoning a priest of She-who-is,” Lucifer said. “Human custom is to be married before engaging in relations likely to produce offspring. Like our species did before the Emperor declared otherwise. Will you honor your mate by marrying her before impregnating her?”

“She will agree?” Abaddon asked.

“Ask her yourself,” Lucifer said. “She comes to you wearing her wedding dress.”

Abaddon could tell the woman had been drugged, but as she made eye contact, butterflies fluttered in his stomach. A creature of legend who wanted to marry … him? Old blood and guts? He was painfully aware of the battle-scar which ran from temple to chin, the one which had split his eyebrow in half and nearly cost him his eye. Ugly. No Angelic female would accept a male with such a hideous scar, much less one who was also blacklisted for being infertile. It didn't matter whether or not this female could produce offspring with him or not. At his age, his dreams had been reduced to not spending the rest of his life alone.

His heart pounded in his throat as he asked the question his god had forbidden him to ever ask.

“My beautiful dear, do you wish to become my wife?”

He kissed her hand. The fog cleared as she looked into his eyes, as though he was staring into the eyes of that long-lost love, but instead of watching the light go out of them, he watched the light pour back in. He could tell she was a proud woman by how regally she carried herself, as though she was used to giving orders. She murmured something in a language he couldn't understand. Small fingers closed trustingly around his larger ones. Abaddon the Destroyer, fiercest Air Force general the Alliance had ever seen, thought he might faint.

“It's official!” Lucifer announced, clapping his hands. “She shall be your mate for life.”

Abaddon’s head hummed as the priest read the nuptials. His wife! He had a wife! He couldn't wait until Lucifer got his trade deal up and running so he could show her off.

“Human females are used to being kept in harems." Lucifer handed the female a Sata’anic burqa, a garment which covered her from head to toe. A tiny screen permitted her to see as she walked. “She will be most comfortable keeping herself covered except when she is in the safety of your private quarters. It will solve the problem of keeping her identity secret with your crew."

“They'll think I have a non-hybrid mistress,” Abaddon laughed, nearly drunk with joy. “They'll speculate I hide an insectoid beneath the veil.”

“Let the crew imagine what they wish,” Lucifer said. “You have just won the hand of a creature of legend. The truth is more preposterous than their wildest dream!”

“Come with me, my wife," Abaddon shepherded his bride onto his command carrier. He ordered his crew to keep the matter of the unknown, veiled creature that was led to his private quarters quiet under penalty of court martial and to not disturb him for at least three days.

Chapter 81

July – 3,390 BC

Earth:  Village of Assur

Ninsianna

Ninsianna awoke to the sensation of something warm and firm pressed along the length of her back. Listening to the throb of blood whirring in tune with his heartbeat through the firm bicep she'd been using as a pillow, she relished the feather ‘blanket’ he'd used to cover them. Suppressing a yawn, she stretched and turned towards him. He was awake. Probably had been for some time. Watching. Always watching. Adding up every move in that brilliant mind of his as though she were an equation he needed to solve.

“Hey,” she smiled and wiggled closer to his warmth.

“Hey,” he said, his blue eyes serious.

The mask was back. That serious mask he used to hide his feelings. Ninsianna knew to ignore his carefully schooled expression and listen to what his body said was really on his mind. Reaching up to touch his cheek, she stretched forward for a kiss. She decided not to tease him this morning. Right now, self-control was the only thing holding him together. Instead, she put her hand over the scarred tissue covering his heart, feeling the reassuring beat beneath her fingertips. His expression grew less troubled. They basked in their mutual embrace until the sound of voices and pottery clinking downstairs intruded into the silence.

“Breakfast will be ready soon,” Ninsianna said. “Would you like to eat downstairs? Or would you rather I bring something up?”

“You're my family. We shall eat together.”

“I'll go downstairs and see who Mama has in so early?” she said. “You're all covered in blood. It will give me a chance to bring water and some clean clothes so Mama doesn't scold me for leaving you in such a sorry state.”

“You were wonderful....”

Ninsianna silenced him with a kiss. “Let me do my job and you do yours. Okay? I'll be back in a moment.”

Ninsianna knew Mama wouldn't scold her. Her real reason for keeping him there was to warn the others not to question him until he was in a mood to be questioned.  Pareesa was downstairs along with the three unknown women who had a strange, exotic appearance, as though they had traveled from far away. Ninsianna marveled at their jet-black hair and almond-shaped eyes, even darker than the Ubaid.

“Ninsianna,” Pareesa said, “perhaps you could help. We are trying to figure out where these women are from so we can help them get home. Nobody speaks their language.”

“They need to speak to me first," Ninsianna said. “Once they do, I'll be able to pick up the thread of their native tongue.”

The three women huddled together.

“Ninsianna,” Ninsianna pointed to her own chest. She pointed to her mother and fellow archer. “Needa … Pareesa." Ninsianna then pointed to the first girl and asked, “Who?”

The girl looked at her puzzled for a moment, then said, “Seyahat.”

“Good … Ninsianna … Seyahat … ” Ninsianna pointed first to herself, and then the girl.

Turning to the second girl, she did it again. “Ninsianna … who?”

“Fatma,” the second girl giggled as she realized what Ninsianna was doing. Fatma turned to Sehayat and said something in whatever language it was they spoke. By the time the third girl chipped in her thoughts, the language had come to her. Ninsianna didn't even know its name, but she could speak it fluently.”

“I'm Ninsianna,” she said in their language. “This is my Mama, Needa, and my friend, Pareesa. You are safe here.”

The girls burst into an explosion of questions.

“How did you learn our language?” Seyahat asked.

“She-who-is has given me the gift to understand languages after hearing only a few sentences,” Ninsianna said. “We're trying to figure out where you live so we can get you home.”

“We are Magian,” the third girl said. “I'm called Norhan. We were captured from a caravan crossing the mountains. Three mountain ranges from here, I think. We’re from Margiana … on the other side of the landlocked sea.”

“Pleased to meet you, Norhan,” Ninsianna said. “I have never heard of this place, but someone in the village must know of it. Once we figure that out, we shall help you get home.”

“Ninsianna,” Pareesa asked, “where is Mikhail?”

“Upstairs … in my room...”

Pareesa lifted one eyebrow.

“It's not like that!” Ninsianna protested. “He is wounded. I sent him upstairs to rest so annoying early morning guests tromping through the kitchen wouldn't disturb him!”

“Sorry,” Pareesa said. “It was just … unbelievable! I've never seen someone take out that many men!”

“I have seen,” Ninsianna said. “Please don't let him overhear you speak of it so gleefully.”

“But he did an incredible thing!” Pareesa wriggled with enthusiasm. “We all want to congratulate him!”

“Mikhail is a moral creature,” Ninsianna gestured for her young friend to lower her voice. “He takes no joy in his abilities. You must respect his silence until he is ready to rejoin us.”

“He helped the warriors take out over 45 Halifians,” Needa said. “And that was after the eight he killed rescuing Pareesa.”

“Seven,” Pareesa said. “I took out the eighth one with his own bow.”

“He was trained by the Cherubim, the guardians of the Eternal Emperor,” Ninsianna spoke low so her voice wouldn't carry upstairs. “That's the strange language he speaks when he goes into battle. But the Cherubim are not human, nor even Angelic. What Mikhail does weighs heavily upon him.”

“They deserved it!” Pareesa said. "They killed eleven of our people!"

“Yes, they did." Ninsianna looked at the three exotic women who were so far from home. “But he will still bury his enemies with respect. He will still pray to She-who-is to convey their spirits into the dreamtime, whether they deserve it or not. And he will still mourn the loss of their lives even though it was necessary. It's what makes him … Mikhail.”

Pareesa chewed her lip, deep in thought. She still had a bit of an eager, awestruck air about her, but Ninsianna could see she also understood she needed to be respectful of her mentor's moral code.

“I understand,” Pareesa said. “I will try not to annoy him.”

“Oh, little fairy!" Ninsianna hugged the woman-child. “That's what you do! Just try not to do it too much for a few days, okay?”

“Will we train today?” Pareesa asked.

“Alalah will teach today’s class, and perhaps tomorrow,” Ninsianna said. “I think from now on the entire village will be training. We must pass along what we already know."

She turned to address her mother. "Papa has gone to speak to the Chief. Hasn't he, Mama?”

Mama grunted and turned her attentions back to the porridge she stirred in the ceramic cook pot. It was best not to distract her mother while cooking or their breakfast would suffer.

“You'd better teach me to use that fancy weapon of yours, too, daughter,” Mama said, “in case some Halifian decides an old hag like me is nubile enough for the slavers.”

As if! Ninsianna may have inherited her father's eerie shaman's eyes, but her good looks had come from her mother. At 36 years old, her mother was still young … and beautiful … enough to be a target. Ninsianna gave her Mama a reassuring hug.

“Pareesa … could you please take your new friends elsewhere for breakfast?” Ninsianna asked. “If they witnessed Mikhail under the spell of the killing dance, I don't think they'll react well when he comes downstairs.”

“They were pretty upset when he flew out of there,” Pareesa frowned. “It took me hours to convince them he was not coming back to kill them.”

“We forget because he is our friend,” Ninsianna said. “But I don't think three women cringing in fear while he eats breakfast will sit well with him this morning.”

“Of course." Pareesa was young for one who had just taken her first kill, but she understood.

Ninsianna turned to the three exotic women.

“Pareesa will take you to get some breakfast,” Ninsianna explained. “I'll come visit later. It will take us a few days to clean up after last night's battle, but then we'll figure out how to get you home.”

The three foreign women thanked her and followed Pareesa on her way.

“Mama,” Ninsianna said. “After he has had to … well … you know … he is very silent for a few days. Just give him his space, okay?”

“I have seen this before,” Mama said. “With the other warriors. Even with your father. I know how to act.”

“I know you do,” Ninsianna hugged her Mama and gave her a peck on the cheek. “I learned from the best. Now, I need to bring up some water for washing and clean clothes. I made him strip off his bloody shirt last night, but he is still covered in blood.”

“If anybody comes to the door to pester him,” Mama said, “I shall chase them away with this." Mama shook her wooden spoon like it was a club. “Since Mikhail took so many of the raiders lives, your father will want to include him in the death rituals.”

“I think Mikhail will agree … so long as nobody pesters him,” Ninsianna said. “Just tell them that, okay?”

Chapter 82

July – 3,390 BC

Earth:  Village of Assur

Colonel Mikhail Mannuki’ili

Mikhail

A mortar exploded next to them, spraying them in the face with dirt. A man … no woman … screamed. Glicki!

"Fall back! Fall back!" The order came over the radio.

Mikhail rushed to her side, cradling her in his arms. Her green, prayer-like grasping arms were held close to her chest, trembling in pain.

"Glicki," he said. "You're going to be okay." He touched along her green exoskeleton, which had taken the brunt of the shrapnel. Green blood seeped out of the joint of one of the four legs she used to walk.

"I'm okay," she chirped out of the voice translator. "Good thing we come with built-in armor."

Another mortar exploded, slightly further away. He shielded her with his wings as debris rained down upon them.

"Can you walk?"

She tried to move her leg and screamed in pain. Mikhail examined the wound. She was bleeding profusely. An artery had been hit. If he could tie it off, she would make it. Unfortunately, insectoid physiology was notoriously difficult to tourniquet. He had to get her out of here before she bled out.

"Major Mannuki'ili?" one of the other soldiers asked. "What do we do?"

He looked to the men and women in his special operations group, six of them. One was Angelic like him, the others were Mantoid. All fine soldiers. His sensitive ears could hear the Sata'anic lizards creeping through the underbrush on either side of them. Shay'tan wanted this planet, and he was going to take it from them.

Mikhail looked first to his wounded friend, and then to his special forces team. Although the same height as him and slender, insectoids were heavy. -Too- heavy for an Angelic to fly out of here, not even with the stronger wings granted to him thanks to his Seraphim blood. Although Mantoids had wings, they were more suited to long flying jumps rather than the true flight Angelics were capable of. With her leg in such condition, Glicki couldn't fly. The Sata'anic lizards blocked their escape. There was only one thing they could do.

His eyes met Glicki's green-gold compound ones. Glicki nodded. She knew what he needed to do, and she agreed.

"We complete the mission."

Tucking Glicki into a low point in the dirt with a tourniquet around her wounded leg, he covered her with brush, and then signaled his remaining team to fan out through the underbrush. It was time to hunt. Clicking the Cherubim meditations for stalking prey, he pressed his wings against his back and crept up behind a squadron of lizard-people trailing a rumbling tank. His team was vastly outnumbered. He was about to even those odds. It was not to his pulse-rifle he looked to now, but a silent one. His knife. He crept up on the first lagging lizard soldier, the man's tail bobbing from side-to-side with a bayonet strapped to his tail. With sharp claws on both their hands and feet, as well as their fangs, Shay'tan had bred them to do their best fighting up close and personal.

Just the way the Cherubim had taught -him- to fight…

Clutching his knife in his hand, Mikhail crept up silently behind him and slit his throat.

Mikhail's eyes shot open. He sat up, his wings slamming against the wall as he reached for the knife he could almost feel in his hand and came up empty handed. He hyperventilated until he recognized he'd fallen back asleep in Ninsianna's room. Downstairs, the drone of voices reassured him everything was fine. A dream. It was only a dream.

The lizard people! The Sata’an must be the demons Ninsianna foresaw invading her homeworld, but with so many memories missing he couldn't understand their motivation. He must prepare his adopted people for the battle to come.

Chapter 83

July – 3,390 BC

Earth:  Village of Assur

Ninsianna

The entire village streamed outside the walls to the place they buried their dead. The wind blew hot and oppressive across the featureless plain, for even a short distance from the river, this time of year the vegetation wilted in the sun.

"Now we shall offer the dead a drink of water," Papa said. "So they do not grow thirsty on their journey into the dreamtime. Ninsianna? Will you do the honors?"

Papa handed her the ceremonial water bowl. She received some odd glances from villagers surprised to see a woman openly aiding the shaman, but none dared speak against her or accuse her of being a sorceress. These were peculiar times and word had gotten around that she was the Chosen of She-who-is.

"May you never know hunger or thirst again," Ninsianna chanted in a sing-song voice. "And may the goddess always grant your spirit pleasant dreams." She poured the first bowlful onto the head of the cairn marking the grave, and then moved on to the next one to repeat the ceremony until she got to the seventh one. Chills ran up her spine as she felt the dead touch her. Revulsion. Their hands were wispy and insubstantial. Somebody with unresolved issues, pleading with her to give them a voice.

Although she could sense the disruption the dead made in the flow of the dreamtime by lingering here amongst the living, she'd never been able to understand what they asked. She'd always hated death rituals for this reason. Despite all of her talents, she'd never been able to communicate with the dead.

"Papa?" Her voice came out as a fearful squeak.

"It's just Ashusikildigir," Papa whispered. "Worried who will take care of her children. You must ask someone to step forward and swear the death oath that they'll care for them, and then she will cross over."

Ashusikildigir had been unfortunate enough to live in one of the newer houses built outside the outer ring. They had gathered the archers and banged upon the doors to rally the warriors, but by the time they'd gotten to the gates, the Halifians had already raided the houses built outside their village. While privacy was nice, it was also an open invitation to raiders. The Halifians had tried to kidnap Ashusikildigar's two daughters. She and her husband had died protecting them. The daughters stood now at their parents grave, sobbing. One was eleven, the other nine.

"Ashusikildigir is trapped between the realms," Ninsianna held her hands aloft the way she'd seen Papa do many times. "She may not enter the dreamtime until someone steps forward and swears the death-oath to finish raising her children. Let us pray for guidance so that Ashusikildigir doesn't haunt our village."

She waited. The only reason the dead woman's spirit lingered was because she was not confident her extended family would care for them. In a land that required hard work to survive and was prone to periodic famine, few families were eager to step forward and rear somebody else's children. Sometimes, like now, the extended family needed to be shamed into fulfilling their moral responsibilities. She waited, singing the song of guidance to She-who-is, waiting for the other villagers to grow weary of the immediate family's cowardice and start hissing insults.

She glanced over to black eyes staring out of a pale, gaunt face, owl-eyed at the sight of a woman shaman, and felt a twinge of guilt. She pushed the thought aside. Uncle Merariy was still alive. Let Gita look to her own drunken father to take care of her!

The villagers began to hiss at the couple hiding at the back of the crowd. "Shame on you!"

A young mother with three small children hanging off of her, one still on the breast, stepped forward, Ashusikildigir's sister. Her husband stood far behind, his expression furious. It was obvious which one hoped to shirk their family obligations.

"Do you swear upon your sister's grave to give shelter to and raise her two daughters as though they were your own?" Ninsianna recited the death oath.

Ashusikildigir's sister gave her husband a fearful glance. Ninsianna could see the angry red light coming off of the man. He had no intention of keeping her promise, and refused to swear it himself. The girls would be turned out of their house the first opportunity he got, potentially along with his own wife and children. That thread of energy she always felt from She-who-is grew stronger, whispering how she could shame the wayward brother-in-law into really keeping his word.

"Wait a moment," Ninsianna said. She held up her hand. Papa gave her an odd look. She put her hands across her eyes, using a trick she'd seen the other shamans do on occasion when they wished to enhance what they were saying using theatrics. "I sense …"

She walked to stand in front of the brother-in-law. Her eyes glowed golden as she felt the call of the goddess, inviting her to slip into that stream of consciousness just far enough to receive HER wisdom.

"You borrowed seed from Ashusikildigar's husband to plant your crops three years in a row, and haven't repaid it." Ninsianna felt as though she were a hyena moving in for the kill. Seed was expensive … and precious. "The seed is part of the girl's estate. You must repay this debt immediately."

"But I'm willing to help raise them!" the brother-in-law protested.

"See that you do," Ninsianna said. "Or the Chief will demand recompense in the form of all you own so that two innocents don't go hungry."

It was well known Chief Kiyan was a stickler about making people repay their debts. Especially when it left him holding the consequences in the form of two parentless children.

"I will take the death-oath as well," the brother-in-law shivered.

Ninsianna made the brother-in-law swear first, and then the sister. The death oath was legally binding. If either of them failed to follow through on it, the tribunal would treat them the same way they treated any parent who abandoned their own child. The sister looked relieved. The problem had never lain with her. Ashusikildigir's eldest daughter took the baby from her aunt and helped her carry it.

The goddess whispered in the wind so clearly that some of the villagers looked at each other as though they could hear it, too:  'This man has lost my favor. I shall punish him and find a new provider for this family.'

Ninsianna sensed the dead touch her again, but this time it didn't have that ominous feel it had always had in the past. The dead had asked her for a solution to a problem, and she had given it to them. She was not helpless.

The wind blew her hair, whispering 'thank you' as Ashusikildigir crossed over into the dreamtime. Resuming the ceremony of the dead, she finished offering water to the remaining graves until all of the Assurians had been laid to rest. Papa took over and completed the death ceremonies for their own people.

The crowd broke up, leaving only the warriors behind. Mikhail stood at the back of the group, his powerful wings pressed tightly against his back. Jamin lingered on the opposite side, as far away from the other warriors as he could get. He'd hesitated when the Chief had asked him to back up Mikhail and the other warriors had all witnessed it. Jamin was many things, but never before had she seen him act like a coward. More likely, he'd hesitated because he'd hoped the Halifians would kill Mikhail.

She could sense the shift in energy away from Jamin now, even amongst his own warriors. Whenever the village was attacked, all petty disputes were to be suspended until the village was safe. What he'd done, or more precisely failed to do, had cost him face.

"And now it is time to bury our enemies," Papa said. "These men attacked us without provocation. Kidnapping is an old Halifian trick. They hoped to lure the best warriors on a wild goose chase so we wouldn't be there when they attacked. Luckily, we were there. But they have cost the lives of eleven of our people, four of them civilians in their houses."

Papa lit the sacred qat plant and moved to stand in front of the first grave, holding the smoldering bundle of dried leaves above it to chase away the evil spirits.

"Although the temptation is great to dishonor their bodies," Papa said. "These men have paid for their actions with their lives. It's the law of She-who-is that all who die shall enter the dreamtime so that their lifetime choices can be made clear to them." He paused until a mild grumbling which went through the warriors ceased. "It's not up to us to judge them, but She-who-is."

With stiff solemnity, Papa led the warriors through the death ceremonies for their enemies, far less elaborate than what was done for their own people, but respectful nonetheless. The men of the village had worked for two days digging graves. Early this morning, Mikhail had disappeared from their house. There was a small feather placed on each of the graves of men he'd personally slain. So many dead. So many feathers.

"Ninsianna?" Papa asked. He handed her the bowl of water.

Ninsianna poured a bowlful of water onto each grave, repeated the water blessing aloud as she'd done for their own dead, while silently praying the enemy dead didn't come asking for favors. Luckily, they didn't. When she reached the last grave, she felt a familiar presence, asking permission to speak. She'd done this once before the day She-who-is had spoken through her to prevent Mikhail from smiting Jamin. She was not afraid. With a smile, Ninsianna welcomed her mentor and spirit-mother into her body to speak

“Today we honor our enemies,” She-who-is-Ninsianna spoke with a voice that made the air vibrate with energy. “But a much darker time shall soon be upon you. Darkness spreads across the stars. Ki's agent has failed. The Evil One has seized his mortal vessel and comes to claim your world."

A cloud appeared from nowhere, blotting out the sun and momentarily casting a shadow across the enemy graves. A cold wind blew in the summer heat. Ninsianna felt a tug, whispering for her to move and stand in front of the group of enemy graves. Power surged through her veins as she felt the words bubble to her lips once more.

"What separates us from our enemies is that we remember what it's like to feel compassion. It's what enables you to turn old enemies into allies. Remember this gift, for I-That-Am love all of my children, and you must unite all tribes to stand against those who would plunge the galaxy into entropy.”

Ninsianna swooned. Her father caught her before she hit the ground. Mikhail rushed forward and held her up until she could stand on her own. Everyone who was present understood it was not Ninsianna who had just spoken to them, but She-who-is. The cloud dissipated as mysteriously as it had appeared, bathing the gravesites in sunlight once more. The warriors broke up and went home, the battle-rage purged from their bodies.

Silently, Mikhail placed his large, strong hand over her small one and walked her home.

Chapter 84

July – 3,390 BC

Earth:  Village of Assur

Jamin

He lingered at the back, as far as he could get from Ninsianna and her eerie golden eyes. Any minute they would figure out what he had done!

No. Of course not. Whispers had gone through the village. A traitor. Someone had passed intelligence to their enemies. But so far, no one had traced their suspicions back to him. How could they? This was not what he'd intended when he'd cut a deal with the Halifians to lead the winged one into an ambush.

They'd double-crossed him! All the Halifians were supposed to do was rid his village of whichever female archers they could lure far enough away to kidnap without incident. Pareesa. Homa. Gisou. And Kiana. Females the age the Amorite slavers wanted. A surgical strike to remove a cancer from their midst. Attack had not been part of the bargain!

Eleven dead! Eleven dead and forty-five Halifians. And eight Amorite slavers. The Halifians were supposed to back up the slavers in the dense foliage of an acacia grove. They'd chosen that as the kill box because trees would hamper the winged demon's ability to fly. They weren't supposed to attack the village!

Eleven Assurians were dead! Their stone cairns stared at him. Accusing him. Taunting. Screaming. Murderer. Murderer. Murderer.

The Halifian leader had given him intelligence, in return. Ninsianna was not the only person to have delusions of lizard people! The Amorites had told them the lizard-demons were only middle-men. The ultimate slave masters buying their women were none other than Mikhail’s own people!  He'd been right all along! Mikhail was here to find their weaknesses!

He couldn't tell. If he told his father what he knew, they would know he'd been the one to sell them out to their enemies. He hadn't expected them to send a raiding force against the village. The mercenaries were supposed to stay with Pareesa and kill Mikhail! Not attack Assur!

This was not his fault!

His cheek twitched, a nervous tic which had grown worse ever since the winged demon had stolen his girl. He could fix this. Yes … there was a bigger threat afoot. It was up to him to figure out a way to fend off the bigger threat. Maybe he could get the Halifians to side against their common enemy? Mikhail’s people. They were the enemy. They were the ones who demanded Ubaid women for slaves!

How to fix. How to fix. Could he fix this? Yes … he was the chief’s son. He had to fix this. Only he could fix this mess. He was the only one who knew…

“Jamin,” Shahla interrupted his whirring. He jumped, glancing to either side, fearful the others would see them together and put together the pieces of the puzzle.

No. Nobody knew. Nobody knew he'd done this. Nobody except for her. His fists clenched as he contemplated whether he should kill her.

“This was not supposed to happen,” Shahla wept. “This is all my fault! If I hadn't told them where Pareesa liked to hunt deer, this wouldn't have happened.”

He should kill her. She was the only one who knew. How? He thought of ways to lure her away from the village. A spear? No. Her screams would alert the others. Strangulation. Yes, strangulation would be silent. But where would he hide her body? And who could he blame when her parents came looking for her? Laum was a wealthy man. He would not allow his daughter to simply disappear. Another kidnapping? Yes. That was it. He would make it look like Shahla had been kidnapped.

Perhaps he could just sell her to the Amorites himself?

No. For all her sleeping around, Shahla had never conceived a child. The Halifians said the slavers wanted breeding stock, not farm labor. Defective merchandise was turned out into the desert and allowed to die. What would happen if she escaped and made her way back to Assur? Now, or years from now, the other villagers would stone him to death for his complicity in causing the deaths of eleven of their own. He had to kill her. It was the only way to guarantee her silence.

Shahla leaned into him, her head against her shoulder.

“This was not your fault,” Shahla said with a sniffle. “You were only trying to do what is best for the village."

Her arms slid around his waist. So trusting. So … loving. Shahla was in love with him. Even if he was not in love with her.

'You're not a murderer…' the wind whispered.

“I'm not a murderer,” Jamin said. His arms slipped around her shoulders as he sighed. “This was not supposed to happen. My father is blind." He pointed to where the winged one stood silently amongst the crowd. Watching. Watching every move the Ubaid made so he could report their weaknesses back to their real enemies.

The Angelic race…

When Mikhail had flown back into their midst to defend his father, he'd looked into his inhuman blue eyes. Although not black like the first time, what had stared back at him had still not been mortal…

“He is the threat to our village,” Jamin said. “That's why they've been trying to take him.”

“I'll do whatever I can to help,” Shahla searched his eyes. “That's what the wife of a future chief would do, wouldn’t she? Do whatever is necessary to support her husband? Even when everyone around them is too blind to see what is really going on?”

'You're not a murderer…'

“Yes,” Jamin kissed her. Even if he didn't love her, he was not a murderer. He wouldn't hurt her.

But he did have to keep her silent…

“Let’s go,” Jamin nuzzled her neck. “I want to make love to my future wife.”

Chapter 85

Galactic Standard Date:  152,323.07 AE

Haven-1:  Palace of the Eternal Emperor

Supreme Commander-General Jophiel

Jophiel

A brown dragon-like snout peered out the door where she stood waiting, flanked by the two Cherubim guards who had been instructed to usher her inside the moment she arrived. The moment he spied her, a pleased grin appeared on Dephar's face.

“Ahh! Jophiel! Come in!" The Muqqibat dragon held open the door as his golden eyes glowed brighter, the mark of a pre-ascended creature. "You'll find him in the usual place." He pointed down the endless rows of cages, piled floor-to-ceiling, wall-to-wall with life forms the Emperor tinkered with.

She thanked the wingless dragon, slender and tall like the serpents that flanked both sides of Asclepius's caduceus, a symbol of knowledge and wisdom. Dephar had always made her feel welcome here, even when she showed up unexpectedly to disturb the Emperor's research on an important matter of military urgency, and she enjoyed his company. She shifted the sleeping Uriel to her hip so she could give the Emperor's top research genius a proper salute, and inquired about Dephar's own research before making her way through the labyrinth of narrow cages, all piled helter-skelter despite the best efforts of the army of laboratory technicians and scientists the Emperor kept in his employ to keep things organized.

The Emperor's laboratory was a vibrant place, resisting organization or classification. No matter how hard his subjects tried to pigeonhole his work, things just turned out the way they were meant to be. She found him bent over an experiment, laboratory coat buttoned up wrong, but Jophiel didn't take offense when he didn't acknowledge her right away. The Emperor's work required absolute concentration. She waited for him to finish pondering whatever great thought occupied his considerable genius and glance up before announcing she'd arrived.

“Reporting for duty, Sir!" She grabbed the sling to make sure Uriel didn't drop out onto his head. She'd not yet adjusted to the way his weight tugged her off-balance. Twelve babies she'd borne the Alliance, but this was the first time she'd actually needed to care for one of them. It was a lot more work than she'd anticipated!

“Shhhh …. it's about to hatch."

The Emperor motioned for her to step closer to the incubator so she could see creation in progress. Hashem was fully manifested into the material realms at the moment, wearing his usual form of a wingless human male.

Fist-sized leathery eggs, perhaps belonging to a lizard, turtle, or snake, wiggled as they began to hatch. Although most subjects thought of the Emperor as a god-like creature sitting on his magnificent throne, this is how Jophiel loved him best. In his lab, wearing crumpled clothing that looked as though it had been slept in, white hair and bushy eyebrows tussled like a mad scientist, up to his elbows creating variations of life.

“What are they?" She watched what could be a beak or a claw begin to chip through one of the eggs.

“Gourocks[2] from Gemini-28." The Emperor focused intently on his new creations as they pecked their way into the world. “Miniature land dragons. Nearly extinct. I've given them a little enhancement. We shall see if that pushes them over the top so they can survive.”

“What is the enhancement?”

“Look and see,” he said. “You tell me.”

Jophiel studied the first baby dragon to push its way out of the shell and give a little squeak. Soon, two dozen more followed. All were identical except for the last one, which didn't hatch. The Emperor took the egg and studied it.

“It should hatch…” he said perplexed. “My tests showed all of the eggs were viable and had developing embryos.”

“I don't see what the enhancement is,” Jophiel said. “I'm not familiar with gourocks.”

“Let’s see how their mama reacts to them." The Emperor rolled over a larger cage until the doors lined up, and then lifted them so the dog-sized adult gourock whose eggs had been enhanced could view her offspring. “C’mon, mama….” Hashem coaxed. “Let’s see how you like your new babies.”

The mother tasted the air with her forked tongue and walked in, claws splayed for balance upon the ground. She was a creature who had evolved in a dry environment. She recognized her eggs and studied the babies. Giving them a sniff, she accepted them, uttering a reptilian bark to call her babies to her side. At the same time, the last remaining egg began to shudder as a tiny claw picked its way through the shell.

“Oh … I see it now!” Jophiel whispered, amazed at the subtlety of the Emperor’s tinkering. “They have webbed feet and their skin is just a little different. Water dragons! These babies can survive a wetter environment!”

“Yes,” the Emperor said as he watched the last egg hatch. “And they're smarter, too. Gemini-28 has been experiencing climate change. The sea levels are rising. Soon, there won't be much dry land left to walk upon. These babies will survive a marshy environment.”

“Here’s the last one!” Jophiel whispered. “C’mon, little guy…”

The last baby hatched, but its evolution from desert to swamp creature was more extreme. Whereas the others had just the hint of webbed feet and aquatic skin, the last one’s aquatic features were more pronounced. The feet were fully webbed, the skin soft like a frogs, and the tail had a paddle to propel it through the water. The head was streamlined so it could swim with less resistance, but longer to fit a larger brain pan. The mother gourock hissed and swatted it with her tail, rejecting it. The baby gourock curled up into a ball and whimpered.

“And those are the consequences of tinkering with the work of She-who-is." The Emperor picked up the little lizard and put it into a separate cage. Millions of such cages lined the walls of the Emperor’s laboratory, a testament to the consequences of his constant tinkering.

“Poor little guy." Jophiel pulled Uriel closer. “His mama didn't want him.”

“I used to think I could just create life and it would be good,” the Emperor said. “But the older I get, the more I realize everyone needs a family." He looked Jophiel in the eye. “She-who-is has just reminded me of that fact. So what are we going to do to rectify this problem?”

“I would like to tender my resignation, Sir,” Jophiel said. “With the baby taking up so much of my time, I don't see how I can defend your Alliance and take care of Uriel.”

The Emperor pondered her request.

“Jophie,” he said. “You're my most trusted advisor. Without you, I'm afraid the Alliance would collapse. Without a strong military deterrent, Shay’tan will invade this sector and enslave millions.”

“But, Sir,” she protested. “It's only been two weeks and already hybrids are refusing to give up their babies. They say they want to raise their own offspring because I'm doing it. Please … discharge me as a traitor and condemn my actions. Your empire depends upon it!”

“That's something Shay’tan would do,” the Emperor sighed. “He scapegoats another when  he makes a mistake. This is my mistake, and I'll bear the consequences of it.”

“But, Sir!”

“But, nothing,” he said. “Resignation denied. I'm assigning a full-time Delphinium nanny to help you care for Uriel on your command carrier. I have assembled a team of experts to figure out how I can let Alliance hybrids have more access to their offspring without jeopardizing the stability of the fleet. You're my first test subject.”

“Oh?" Jophiel was not sure what to say. “Test subject?”

“I'm also recommending you promote that wonderfully efficient personal assistant of yours, Captain Klik'rr, to Major,” he said. “And assign him a half dozen assistants to take up the slack. It's about time we started promoting the newer sentient races into the upper ranks of the military. Don't you agree?”

“Th-thank you, your eminence!" What he'd just handed her was better than her wildest dreams.

“Now let me see that fine son of yours.”

Over the next hour, Hashem played with Uriel and picked Jophiel’s brain for ideas about how to allow the hybrid races, who were the legs his empire stood upon, to have their cake and eat it too. At some point, one of the Emperor’s lab technicians came in to take the Mama and baby lizards back to Gemini-28 and release them into the general population.

The conversation turned back to the Emperor’s favorite subject, tinkering with the DNA which made up life. The new genetic traits he'd just instilled in the gourocks would be dominant. Within several generations, most gourocks would inherit the adaptation which would allow them to survive their changing climate. All but the poor little guy who'd been rejected. If his own mother rejected him, it was unlikely any mate would accept him, either. Sending him back to the homeworld to die was pointless.

As she went to leave, the Emperor gave her a gift.

“Here … he won’t be happy here alone." He handed her the cage. “Everybody needs a family to belong to. Maybe Uriel will enjoy having a water dragon for a pet?”

Chapter 86

July - 3,390 BC

Earth:  Village of Assur

Colonel Mikhail Mannuki’ili

Mikhail

Mikhail paced down the six-deep line of warriors, sizing up his new recruits. Some stood proud and tall, men who could take down a boar with a single spear and wore their swagger as though it were a fringed wool kilt. Others appeared ill at ease, here because the Chief had ordered every man capable of picking up a spear to spend two hours each afternoon learning combat skills. Most clustered into groups:  warriors, craftsmen, farmers and goat herders. He scrutinized each clique for clues about whether or not the groupings would prove useful, or needed to be broken up during training.

The elite warriors had all been ordered to attend … and obeyed. All except for Jamin, who was nowhere to be found. This was a group he would need to break up, their advanced weapons skills distributed evenly amongst their weaker peers. But he needed to wield a democratic hand or resentment would undermine anything he tried to achieve. He turned to the man the Chief had assigned to be his liaison.

"Kiarash … are you ready?"

One of the Chief's two main 'enforcers' stepped forward. Wisdom … and more than a few battle scars … etched the heavily muscled, middle-aged man's face. Although Jamin had been in charge of the elite warriors, his leadership had only gone so far as his father's appointed 'babysitter' allowed it to go before alerting the Chief his son was out of line. Everything about the man spoke of solidity, confidence, and quiet competence.

"Have you given the matter we discussed earlier any thought?" Kiarash glanced over to where Jamin's elite warriors stood together as a unit, some glowering with resentment, others filled with curiosity. In the center stood their de facto leader now that Jamin had pulled a no-show.

"You called that one correctly," Mikhail frowned. Just because he'd anticipated what the Chief's son would do didn't mean he was happy about it. Chief Kiyan wanted Mikhail to mentor his son, but Kiarash had made his own recommendation in case things played out the way they expected. Unlike the chief, Kiarash believed in second, but not third chances. Mikhail was tired of offering the olive branch to a man who hated his guts. He made his decision.

"Siamek! Front and center!"

"Yes?" The tall, slender warrior stepped forward, his dark eyes wary, but lacking the hostility they'd possessed the first time they'd crossed swords at his crashed ship. Although not heavily muscled in the way that Jamin was, Siamek was agile and strong. If Kiarash's assessment was correct, Siamek could follow a chain of command without losing his ability to think independently.

"That's 'yes sir,'" Mikhail corrected. "If you're going to help lead these men, you need to set the proper example. Whenever you address a superior officer, you need to address them as 'sir.'"

A flash of anger shone in Siamek's dark eyes, which was replaced by disbelief, and then surprise as Mikhail's words sank in. He was being elevated to a position of leadership?

"S-sir," The unfamiliar word tumbled off of Siamek's tongue. He glanced over to Kiarash, who nodded. Siamek straightened up, his spear held perpendicular to the ground as he stared straight ahead.

Mikhail turned his attention back to the assembled men. A half-dozen women had also answered the call, including Pareesa, his littlest archer. They were all Pareesa's age, clustered together like birds, heads pressed together in whispers as though they were gathered at the village well.

Pareesa flashed him a proud grin. These were her recruits, and by the way they'd come wearing shawls belted high around their waists like kilts, she'd apprised them they would be getting thrown to the ground.

"These are unsettled times." Mikhail walked to stand between the two men he'd chosen to be his first and second lieutenant. "I didn't ask to be put into a position of leadership, but the fact remains that I come from an army who knows how to work together so that one soldier's weakness doesn't become the weakness of his entire unit."

The elite warriors averted their eyes. Jamin's moment of hesitation had only been momentary, but everyone in the village had seen it. He was lucky Siamek had been competent enough to follow through on the Chief's orders or he might have ended up with a Halifian arrow in his back. He began to pace up and down the line, twenty-five long, six deep, 152 in all.

"When you train together as a team, one soldier's strength can inspire every man on his team to become more than what he was before. I can't lay claim to being an expert on every aspect of warfare. In fact, as most of you have heard, if not for the dog tags Ninsianna found wrapped around my neck," he tugged the dog tags out of the neckline of his shirt and held them out for everyone to see, "I probably wouldn't even know my own name."

Nervous laughter rippled through the men.

"I don't remember a lot of what I was before I came here to your village," Mikhail said. "But as you all witnessed during the recent battle, there are some things that I just know. I can't tell you why I can remember some things, such as how to pick up a stick and use it as a spear..."

He borrowed Kiarash's spear and threw it to stick into the side of a far-off goat shed.

"…and yet I can't remember my own father's name." He stepped back to stand between his two lieutenants.

"There are some amongst this tribe who would give you a supernatural explanation as to why I'm able to do these things, but the truth is really quite simple. What few memories I do have all involve some type of training. Long, hard, brutal training amongst men … and women … who were all better fighters than me."

A murmur went through the men. He could tell they found it hard to believe that anyone had ever bested him. He allowed himself a rare smile.

"Believe it or not," Mikhail gave them a sheepish grin. "Some of my fondest absent memories involve having my tail feathers handed back to me by the Cherubim monks. Again. And again. And again."

The noise rippled into laughter. Humor. Unfamiliar territory, but he'd slowly been learning when to interject small confessions into the conversation to let people know his natural reticence didn't originate from what Ninsianna called a 'holier than thou' attitude. Mikhail began to pace again, not simply because it afforded him the opportunity to look each man in the eye and gauge his reaction, but also because it gave him someplace to channel the nervous energy rustling through his feathers. Without his memories, he had no idea what type of missions he'd led except for a vague recollection that the designation 'Colonel' on his dog tags meant he must have led men at some point in his career.

"Why should we follow you if you can't remember anything?" Firouz, asked. "Aren't we just wasting our time?"

He stopped and made eye contact with two elite warriors standing side-by-side, Firouz and Dadbeh, young men whose first act upon seeing him for the first time had been to attack him.

"I don't know how well these skills will generalize to teaching you," he said with unabashed honesty. "This is a different world, with different weapons and different rules than the world I come from. But if we all work together, perhaps we can come up with something that works? Because the way things are going right now isn't working out so well. Is it?"

The two men shifted uneasily on their feet. Two pairs of eyes turned to Siamek for guidance. Siamek hesitated, and then gave them a nod. The young men looked Mikhail in the eye and grumbled agreement. It wasn't a standing ovation, but as Kiarash had predicted, without Jamin here to stir up discontent, the other warriors would give him a chance to prove his point … or fail miserably.

"I just spent all morning hauling water to my field," an older man complained. "And I still have to go home and repair my goat fence. And then after that I need to haul even more water to my fields because by nightfall every ounce of water will have evaporated. When will I find time to do this training you speak of?"

Agreement rippled through the men. There was a reason so few belonged to the elite warriors. Only those whose families had the luxury of allowing their sons to be someplace other than bent over in the fields usually became part of the elite.

"My first day in this village, Chief Kiyan informed me that Assur doesn't have the resources to maintain a standing army," he said. "Unfortunately, that has not changed. We are in the middle of the growing season and the water isn't going to haul itself into our fields so that our crops don't wither and die. But we were just attacked. If we can't hold onto our lands, then planting them serves no purpose."

"If we don't plant food," an older man with many children said, "we'll starve. What good is staying on our lands if our children starve to death come winter?"

"Yeah," another man said. "They don't have to evict us. All they have to do is harass us until we starve ourselves to death!"

"I have no recollection of ever having to plant my own food," Mikhail said. "The only thing I can recall is training to be the very best soldier I could be."

A dissatisfied grumble moved through the men.

"However, the Emperor's armies are not the only warriors I ever trained with. Before I was sent to train with the Emperor, I trained with another race of warriors. The Cherubim. For some reason, that training has survived strongest in my memory. Amongst the Cherubim, there is no such thing as idleness. Everything they do is designed to serve two purposes. To accomplish some chore. And to keep their fighting skills sharp so that, at a moment's notice, they can drop everything and go defend the Eternal Emperor."

His eyes turned inward.

"One of the few memories I have is of encountering a gardener one day on my way to class," Mikhail said. "She was an ancient woman, too old to be kneeling on the ground pulling weeds. As she weeded, she moved all four of her arms in a different direction, carefully pulling out the weeds as though she were deep in a trance. I asked her what she was doing and she said it was the most important lesson a Cherubim novitiate could ever learn. She made me kneel down in the dirt with her and taught me this movement, even though I only have two hands and she had four of them."

Mikhail moved both of his hands in a circular motion, first one and then the other. He then added the movement of his wings she'd made him learn even though, without hands at the knee-joint of his wings the way that Shay'tan had, he'd never been able to pull any weeds with those limbs. He turned back to the warriors scrutinizing him with a curious expression upon their faces.

"I found out later that the reason there were no female Cherubim in any of my classes was that there are no female Cherubim. Except for one. Jingu. The Cherubim queen." There was a murmur amongst the men. "The mother of the guardians of the Eternal Emperor herself saw to it that I would always know how to defend myself, as small and weak as I was compared to my Cherubim mentors."

He turned to Siamek.

"Stab me with your spear."

"Wh-what?"

"I want you to stab me with your spear."

"But … really?" Siamek gave him a half-hearted jab. Mikhail knocked it to one side with a fan block which looked remarkably similar to the weeding movement.

"I want you to stab me for real," Mikhail said. "As though I were a Halifian. And you … and you … and you. I want you to stab at me as well. All four of you. At once. Go for it."

After much hesitation, the men began poking at him with the butt-end of their spears. It had been a long time since he'd learned this exercise, but the Cherubim had so deeply instilled the movement into his muscle memory that he was able to effortlessly deflect each and every jab. It helped that these men didn't really want to hurt him. An appreciative murmur went through the group.

"You were taught that by a queen?" Dadbeh asked.

"I was taught to weed a garden by the queen," Mikhail said. "I didn't find out it was a defensive kata until later, when Master Yoritomo threw me into the middle of a group of older students and told them to go at me. Compared to the Cherubim, I am quite the scrawny little runt. I think Jingu wanted to make sure I didn't get too badly chewed up and spit out."

"Weeding?" Dadbeh laughed. "You want us to learn to … weed?"

"Keep stabbing at me," Mikhail challenged. "I can keep it up all day."

The warriors gave it their best shot, their attempts at jabbing him increasing from mere half-hearted jabs to fairly ferocious, coordinated attacks once the warriors realized he was getting the better of them. After nearly five minutes of nonstop jabbing, they finally admitted defeat and began to good-naturedly joke about learning to weed. Mikhail ordered them to line up once more, and then carefully unsnapped the pulse rifle from his holster and held it flat in both of his hands.

"I can't explain why She-who-is erased all memory of learning to use this weapon, even though if you stick it in my hand my body knows what to do with it, and yet I can recall, in intricate detail, my time spent weeding the garden with the Cherubim queen."

He stuck the pulse rifle back in its holster.

"Why don't you use that weapon to defend us?" Siamek asked. His expression was not one of disrespect, but curiosity. The twenty-million credit question every man in the village wanted to know.

"You have a story about a man who finds a magic tallow lamp?" Mikhail said. "A spirit appears and gives the man three wishes. This weapon is like that. I used up two of my wishes the day your men attacked Ninsianna because I was too badly wounded to defend myself. I'll not use it again unless I'm desperate because I only get so many wishes and then the spirit won't grant them for me anymore."

Shame flushed Siamek's face. Mikhail broke eye contact, not wishing his distrust about elevating the young man to a position of authority to show, nor to have his answer appear to be an accusation. That first meeting had tainted every experience that had followed like rancid meat. If he was going to train these men to defend the village, he needed to be a better man than Jamin and move beyond his anger.

"I can't tell you why I don't remember how the sky canoe you all saw fall out of the sky got here," Mikhail said. "And yet I can remember marching with a group of men and women just like you, for hours on end, until it felt as though our legs would fall off and we would die of thirst."

He bent to pick up the two buckets of water he'd hauled up from the Hiddekel River earlier today.

"To fend off our enemies," he said. "We need to work together and figure out what you know, and what I know, and somehow put it all together so that the next time the Halifians come at us, we'll hit them so hard they will never again attempt to evict us from our lands."

The men gave a hearty cheer.

"That means we must pull double duty," he said. "We need to get creative about how we foster the skills we need to fight together as a team. The archers use these … water buckets … to help them build up the strength to draw their bows. Since we all need to march down to the river and haul water to our fields anyways, I thought it would be the most appropriate place to start. Agreed?"

"How will hauling water help us fight Halifians?" one of the older warriors asked. "It's just … water."

"The first thing any soldier must learn is how to think as a unit,” Mikhail said. "Not an individual. Therefore, when we go down to the river, instead of walking, we'll march in lockstep, as though we are all shamans performing a sacred dance, and carry the buckets of water like … Pareesa? Get up here! Demonstrate what the men are supposed to do!"

"Yes, Sir!" Pareesa pranced up like a gazelle and gave him a wink. The little imp enjoyed the attention. She stood with one hand on her hip, her attitude cocky as she lifted one of the buckets in a bicep curl Mikhail had taught her."

"That doesn't look hard!" Dadbeh said.

"That's right." Pareesa stepped up to stand directly in front of the elite group of warriors and held both arms out at her sides in a 'T'. "If a skinny little girl like me can do this, then it should be a piece of cake for the boys, right?" She accentuated the word boys to insinuate she didn't find them to be men.

"We can do better than you, little girl," Firouz teased.

"Then go ahead and try," Pareesa taunted.

Although Pareesa was only twelve years old, some of the warriors were not that much older. It was not the inspiration Mikhail hoped would motivate the men to practice in earnest, but he would take it.

"Let's get started!" Mikhail barked. "Siamek? Please lead the first group down to the river."

Their first march was sloppy and the lines were anything but crisp, but by the time they hauled the twentieth bucket of water into the fields, the clomp-clomp-clomp of their leather-wrapped feet hit the soil in unison. The sun slipped beneath the horizon and the dusk grew so dark that they would have bumped into one another had it not been for the sound of their feet and the off-color marching songs Mikhail taught them to help them keep the beat. By the time they were done, the men were tired, but feeling as though they had accomplished something.

They broke for the night and went home.

Chapter 87

Late-July - 3,390 BC

Earth:  Village of Assur

Ninsianna

With a sigh of relief, Ninsianna plunked down her basket of vegetables and wiped the sweat off of her brow. Out of the sun ... at last! With the sun well past its apex, the temperature should have begun to cool, but this time of year the heat was reluctant to release its grip upon the land. Mikhail used to help her perform the back-breaking labor of weeding the garden, picking rhinoceros beetles off of the plants and dropping them into a bowl of water to drown the ravenous cousins of the scarab beetle before they could devour their crops. But along with his newfound prestige as commander of the village defenses came a deficit of time.

She grabbed a ceramic cup off the shelf, decorated with symbols pressed into the clay with her own hand, and dipped it into the bucket of water she refilled twice per day from the communal well. The tepid water slid down her throat, already warm from sitting even though the temperature was cooler inside the house. She fished a strand of hair out of her mouth that had plastered itself to her cheek and plopped down upon the bench, wishing fervently she had time to take a nap.

Papa hurried in the door behind her, carrying an assortment of trinkets related to his trade. An eagle feather, although Ninsianna preferred to use one of Mikhail's, a small bowl for water, and a tiny clay plate used for burning dried parrotia leaves.

"Why not select a symbol for the Earth from your basket?" Papa asked. While he spoke, he cleared a small space in the center of the room and unrolled a carpet for them to sit upon.

"Which one, do you think?" She contemplated the bounty of their labors. Small white eggplants rested upon a bright green bed of broad beans, mustard greens and leeks.

"What does your intuition tell you, child?"

"All of these vegetables please She-who-is," Ninsianna said. "But I think today I shall use a leek."

"And why is that?"

"Because the tastiest part of it grows in the earth," Ninsianna said. "But the stalk reaches towards the sky. Where I wish to travel as soon as our troubles here are done."

"Are you so anxious to leave us, daughter?" Papa asked.

By his injured expression, Ninsianna knew she'd hit a nerve. Jamin had manipulated that fear, both with the Chief and also her own father, to get them to agree to attempt a forced union. As Mama's only full-fledged apprentice, she was too valuable an asset to allow to leave, a fear made greater by the fact that Papa had lured Mama away from another village. That had been the Chief's motivation for acting as he did. As for Papa ... he just wanted to keep his little girl close to home.

Ninsianna looked towards the door, the brilliant sunlight beckoning from beyond the mud brick house. How could she tell her Papa, who she loved more dearly than anyone in the world, that as soon as Mikhail finished whatever great task the goddess wished for him to perform, she would prevail upon him to fix his sky canoe and carry her into the heavens like She-who-is had promised the night they had made their bargain?

"Isn't that what you're teaching me to do right now, Papa?" Ninsianna lied. "To reach towards the heavens and listen to the will of She-who-is?"

Papa gave a satisfied grunt. He lowered himself to the floor and began to arrange the items around the carpet. He didn't light the parrotia, there being no fire burning in the oven right now and no time to light one from scratch. The elements he used in his rituals were more to aid his own focus than a requirement of She-who-is. He gestured for Ninsianna to join him on the mat. She grabbed the fattest leek and scrambled down to join him, placing it in the north to complete the circle.

"Today we'll learn how to find information about healing someone whose flesh has become riddled with evil spirits," Papa said.

"Shouldn't we be trying to spy on the Halifians, instead?" Ninsianna asked. "I heard Eshnunna was attacked again and three women taken. Perhaps we can find them for them?"

"That would necissitate the use of kratom," Immanu said. "And we don't have time for that today. Let Eshnunna's own shaman travel to find their women. I, for one, don't wish to spend the rest of the day nursing an upset stomach and sleeping it off when the raid could have been prevented had they sent two emissaries to learn archery when the other villages did."

“Is it always necessary to use Kratom to travel with the mind?”

“I have always found it helpful,” Papa said. “But some shamans can travel without it when their need is great.”

“Have you ever done it?”

“Yes,” Papa said. “But not often. You have to do it often enough to train your mind to travel without the drugs. It scares your mother. She doesn't like it when I travel, so I do it as little as possible.”

“You shouldn't let Mama prohibit your magic!" Ninsianna felt the thread that connected her to the goddess tug at the edge of her consciousness. “We are conduits of She-who-is. The will of the goddess is more important than our individual needs.”

“Ninsianna? Come back, child. I can't teach you if you don't stay here.”

“Papa? Oh!” Ninsianna realized she'd allowed herself to become distracted. It was much more interesting to listen to the thoughts of She-who-is. “I'm sorry. What did you say we would be learning today?”

“I'll teach you to look into spirit-light of another to discern illness,” Papa said. “It's the gift your mother possesses.”

“Mama sees the spirit light? She has never spoken of it to me.”

“Until now, it was been forbidden to teach women the skills of a shaman.” Papa got a guilty expression. “I was not supposed to teach her.”

“I can see the spirit light,” Ninsianna said. “But I don't always understand what I'm looking at.”

“How easily can you see it since She-who-is enhanced your vision?”

“I see it all the time now,” Ninsianna said. “But if I want to see where it's flowing, I have to concentrate.”

“My gift doesn't come as naturally as yours does,” Papa said. “I can see ... but I must mediate and focus. Mama uses the gift much more naturally, but she feels it rather than sees it. She must concentrate to see what she feels.”

“The gift is beautiful,” Ninsianna said. “But it's rather distracting. Sometimes I find myself watching the light somebody casts off when they speak instead listening to their actual words.”

“The light always tells the truth,” Papa said. “Whereas words can lie. You must pay attention to both. If somebody is being dishonest, either to you or to themselves, that's something you need to know.”

“How do I use the light to see sickness?”

A shadow which fell across the door. Mama shuffled inside, supporting an elderly neighbor, Mahtab, who puffed for breath as she walked. Ninsianna coud see blackness surrounding her heart. An angry red line spread down into her arm and up into her head.

“Mahtab has been experiencing dizziness and pains to her chest," Papa said. "You should look at her spirit-light while Mama explains what sickness she has.”

Mama helped Mahtab over to the bench Ninsianna had vacated earlier. The old woman sighed with relief the moment she sat down and labored to catch her breath. Mama grabbed another cup from the shelf and offered their neighbor water. Mahtab drank the first one down and asked for another before her breathing finally settled down. As she did, the blackness lessened, but the red line didn't go away. Mama wore the unreadable expression she often wore when she knew the news was not good, but didn't wish to let her patient know how bad things really were.

“Ninsianna, what do you see?” Mama asked.

Ninsianna tapped into that sense of knowing.

“I see her artery is clogged with an ugly yellow substance that's blocking the blood,” Ninsianna said.

“Her what?”

“The thick line that carries blood into the heart." Ninsianna used the word Mama knew instead of the strange words which had jumped into her mind.

“And what treatment do you recommend?”

“I'm not sure,” Ninsianna said. “I can see what is there. But I don't know how it got there or how to remove it.”

“You're using your thoughts to see,” Papa said. “You must push your thoughts to the side and allow She-who-is to show you the information.”

“Is this how you see things, Mama?" Ninsianna was surprised that her mother had possessed this ability all along and had never spoken of it.

“Not in the way that you do,” Mama said. “I don't quite see. I feel the illnesses of others as though it were an echo within my own body. She-who-is has given me the gift of empathy.”

“Can you see it, Papa?”

“I can,” he said, “but only with great effort. She-who-is has given you a magnificent gift.”

“Ninsianna,” Mama said. “What treatment will help Mahtab feel better?”

Ninsianna reached down into the thread that connected her to She-who-is. It felt like diving into a river of consciousness, all the thoughts that had ever existed and someday would be. Not finding the information she sought, she dove deeper, riding the current and learning many wonderful things. For a moment, she forgot all about who she was and why she was there, swimming in the thoughts of She-who-is.

“Ninsianna, you must focus..." Papa's voice sounded far away. Some part of her recognized that her own voice was speaking, verbalizing what she saw and saying it aloud, but she was not in control of it.

“She has gone too deep into the dreamtime,” Mama's voice said. “Immanu! You must pull  her out!”

“Ninsianna... Ninsianna.... Nin.si.an.na......”

The current carried her away to all sorts of pleasant dreams. The stars sang to her, welcoming her into their midst. She didn't wish to return to the room with the tired old woman with the bad heart. Following the stream, it led her to a room with two men playing chess, only one of them was a big red dragon instead of a man. Both creatures contained equal amounts of darkness and light, but the dragon carried a bit more darkness than the man.

Their names jumped into her mind. She understood the game they played and why they played it. As she watched, Emperor Shay’tan tried to take the white queen and Emperor Hashem moved a white knight to prevent it. On the far corner of the board, a second white knight sat surrounded by black chess pieces, forgotten by both of the players. It was Mikhail. She was certain of it. The opponents were so engrossed in their game that neither of them noticed her floating there in the same stream of consciousness as they inhabited.

As she watched, a white bishop moved of its own volition, not noticed by either player. Urgency clamored in the stream-of-consciousness which surrounded her, making sure she noticed what the two old gods had missed. The Evil One was on the move! The players nodded amicably and disappeared. No longer interesting, it was only an empty room. Ninsianna remembered that she was here for a reason. She rode the stream of consciousness further until, at last, she came to the information she'd originally sought ... how to help her neighbor reduce the pain in her tired old heart.

“Ninsianna!”

Mikhail? She could hear him call to her. She searched, but she couldn't find him here amongst the beautiful things the goddess allowed her to see. Oh, no! She remembered her father's warning about not becoming so fascinated by the dreamtime that she forgot about her body. She needed to go back, lest she let go of the thread which connected her body to her spirit.

“Ninsianna! You have gone too far into the dreamtime. You must come back.”

Ninsianna followed his voice. She was not frightened, but it took her a long time to find her way back. At last she felt Mikhail's hand touching her cheek. She was almost home. Willing herself to follow his touch, she brought herself back into her own body.

“Mikhail,” she smiled breathlessly, eager to share what she'd just seen. “I heard you. When did you get home?”

Mikhail crushed her into his chest and held her so tight that it hurt. The sigh which escaped his lungs was almost a cry of grief. Why was he trembling?

“You were gone so long we were afraid you wouldn't find your way back again.” Papa said.

“Where is Mahtab?" It was now dark and the fire burned in the oven.

“She went home hours ago,” Mama said. “You went to that other place. We thought it best to send her home while I fetched Mikhail to call you back.”

Mikhail released her from the embrace, but he continued to hold her hand as though he feared she would dive back into that place and never return to him.

“What did you see, Ninsianna?” Papa asked.

“I saw Hashem and Shaytan,” she said. “The two old gods who divide this galaxy between them. They were playing chess. Shaytan tried to take the white queen and Hashem blocked it with a second white knight. And I saw you, my love, on their chessboard. Way off in the corner with us. And I saw the white bishop. The white bishop is moving on his own. The old gods didn't notice him, but I did! The Evil One is about to do something neither old god expects!”

“I think ... I think I have heard this before,” Mikhail said. “Something about two old gods dividing the galaxy between them in a game of chess."

Worry creased his brow. Ninsianna reached up and smoothed it to reassure him she was fine. Mikhail kissed her hand, concern marring his beautiful, strong features.

“You must be more careful when you ride the currents of the dreamtime,” Papa scolded her. “If you get lost, your body won't be able to take care of itself and you'll be trapped in there forever.”

“But it was so pleasant there,” Ninsianna said.

She reached up and touched Mikhail’s cheekbone, her fingers sliding down to caress the firm line of his jaw. The dreamtime had been so pleasant. If not for the goddess' sense of urgency about communicating the information about the white bishop, in all honesty, she probably would have stayed there.

“I know,” Papa said. “You looked very content while your mind was gone. Normally the teacher would come in and drag their student back, but you went much further than I have ever been able to go. Usually a new student can't travel that far without first drinking the sacred beverage. I was not expecting it.”

“I would have come back on my own, Papa,” Ninsianna said. “Just not right away. After I saw the chess game, I found the information Mama wanted. Mahtab should drink tea twice per day with three leaves of the yellow foxglove in it. It won't prolong her life, but it will make her more comfortable while she is here.”

“That's one of the correct treatments for a weak heart,” Mama nodded approval. “Although I would have preferred you didn't scare us to get that information. I already knew it.”

“Did you learn it in the dreamtime, too?”

“No, child,” Mama said. “I learned it the hard way. By apprenticing with the Gasur village healer and memorizing it. My gift is to diagnose, not to enter the dreamtime. Only your father can enter the dreamtime.”

“You can do both,” Immanu said. “But like me, sometimes you need a little help to find your way back. Next time, I'll teach you how to leave markers so you can find your way out on your own without a caller."

Papa reached out and grabbed Mama’s hand. He smiled, and Mama smiled back. She'd always thought of her parents as, well, parents. Not lovers the way she thought of Mikhail. Thinking back, though, their affection had always been palpable. Her father adored her mother. She'd always taken her parents relationship for granted the way children often do. Now she'd a new appreciation of their bond.

Mikhail wore that too-serious expression that he habitually donned, especially when he was worried about her. Watching. Observing every detail. Calculating it in his mind and running a thousand different scenarios about how he could be prepared to defend her against any threat. His race had long ago abandoned the dreamtime in favor of tek-no-lo-gee. He would need time to acclimate to her newfound abilities.

“I'll always come back,” she reassured him, his flesh betraying the fear he would never allow to show in his face. “No matter how far I travel, Mikhail, I will always come back for you.”

Chapter 88

End-July  – 3,390 BC

Earth:  Village of Assur

Colonel Mikhail Mannuki’ili

Mikhail

It was a sorry looking, hang-dog dead group of men who gathered for today's lesson. Even though it was after supper, the lengthening shadows did little to alleviate the mid-summer heat. Mikhail stood, wings flared, each feather fluffed out in the vain hope of catching the non-existent breeze. How was he supposed to motivate men to give more than they'd already given to their fields, their trades, and their families, when all that he, himself wanted to do was crawl under the nearest canopy and take a nap?

"I'm glad to see you all came back for more," he said.

The warriors grumbled a half-hearted response. By the way most leaned on their practice-staffs for support, they wanted to dump a quick bucket of water on their fields and go home for some rest. Had they not gotten fresh reports of villages being raided, he might have indulged that urge, but they couldn't afford to be complacent. Assur must learn to protect itself. Not just depend upon him for a security blanket.

He tried to get the men psyched up to put a little effort into their training. ““I can’t hear you!!! What was that again?”

“Yes … Sir!" The response was only slightly more energetic than the first one.

“Good!" He gave them a crisp Alliance salute. Most gave a halfway decent salute in return. Not perfect. They still had a tendency to poke themselves in the eye with their thumb, but they were getting better.

"When will we get to actually hit one another?" Firouz grabbed his buddy Dadbeh and pretended to punch him. Dadbeh hit him back, for real, though not hard.

"I think we've got the marching part down," Dadbeh did his best impersonation of a mock march. "One-two-three-four, what I need is a drunken whore!"

The other warriors began to laugh, which happened a lot when those two got warmed up with their antics. He'd tried separating them, but somehow they always ended up back at one another's side. With the heat sapping their vitality, he'd finally decided to just let the two play off of one another and provide a little comic relief. Although his memories of Raphael were few and far between, he could recall the good-natured Angelic playing pranks on him to get him to lighten up.

"It has been two weeks of march, march, march!" Firouz complained. "We want to get to the good part."

"Yeah, the good part!" Numerous other warriors chimed in.

"And which part would that be?" Mikhail rustled his feathers.

"You know," Dadbeh said. "The part where your eyes glow blue and you take on seventeen men at once with your pinkie finger."

"I'm teaching you to fight the exact same way the Eternal Emperor taught me." Mikhail suppressed his irritability, which he knew was made worse by the heat.

"These don't look like firesticks." Dadbeh held out his spear. "Just stick one of those in our hands, and we won't need to march back and forth to the river carrying buckets of water!"

"We must work with the tools She-who-is had given us." Mikhail turned to face the larger group. "Before I start pulling men out for elite training, you must first learn to fight together. That way, no matter who you end up fighting beside, you know you can rely on them to watch your back."

"But we already work well together!" Firouz slapped his arms around Dadbeh's shoulders, still trying to garner attention for himself. "We share everything. Even the same women."

"And what will happen when you don't have your best friend watching your back?" Mikhail pressed his wings tightly against his back. "Then what? I notice you two don't fight so well when you're paired with somebody else. Who will you rely on then?"

The two young men didn't have an answer to that question. Of course they didn't! Until now, groups of friends had practiced whatever skills sparked their interest, not the more boring, but necessary, parts which made the coordination of massive armies possible. Mikhail refocused the group's attention back on today's lesson.

“Yesterday we discussed how to incorporate additional strength-training exercises into your daily routine,” he said, “so that you build up the muscles to do the training I'm about to teach you. Does anybody have any questions?”

“Yes, Sir,” one villager asked.

“Ebad, correct?” Mikhail asked. “What is your question?" Ebad was an enthusiastic, if awkward student.

“My family is potters, Sir, not farmers,” Ebad said. “We only have a small garden to haul water to. What should I be doing instead?”

“See me after class,” Mikhail said. “We’ll work something out. Buckets of clay, perhaps?”

While he'd been addressing the men, Homa had jogged up and waited patiently for him to finish. Although archer training had never been as formal as the military skills he was attempting to instill into the larger group, his archers instinctively understood that they were the example to which the newer warriors should aspire to … and acted accordingly. With much formality, he turned to address her.

"Yes, Homa?"

"Behnam said fourteen more archers showed up for training today," Homa said. "All women with small children. They can only stay until the sitter summons them to go home. Should he allow them to join the group?"

"What is their reason for the half-lesson?" Mikhail asked. Yalda and Zhila had put out a call to the elderly citizens of the village to offer to watch young children so their mothers could train. As far as he knew, the elders had been willing to take up the slack.

"All of them are nursing mothers," Homa said. "When the baby cries, they need to go feed them. Behnam wants to know how your people usually solve this problem?"

There were some memories that lurked just beneath the surface, quick glimpses of faces or bits of conversation, but try as he might, nothing could shake free memories of how his own people reared their young. You would have thought he'd never seen a baby before!

"I can't remember," he said. "Tell him to accommodate them as best he can. That's the age group the kidnappers seem to be targeting the most."

"Yes, sir!" Homa said. With a crisp salute, her eyes darted to the men with a proud 'see … this is how it's done' look. Her military protocol would have been perfect had she not stopped to give Pareesa a high-five.

“Yesterday we learned how to do basic blocks and hits,” Mikhail said. “Today we'll practice these skills on one another. Did everybody bring rags to wrap around your hands?”

“Yes, Sir!"

“I forgot,” a few said.

“In battle, as in life,” he said, “if you come unprepared, you will be at a disadvantage. It's important to learn this lesson now, sparring with your neighbors, instead of later, at the end of a Halifian spear. Therefore, those of you who forgot your hand rags will fight one another. When you get hit, it's going to hurt.”

Mikhail ignored the grumbles and showed those who didn't already know how to wrap a strip of rag around each hand so that they wouldn't be punching with bare knuckles. Earlier in the week he'd taught them to do basic kicks, punches and blocks against an imaginary opponent. Today would be the first time they fought one another.

“Find a sparring partner and pair off,” Mikhail ordered. “Do we have anybody who doesn't have a partner?”

“I don't have a partner!” Pareesa shouted.

“And why is it, little fairy, that you never seem to be able to find a partner?" Mikhail donned a mock-serious expression. Pareesa had always been an enthusiastic learner, but ever since she'd been captured, she pursued combat skills with a vengeance.

“They're all afraid,” she bragged, putting her hands on her hips and tossing her head like a prizefighter.

“Afraid?” he asked. “Of who?”

“Actually … you…” she leaned in and whispered. “Taking you on scares them worse than anything –I- could ever do to them.”

“You're not afraid because you know I hold my punches,” he said. He then said louder, “all right everyone, I'll demonstrate with Pareesa, and then you'll all spar with one another for the next two hours while I go around looking for bad habits. Pareesa … ready stance!”

“Yes, Sir!" She spread her feet to shoulder-width, bending her knees and pulling her arms into her sides so she could move in any direction. He banged his fists against hers in a gesture of mutual respect. He was nearly twice her size, but he'd learned not to underestimate the diminutive fairy warrior. What she lacked in size, she more than made up for in ferocity.

“No cheating,” she whispered. “The rest of us don't have wings.”

“Go!" He allowed her to make the first move.

He tucked his wings against his back so as not to gain an unfair advantage. This worked against him. Without wings extended for balance, he was forced to carry their dead weight. It slowed him down and upset his balance, allowing Pareesa to land a few good kicks and punches.

“You’re not using the high block enough, Pareesa." He lightly clubbed her with a hammer fist on top of her head. “You're a woman. Most opponents will be taller than you. You need to practice that block.”

“Blocks are boring!" She aimed a crescent kick straight at his knee. “Kicking is more fun.”

“You can't kick,” Mikhail blocked her kick and brought down a second, identical fist onto the top of her head, “if you're unconscious."

Pareesa grunted in pain and punched at his abdomen, which he blocked. The others gathered in a circle and cheered Pareesa on, which made the little spitfire increase her kicks and punches. For a creature born without wings, Pareesa was quite good at becoming airborne.

“Hah!" She crowed with delight as she finally landed a round house kick to his hip. She added a clicking Cherubim phrase she'd begged Ninsianna to teach her. “Watashi wa anata no oha o keru hitsuyō ga arimasu!!!” [I should kick your tail feathers!]

“Good,” he said, “but you dropped your fists. Always keep your guard up." He gave her a right hook in the area she'd left open during the kick. “And you would say ‘watashi wa kikku subekide wa naku, kikku sa remasu,’ [I will kick, not I should kick]." He corrected her grammar as Pareesa grunted in pain.

“Take that!” she laughed, spinning around to give him a back kick, a move he hadn't yet taught the others.

“That’s not part of today’s lesson,” he said.

“Neither is this…" She grabbed his shoulders and spun her weight around his torso in a dancelike move he'd never seen. Thrown off balance, one wingtip hit the ground to prevent him from falling. He knocked her grip off of his shoulders in a double elbow thrust to both arms. The trainees cheered at her bold maneuver.

“What was that?" He landed a left reverse punch to her shoulder as she regained her balance.

“Stag dance move,” she smirked. She blocked his jab and returned one of her own. “Hunting season. You weren't here yet.”

“You'll have to teach me that sometime." He gave her a side kick to the gut and knocked her back. “You could have avoided that kick by doing a low block."

Pareesa grunted and punched repeatedly at his abdomen. “I would much … rather … punch … you!" She became frustrated when she wasn't able to land any blows.

“I have a longer reach than you." He easily blocked her hits and reached in to give her another direct hit to the abdomen. “I hope you didn't have a large supper.”

“Oomph!" Pareesa grunted in pain. “No fair.”

“Life isn't fair, little fairy." He did the same punch again. “If you're going to fight men, you must overcome our height and weight advantage.”

“Why do you think I'm here?" She blocked his third punch by finally doing the block he'd been trying to get her to do all along. “I don't feel like getting carried off again by slavers.”

“Okay … enough!" He stepped back and offered both fists to bang together. “Very good, Pareesa. Now … does anyone have any questions?”

Pareesa did a victory dance and rejoined the young men who perpetually hovered around her. She still had the slender figure of an adolescent, but the ferocity of a hardened warrior. The other women slapped her raised palm. Over the past two weeks, their numbers had climbed from six to seventeen.

He had the trainees pair off and spar each other, correcting errors and reminding them to remember basic moves such as blocking hits or keeping their hands up so their chest and face weren’t vulnerable. As the sun dipped down towards the horizon, he ended the day's lesson with a quick march down to the river for water. The men dove into to the cool water, enjoying relief from the mid-summer heat, before marching in unison to water their fields. They were all in good spirits when he dismissed them for the night.

Chapter 89

Galactic Standard Date:  152,323.07.31 AE

Alpha Sector:  Command Carrier ‘Eternal Light’

Supreme Commander-General Jophiel

Jophiel

They tried to pay attention as she gave her daily briefing in the hanger bay of the Eternal Light, but even the most seasoned eyes wandered from General Jophiel to the infant she carried bundled in a sling against her chest.

“As you were." With one arm supporting her son’s rapidly increasing weight, she used her other to give her troops a crisp salute. “Dismissed.”

She sighed with relief as the men and women who served under her trailed out from the hanger bay to begin that days duties and massaged her back. Who would have thought raising her own child would have such an impact on her work? Twelve babies she'd borne the Alliance, but this was the first time she'd actually had to rear one of them. She could see now why the Emperor had offered youth training academies as a solution for parents whose empire couldn't spare their losing years out of work to rear their own young.

“General Jophiel.” Major Klik'rr waited patiently for her at the edge of the assembly with the usual stack of paperwork to be signed, debriefings to be read, and decisions needing input about resource movements and troop rotations, a sharp contrast from her sudden duties as a mother. “Here's the latest intelligence report from Zulu Sector.”

“Thank you, Klik'rr,” Jophiel took the report. “I'd also like to see the reports from Romeo, Sierra, and Tango Sectors. Let’s see what that old devil Shay’tan is up to.”

“Yes, Sir,” Klik'rr said. “I'll have them on your desk by oh-eight-hundred hours.”

She knew from experience the reports would be there at least one hour earlier. Klik'rr was hardworking and efficient, as most of the Mantoids were who served under her command. There had been some grumbling when she'd elevated Klik'rr to be her Captain instead of one of the longer-serving personnel who were all worthy of promotion, but Klik'rr anticipated her every need and got things done without her ever needing to micromanage. Given that more than 95% of the military was now comprised of species other than hybrids, it was about time the Emperor had ordered a more egalitarian promotion system rather than simply promoting hybrids because their name happened to be on the branch of the military in which they served.

"The merit-based promotion order, Sir," Klik'rr said.

She glanced at the general order stating that, from now on, all branches of the military would promote within their ranks based on merit, not the seniority-based system which had all-but guaranteed the longer-lived hybrids would always be ahead of the shorter-serving newer sentient races. It had given her people prestige … but also made them so irreplaceable that the Emperor couldn't afford to have them retire or take family leave. If they were to avoid extinction, that system had to end. She signed it.

"The specs for the newest warships for your approval, Sir." Klik'rr slipped the document ordering that all new warships were to be built to accommodate a variety of species, not just the hybrids.

She signed that as well.

Klik'rr silently put the last document onto her smart pad and tilted his antennae in an inquiring look. Her hand trembled.

"I can't do this," she said.

Her white feathers rustled. There had not been 'hybrid-anything' for many years, but she wouldn't be the one to strike the name of the hybrid race who'd been genetically engineered to be that branch of the military from that branch of service's name and declare they'd been replaced. For now, they would remain the Angelic Air Force, the Leonid Multi-Purpose Fighting Forces, the Mer Navy, and the Centauri Calvary. She glanced down at Uriel sleeping peacefully upon her chest while she juggled command of the Emperor's military. Maybe the Emperor's concessions would allow them to bring their species back from the brink of extinction?

Klik'rr gave her a nod, no judgment in his compound eyes as he quietly slipped the document down to the bottom of the stack, and put the next order requiring her signature at the top of the pile, a routine order approving the reassignment of one of her last few remaining Merfolk command carriers to a Mer-Levi Foundation water world. Now there was a species who was surviving! Although they were no longer Merfolk … nor technically part of the Alliance since the remote Mer-Levi Foundation had peacefully voted itself an independent trust territory capable of governing itself while the Emperor had been away on his 200 year sabbatical. Jophiel signed the order.

“Sss’kkk skr,r,r Igginn’z’zi." Jophiel unconsciously shifted the baby’s weight as she saluted. [Thank you, dismissed].

She punched the display to scroll through the reports Klik'rr had left her with, many of them appearing deceptively inconsequential unless you spread them all out and looked for the larger patterns. Patterns … Raphael was back in Zulu Sector trying to find this ‘solution’ the Emperor had spoken of. He was positive that the mysterious increase in Sata'anic shipping activity and Mikhail's disappearance were related. She'd quadrupled the number of ships at his disposal, but they still only had disconnected pieces of a puzzle. Something was going on.

Uriel murmured in his sleep, his reddish-blonde peach fuzz reminding her so much of Raphael that it made her smile. Not only was he thriving, but his complexion had turned a scrumptious pinky-peach color that reminded her of the blossoms of the Eternal Tree that bloomed in the Emperor's garden every spring. Overnight, wasting sickness had disappeared, any child who showed difficulty adjusting to the Emperor's youth training academies prescribed a regiment of frequent parental visitation or, in the case of the sickest babies, concessions such as hers, so that no more precious infants were lost.

"Tomorrow is Sabbath-day," Jophiel kissed Uriel's forehead. "Daddy will come visit you for the day. And perhaps me? If I can get my reports cleared off my desk?"

Uriel's little pink mouth grimaced and then curved up into a precious little smile. Once per week, Raphael took a living needle ship, a high-speed biomechanoid capable of slipping between the dimensions and jumping across the galaxy the way ascended beings could, to spend a day playing with their son.

And her…

The mere thought of the time they spent together each week made her smile, but they were being given special treatment. Even as they relished their happiness as a family, they could both sense fractures reverberating throughout the Alliance.

A pregnant Angelic, fresh from the academy, shot her an envious look. Jophiel clutched her baby to her chest, the gesture instinctive. The cadet gave her a crisp salute and returned to her duties. Fault lines. Jophiel could feel the fault lines opening up in the Alliance as surely as she could feel Uriel's weight tugging her forward and making her back ache. She prayed that Raphael would find this ‘solution’ Hashem spoke of soon. If he didn't, all Hades was about to break loose…

Chapter 90

July 31st  – 3,390 BC

Earth:  Village of Assur

Colonel Mikhail Mannuki’ili

Mikhail

“So, young man," Yalda elbowed him in the ribs, "do you even know what you’re supposed to do on your wedding night?"

The three of them sat around the widow-sisters kitchen table sipping mead, a fermented alcoholic beverage made from honey, water and yeast from a tall, slender ceramic urn with a narrow neck designed to separate out the desireable portions of the beverages they fermented from the parts that were better left in the jar. Mikhail’s head spun from the alcohol they'd already imbibed. The widow-sisters, it turned out, were descended from a long line of brewers and fermenters. Yalda and Zhila could drink any man under the table. Including him.

“Uhm … actually … I can’t remember if I know what to do or not.”

“Ha ha!” Zhila laughed. “Memory loss is a beautiful thing! This means whether or not you're a virgin, it will be your first time." She relished the pink that crept into Mikhail's cheeks as she gave her sister a conspiratorial wink.

Tomorrow was the first harvest festival of the growing season when the earliest sheathes of grain had ripened enough for picking, a point halfway between the summer solstice and the fall equinox. He and Ninsianna would be wed and finally granted permission to mate. Three days ago, Immanu had ceremonially banned him from the house, the groom forbidden to gaze upon the bride while she retreated to prepare for her nuptials.

"I appreciate your letting me stay here," Mikhail said. "It wouldn't have been very convenient to fly back and forth to my ship while I was 'banished.'"

"More like they don't want the bride frightening off the groom with all her talk about the preparations of food and status of her wedding dress," Yalda laughed.

"Ninsianna is less shallow than most," Zhila said, "but even the most gracious bride gets snippy a few days before her wedding."

That was the understatement of the year! He suspected her grouchiness had more to do with the fact they barely saw each other since the Chief had put him in charge of training the others and she'd been forced to take up the slack with the household chores.

He took another sip of the vat of mead through the long river reeds they used as straws. After three days with the widow-sisters, he could see why they were reluctant to be parted from one another. They shared a rapport he could only envy. He only hoped he and Ninsianna would grow to share a similar closeness, something he'd sorely missed ever since they'd left the intimacy of his ship.

"I remember my first time," Yalda leaned towards him and poked him with a bony finger.

"Listen," Zhila waggled her eyebrows at him. "There are a few things you need to know about pleasing a woman…"

They cackled like two old hens, telling him w-a-y more information than he wanted to know about how to please Ninsianna on their wedding night. He sat there, his ears turning first pink, and then a deep shade of scarlet.

His head spinning, Mikhail excused himself and asked to lie down. Judging from the two nights spent with the sisters prior to tonight, they were just getting warmed up. He didn't want to spend his wedding day hung over like he had after the first night spent here, the next day's warrior training lesson taking on a surreal penumbra from the splitting hangover he'd been nursing. He was good at many things, but imbibing ungodly amounts of alcohol was not one of them.

Or milking goats…

Mikhail didn't even want to think about his long-running war with Immanu’s dairy goat right now. Trying not to think about demonic goats besting him in battle with their evil little horns, Mikhail drifted off to the sleep to the sound of the widow-sisters cackling about the sexual prowess of husbands long dead and in the grave.

Chapter 91

August 1st  – 3,390 BC

Earth:  Village of Assur

Ninsianna

Ninsianna and her closest friends stood jammed into her tiny bedroom like dried dates jammed into a jar for winter storage.

“It's crooked,” Mama said.

“It is not!” Homa said. “She's just standing crooked.”

“Is too,” Gisou agreed with Mama. “You sewed the flower into the seam. See …”

“We need to rip out that fringe and redo it,” Mama said.

“Mama! There's no time!”

Ninsianna had been so busy training new archers that she’d had no time to finish embroidering her bridal shawl. She'd finally resorted to inviting her archer-sisters over for a sewing party while she was in seclusion. Flax cloth was horrifically time-consuming to weave, much less to embellish it in such an ornate manner. This was and would probably remain the finest shawl dress she owned for the rest of her life.

“Why not rip out just that one flower?” Yadidatum suggested. “Mikhail won't even notice.

“But then it won’t be symmetrical!” Homa cried. “I spent an entire day counting the number of flowers and making sure they were even.”

“It doesn't matter,” Yadidatum said. “It’s not like men notice something like that, even if it stands up and hits them on the nose.”

“Yadidatum is right,” Mama said. “Either you can get married in an uneven shawl that everybody can see from far away. Or you get married in a straight shawl with one less flower. It's your choice.”

“Okay,” Ninsianna sighed. “Let’s rip out the flower. We can sew it back on correctly after the wedding.”

Three days without him had made her grumpy. She missed his quiet warmth, not to mention the eye-pleasing view every time he flexed a muscle. She also missed the way he deflected her attempts to break his formidable self-control by taking her airborne, an exhilarating experience. Ninsianna’s mind headed down into a very naughty and dirty place with thoughts about what they were going to do after the ceremony.

“Why are you smiling?” Pareesa asked.

“Oh … no reason…” Ninsianna said noncommittally to the still-very-young maiden.

“I know why!” Homa laughed. “She is thinking of all the naughty things she is going to do to that handsome winged stud of hers later!”

“Homa!” Mama shushed, looking at Pareesa. “We have young ears present!"

Normally a twelve-year-old such as Pareesa would have been hanging around with less gutter-minded young women, but her natural talent as a warrior had exposed her to other ideas besides how to shoot an arrow.

“It’s not like I don't know what … what … well … at least I have an idea what you're all talking about!” Pareesa blushed.

“Pareesa’s mother would have you girl’s heads if she overheard you right now!" Mama gave the girls a pointed look. “Young lady … you have a few more years to go before you speak of such things!”

“Of course, Needa!" The mischievous twinkle in her eye clued the others the fairy-like Pareesa had no intention of doing what she was told. Her near capture had changed the young woman, making her more serious. This glimpse of the 'old' Pareesa was a welcome sight.

“Ninsianna … it's time!” Papa shouted up the stairs.

“Let’s go, daughter,” Mama said with a serious expression. All of a sudden, she gave Ninsianna a hug and burst into tears.

“Mama … what is wrong?”

“Oh, nothing,” Mama wiped her tears with her sleeve as she tried to compose herself. “It’s just … I'm so happy.”

The girls giggled as they tromped down the stairs. Papa held out one arm, kissed her on the cheek, and escorted her to the main square. As shaman, Papa's job was to ensure no evil spirits intruded upon their nuptials while they took their vows.

They had originally intended to have a small ceremony, just her family, Mikhail’s friends Yalda and Zhila, and the original eight archers who had become a close-knit group. Unfortunately, since the night of the raid, Mikhail had become a security blanket for the rattled villagers. The wedding was the Chief’s opportunity to reassure his people that their champion was not about to take wing and leave them to fend for themselves in the wake of the strange, coordinated raids.

The old tightwad had even offered to pay for everything….

It was a party-like atmosphere as they wound their way through the tightly packed streets, well-wishers who were not already in the main square for the opening festivities thronging behind her as though it were a parade. Older residents came out and wished her well, while some of the younger, more gutter-minded young women made off-color jokes about how much she must be looking forward to being turned from a maiden into a woman. Some of the comments were quite … explicit. Ninsianna blushed, her cheeks rosy and pink with excitement by the time they traversed the village and entered the main village square.

Her breath caught in her chest as she caught sight of him waiting for her in front of the Chief. She'd always thought he was the most beautiful man she'd ever seen, but today he wore his dress uniform, his wings pressed tightly against his back. The formality was broken when he flashed her a rare smile, although these days, in the privacy of their home, he'd started to smile quite a lot. She noticed how snug his uniform had become across his chest and arms. Living amongst the Ubaid doing hard physical labor had filled him out, including the axillary muscles running down his back which powered his flight. He reached out to take her hand.

“You look beautiful.”

“You look good, too." She glanced around at all the people who had come. "The whole village is here? That's quite a turnout.”

“The Chief promised free food afterward." His eyes twinkled as he cracked a rare joke. Three days of hanging around the Trickster Sisters had taught him humor.

Papa circled the perimeter, waving a smoldering bundle of the sacred qat plant and invoking the deities who would protect their marriage from evil spirits. Marriages were performed both by the Chief, who had the power to accept or deny unions, and the village shaman, who had the power to invoke the blessings of She-who-is. Symbolically, it represented the synergy of the material realm with the dream time.

“Are we ready to begin?” Chief Kiyan asked.

“Yes,” they both answered.

The Chief was as long-winded as he usually was. The surroundings began to fade as she marveled at the beautiful winged man She-who-is had sent to be her husband. She was barely conscious of Papa wrapping a braided wheat-sheath cord around the both of their arms, symbolizing the binding together of two spirits into one. So beautiful, the gift that had been given to her by She-who-is. Both him … and the ability to see. Ninsianna watched the inner light swirl around him as he gave her a smile that would have lit up the night sky. Beautiful golden-white light spiraled out of his heart and wrapped her in his essence like rays from a sun, the real-life energy backing up the wedding vows he repeated after the Chief words about remaining faithful to her until death did them part.

“I do,” part of her heard him say as she saw the energy which bound them together as husband and wife spiral out into the universe. Still riding the wave of goddess-vision, she saw, rather than heard, the words as he made his commitment to be her mate for life.

“You're supposed to say -I do-” Mikhail leaned in and whispered in her ear.

“Huh?" Her mind came back into the physical realm.

“You're supposed to say that you'll have me,” he said. “You went to that other place...”

“Oh … I do!” she said loud enough so everybody could hear.

“Then as Chief of this village, I now pronounce you husband and wife,” Chief Kiyan said. “Mikhail … you may kiss your bride.”

Ninsianna's heart skipped a beat as he bent in to kiss her, pulling her close in a display of public affection that would have scandalized the more conservative members of the tribe had he not immediately encircled them in his wings. Outside, the tribe clapped, then began to chuckle and laugh as their kiss lingered, and lingered, and then lingered some more. Finally, the more uninhibited in the group cat-called and cracked jokes about finding the nearest bed. Two of the cat-callers sounded suspiciously like Yalda and Zhila.

His lips slid from the edge of her mouth, along her cheek, to whisper in her ear. “How long are we obligated to stick around before we can leave?”

“Mmmmmm....” she mumbled in a pleasantly fuzzy haze. “Do we need to stick around at all?”

“No.”

Grabbing her waist, he flared his wings and catapulted them into the sky, away from the crowd, towards his ship where they would spend the next two weeks attending to the business of doing what married couples did. The wedding guests clapped until they flew out of range.

* * * * *

Immanu and Needa

“In a hurry, aren't they?” Needa squeezed her husband's hand in an affectionate grip.

“At least they waited." Immanu pulled her in for a hug. “We didn't…”

“They don't know that,” Needa chuckled. Her cheeks became pink at the memory of their first encounters together in the woods behind her home village of Gasur.

“Nor does Ninsianna know she was already well on the way when we finally got around to performing the nuptials." Immanu gave his wife a pinch on the backside when no one was looking. “It was the only way we could get your parents to agree to the union.”

“Do you think their children will have wings?” Needa asked.

“Only the goddess knows." Immanu wrapped one arm around her shoulders. “I just hope She-who-is blesses their union quickly. It's been a long time since we've had little ones running around.”

Chapter 92

August 1st  – 3,390 BC

Earth:  Village of Assur

Jamin

In the back of the crowd, Jamin watched. Game. It was all a game to lull his people into a false sense of security and earn their trust. Ninsianna should have been his wife. Now … even that was gone.

Shahla looked back, no doubt searching for him. She'd pouted when he'd said he had better things to do than attend his former fiancés wedding. With Shahla, it was all about the dress. The flowers. The wheat-stalks woven through the bride's hair. How elaborate the wedding feast and how important the guests were who had been invited from other tribes. Already she was chattering about the dress she would wear when he married her.

How had he gotten himself into this mess? Not only had he lost Ninsianna and gotten eleven people killed, but now he was saddled with a woman he didn't love, forced to pretend he was in love with her so she wouldn't tell everyone what he'd done.

He faded into the shadows so Shahla wouldn't see him. She was the last person he wanted to see right now. He felt sick. Angry. Hatred. Grief. He wanted to cry. He wanted to scream. He wanted to stab the winged demon in the heart who had taken his woman. Tears welled in his eyes as the winged demon carried Ninsianna up into the sky.

His cheek twitched, the tic getting worse the longer he was forced to endure. He felt like a spear pulled back in chamber about to be thrown. A weapon with too much energy stored behind it, ready to spring into action and no place to aim it. They were watching him, his guilt screaming from his every pore. Guilty. Guilty. Guilty. In his effort to save his people, he'd killed some of them. Was even now killing some of them. Forced to crawl back to Marwan, his tail between his legs, and beg for information about the Amorites they were selling his people to once they left Halifian hands.

He'd looked the winged demon in the eye and what had stared back at him had not been human…

Mikhail knew…

He was just toying with him. That was it. The winged demon knew what he had done and he was toying with him because it served some purpose he hadn’t figured out yet. But what?

He realized he was being watched…

“Stop following me around,” he hissed.

Black eyes stared out from the shadow of a building. He twitched as she gave him that creepy black stare. He realized she'd been crying.

“What’s with you?” he sneered. “Upset your big winged stud never even noticed you existed?”

Gita stepped from the shadows, a pale, gaunt wraith that looked as though she hadn't had enough to eat since the day she'd been born. A year older than Ninsianna, she appeared no older than that bitch, Pareesa. Her raggedy brown woolen cloak, a cast-off of Shahla’s, was drawn tightly around her as though she were cold even though the temperature was oppressive. She reminded him of … death.

Her cheek was bruised. The one outfit she owned had been torn. Another row, no doubt, with her drunken father. She would wait until the wedding guests cleared, then take the morsels they dropped home to feed herself until mold made it no longer edible. Hunger. Gita was living proof of what happened once you became an outcast.

The urge to beat the crap out of the father who had beaten her … again … welled to the surface. Immanu’s brother was living proof that the family of the so-called ‘Chosen One’ was not so altruistic. Why had he been saddled with watching out for the peculiar, black-eyed girl when she had real family who should have intervened?

Once upon a time, he'd have done just that. Waited until Merariy was good and drunk and then rolled him in a back alley, claiming he'd been someplace else when his father tried to call him on it. But no more! He was done watching out for the rejects of this village when they were too stupid to watch out for themselves!

His cheek twitched. He was wound so tight he wanted to scream.

“You've got to let it go,” Gita whispered, her black eyes staring through him as though he wasn’t even there. “Can’t you see what this is doing to you? Let it go.”

She? Was telling. Him? To let things … go? Why? So he could end up like … her?

“What do you want, Gita?” Jamin hissed.

She gave him that black stare that reminded him of hunger. The hunger he'd felt in his heart ever since the day Ninsianna had told him she wasn’t in love with him anymore and had broken off their engagement.

“I want you to leave Shahla alone,” Gita said. “She doesn't deserve what you're doing to her.”

Her words were so quiet, he could barely hear them above the crowd as they dug into the lavish feast his father had laid out for -his- betrothed's wedding! And the enemy who had stolen her from him! Jamin turned to watch, hatred welling in his heart as he plotted revenge against those who had done this to him. Betrayed! By his own father!

His cheek twitched, causing a cruel sneer to appear upon his face. He turned to cut Gita down the way he was feeling all cut down inside right now.

His words met with empty air. The peculiar black-eyed girl had disappeared…

Chapter 93

August – 3,390 BC

Earth:  Village of Assur

Colonel Mikhail Mannuki’ili

Mikhail

Mikhail surveyed his ship as he circled in for a landing. Ever since they'd left, he'd made weekly trips up here to check its status. Although knowledge of the ships systems was aided by paper technical manuals that didn't require power to read, he still had no idea how to repair the fractured hull on a planet with no technological resources. Or how to get the engines back online, which he suspected had been damaged beyond repair. The ruined ship did, however, make a superb honeymoon getaway.

“My wife … your bower for the next two weeks,” he said the moment their feet hit the ground.

“My husband,” she said, “do we ever have to leave?" She grabbed the lapels of his dress uniform and pulled him down for a kiss.

“If you keep kissing me like that,” he growled. “We are not going to make it into the ship." He scooped her up in his arms and ordered “watch your head!” as he carried her over the threshold.

Ninsianna gasped when she saw the inside. It was her first time back and he'd been diligently making repairs. If not for the crack in the hull or fact he couldn't get the engines to fire, the interior was restored to the condition it had been in before he'd been shot down. The ship would have appeared ready for duty if not for the flowers he'd gathered to decorate the sterile interior of his ship, a suggestion given to him by Yalda and Zhila in one of their tipsy ‘advice sessions’ before the wedding.

“Well?” he asked, waiting to see her reaction.

“Oh, Mikhail,” Ninsianna cried, reaching up to give him a hug. “It's beautiful. Is this what your ship looked like before you crashed?”

“I can assure you, ma’am, that there were absolutely no flowers on my ship before it crashed,” he said with a deadpan expression that he might have pulled off had a smirk not snuck past his poker face.

“I mean, all this work,” she said, trailing off. “You did this for me?”

“Of course,” he said. “I couldn't bring my new wife back to an un-shipshape ship now, could I?”

Ninsianna wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him down for a hungry kiss. Her fingers trailed through his hair as she pressed up against him. Every instinct screamed to take her right there on the floor and make her his, but he wanted to do this right. He couldn't remember whether or not he'd ever lain down with a woman before, but knew down to the core of his being this would be the first time he'd ever made love to one.

“There is more." He reluctantly pulled himself from her embrace. “Come…" He tugged her past the galley, decorated with flowers and set for dinner for two, to their sleeping quarters.

“What did you do to the beds?” she asked.

He'd disassembled the four bunks, knocked out the supports that would have prevented the mattresses from touching, and reassembled two frames to make a single large bed big enough for the both of them. He'd lined this room with flowers, as well. And tallow lamps. Dozens of tiny clay lamps to light up every corner of the room in a soft, romantic light. He'd darted back only minutes before the ceremony started, his wings enabling him to pull off a feat of romantic engineering no human could have accomplished without missing the ceremony.

“Does it meet your approval, my love?” he asked, pleased at her reaction.

“Oh, yes!” she cried. “Now … kiss me…”

His surprises done for the day, Mikhail gave himself permission to do what he'd been wanting to do ever since he'd opened his eyes and found a beautiful young woman on his ship, unable to speak his language, but able to communicate all he needed to know simply by placing the palm of her hand upon his cheek.

Wrapping his arms around her waist, he kissed her like a thirsty man drinking cool, clear water from a spring. Ninsianna moaned and fumbled with his buttons as she removed his constricting jacket off. It slid down to the floor. Slipping his hand down the back of her shawl, he cupped her firm, round buttocks in his hands and pulled her closer, gasping with pleasure as she rubbed her abdomen against his manhood. He used the convenient handholds to lift her so that her body would align with his.

Two buttons from his dress shirt hit the floor as she gave up trying to manipulate the unfamiliar fastenings and simply broke the threads. She pressed her lips to his chest, tugging at his shirt as he kissed her from earlobe to collarbone. Feathers rustled with pent-up desire. He groaned and nipped her ear as she slid his shirt the rest of the way off.

Slipping her shawl off, he marveled at her breasts, her brownish-pink nipples standing erect and ready for his inquisitive tongue. Ninsianna gasped as he bent down to suckle first one, and then the other, simultaneously working apart the button and zipper to his pants. Kicking off his boots, he nearly fell over as she reached beneath the waistband and touched his manhood.

“So that’s what this is all about?” she asked, fondling the tip of his erection with her tantalizing healers hands.

“If you keep doing that,” his wings slapped against the wall as they involuntarily convulsed. “This will be over before it's even started. I want to be sure you're satisfied.”

She stood like a fine marble statue, her eyes glittering with desire as he touched the delicate string which held her loincloth to her hips. This was not the rawhide string she used every day, but one braided with flowers and the first stalks of grain from the summer harvest, a prayer to She-who-is that their union would be a fertile one. Slipping down her loincloth and marveling at the sight of her furry mound, he quivered in anticipation as she slid his underpants the rest of the way down.

It was Ninsianna, as always, who took the lead…

“Are you ready?” she led him towards the bed.

He lay her down beneath him as though laying out a fine silk scarf upon the covers, supporting his weight on his hands and knees so he wouldn't crush her. With the upper-level bunks now gone, he had room to flare his wings, a more natural mating position to a winged creature such as himself than scrunched up at his sides. Advice given by his tipsy elderly friends flitted through his mind. Urgency lit a fire in his belly and burnt like wildfire through his veins. He fought to keep control as Ninsianna explored his body with her fingers and instinctively tilted her hips up to meet him.

“Ninsianna … have you ever…?”

“No,” she blushed.

“I'll try to be careful." He kissed her to increase her level of arousal. “There might be a little pain at first.”

The shadow of fear crossed her face as stories about first-time pain clouded the moment. She'd never done this before. Heck … he couldn't remember if he'd ever done this before, though from the ribbings of the other males, they found incredulous that a man of his age wouldn't have engaged in the sex act before. Whatever his level of experience, he was afraid he might hurt her badly enough that she would be afraid of future matings. The widow-sisters had told him he must delay his own satisfaction and pleasure his new wife before breaking the barrier that would transform her from maiden into married woman. Kissing her until the cloud of fear left her eyes, he kissed down her neck, past her breasts, and down to her abdomen, caressing her inner thighs with one hand.

“That tickles,” she giggled, squirming beneath his touch as he awkwardly ventured into uncharted territory.

He nibbled on her belly-button, relishing the tremble of muscle beneath her soft skin. Taste. He licked her sensitive naval, his tongue darting into the tiny cavern and eliciting a giggle of delight. Flowers. Whatever she'd bathed in this morning, she smelled of flowers and the scent of soap root he would forever associate with her. As his lips moved down towards her furry mound, she grabbed his hair and pulled him away from the ticklish area. Working down a second time, he paused, moving his hands across her thighs, closer to the folds of her feminine mysteries, to give her time to grow accustomed to his touch. He stared at that most secret place, fascinated, as if he had never seen such a wonder before.

Ninsianna moaned as he kissed her inner thighs. His manhood sent insistent shudders through his body as his libido attempted to override his self-control. Determined her first release would be a pleasurable one, he reined in his own desire. She shifted, opening herself fully to his inquiring tongue. He kissed the folds of her female mystique and spread them apart, relishing her pleasant, musky scent. There. A tiny little button beckoned to him, pulsating in anticipation of his touch. This was where he'd been told a woman liked to be pleasured.

Looking up the length of her abdomen, her beautiful, golden eyes glittered with anticipation as watched him pleasure her. She placed her palms on either side of his face and nodded. Watching her eyes, he licked her, watching her expression as shudders wracked her body. Her scent changed. Grew muskier. More earthy. As though she were fertile earth waiting for him to plant his seed. She threw back her head and arched her back, pushing his head down further towards the part of her body screaming for release.

Suckling the tiny mound to increase her level of arousal, he couldn't help but smile at the funny little happy noises she made with each lick of his tongue. He sent a silent thanks to his two elderly friends who'd suggested such a thing in the first place. Truth be told, at the time he'd thought it obscene. It was their advice he relied upon now, not instinct, as he gently slid one finger into her feminine mysteries to give her time to adjust to the feel of him inside of her body. She stiffened, and then relaxed as she realized there was no pain.

“Mikhail." She hesitantly arched her hips to give him greater access.

Wait. He must wait until she became acclimated to his touch. He pushed down the insistent twanging of his manhood and focused on what she was feeling. She tilted her pelvis to meet his tongue. Wait. He gently stretched the thin membrane that partially obstructed the entrance to the mysteries within. He waited until she began to move herself along his fingers to satisfy her own desire.

He could sense she was close to release by the way she writhed and made adorable little mewling noises like a kitten seeking out its mother's breast. Removing his fingers, he licked her mound until she began to shudder. Her sweet juices exploded onto his waiting tongue. Panting as though she had just run a marathon, she sighed and stretched out spread-eagle on the bed, grabbing his hair and pulling him back up to kiss her on the lips, a satisfied smile upon her face.

“So that's what that was all about…?” she asked with a husky voice. “That didn't hurt at all.”

“That was just the teaser." He kissed her as his throbbing erection pressed insistently into her abdomen. “Are you ready for the main event?”

The shadow of fear crossed her face as concern about pain made her fret. He caressed her until she became aroused a second time. Wait. He suppressed the frantic twang his manhood shrieked throughout his entire body and took her to the edge. He wanted her even more aroused the second time so desire would override the pain his first entry would cause as he broke her maiden head. She pleaded for release from the torturous pleasure he was giving her.

“Please, Mikhail!" She gasped for breath as she tried to capture his manhood with her hips. Frantic with desire, she bent up and sank her teeth into his neck as she grabbed his buttocks and pulled him closer to her hips. It was time.

Maneuvering his manhood to the entrance of her feminine mysteries, he maintained eye contact as he rubbed it against her wet, moist entrance until it had become thoroughly bathed in the juices of her desire. Her warm wetness made him shudder in anticipation. The wetter he was, the less he would hurt her.

Memory loss was a beautiful thing. Nothing about this felt familiar. He was relying entirely upon the embarrassing advice his friends had given. Pausing to make sure he was lined up so awkward movement wouldn't increase her pain, he kissed her and pushed through the barrier preventing his entrance. She froze as he slid with a single, smooth movement into the place some ancient god had designed so mortal creatures would fit together.

“It hurts,” she whispered, pain clouding her eyes.

He forced himself to remain still. Wait. He must wait until she took the lead or the mating would be … would be …

A shadow flitted through his memory and was gone. He must wait for her to bond properly with him or the lifemate bond would be incomplete. She kissed him, causing the errant thought to fly out of his mind. Wait. He must wait or he would hurt her.

Keeping still, he deepened his kiss until he felt her body relax around his manhood. She began to writhe, adjusting to the feel of him inside of her as she grew bolder and moved herself along his shaft. Distracting her by nibbling down her neck, he arched his back and slowly slid partway out, then even more slowly back in until the full length of his manhood had been absorbed. He felt her shudder, pain mixing with pleasure as she cried out and moaned.

The sensation did things he was certain he'd never felt before. Wings slapped against the sheets, feathers flying as he instinctively tried to carry them into the air. Wishing desperately to climax together, he held onto a shred of self-control long enough to coax her ahead of his own desire. The feel of her moving against him caused warmth like he'd never experienced before to emanate from his heart, out to his outer extremities, and into his brain.

She cried out. Her muscles clutched his manhood as she began to climax a second time. Stars exploded inside his mind. He cried out, feeling his consciousness slip beyond the confines of his mortal shell as, just for a moment, he experienced what it must feel like to be a god. His mate. For life. In his mind, he shouted his intentions to the universe that come what may, nothing would ever part him from her. Not even death. Exhausted, he collapsed against her, shifting his weight to one side so he wouldn't crush her.

“Ohmygods,” she panted. “That was…..”

“Amazing….." He silenced her with a kiss.

“Tell me that you love me?”

“I love you more than life itself,” he pulled her to his chest and entangled his legs with hers. “And I shall never be parted from you." He couldn't remember his past, but he was certain that he'd never felt so happy in his entire life.

He shifted one wing so that it covered them both. With happy exhaustion, they drifted off to a pleasant, dreamy sleep in each other’s arms.

Chapter 94

Galactic Standard Date:  152,323.08 AE

Tango Sector:  Command Carrier 'Jehoshaphat'

General Abaddon aka ‘the Destroyer’

Abaddon

Three grey hairs. With the happiest feeling his old heart could ever remember feeling, he counted them again. Three grey hairs. Not two. Not four. But three of them. Exactly. Three grey hairs graced the ebony tresses which cascaded from her scalp down to the small of her back.

He sank his nose into her neck and inhaled, the scent of hCG growing stronger each day. After 630 years of failure, her scent was so intoxicating that he couldn't bear to be away from her for more than a few minutes. More and more he found himself delegating the more mundane tasks of running the Air Force to one of the lower-ranking airmen so he could get back to her as quickly as possible. He pressed a hand against her abdomen, still flat despite the child he could smell growing in her womb.

"Has the sickness passed, mo ghrá?" He touched the bluish shadows which had appeared under her eyes about the same time she'd begun to stumble to the toilet each morning and vomit. Morning sickness was rare amongst Angelic females, but the ship's doctor had reassured him her pregnancy was progressing normally. Unable to fight this battle for her, he did the only thing he could to show his support. Held her while she suffered dry heaves, pulled back her hair, and wiped her face when she was done before carrying her back to the bed and cuddling her until the color began to creep back into her olive complexion.

Mahogeny brown eyes smiled back at him, the tiny crow's feet at the corner of each eye telling him what words didn't. She felt better. She muttered something unintelligible, followed by the word 'okay.' Lucifer had insinuated the root race was not very intelligent, but already she'd learned dozens of core phrases to communicate. He suspected she could understand far more than she could yet verbalize.

Three grey hairs. And a smattering of crow's feet. He had no idea how old she was or whether or not her species was as long-lived as his, but he found them oddly reassuring, those hints of age that indicated she, too, had experienced frustration in the past with failed matings? Perhaps she saw him as more than the washed-up old geezer that female Angelics had spurned every time he'd begged to be put back into the queue for a mating attempt and been turned down cold. It gave him hope that perhaps it had been She-who-is who had brought the two of them together across the vast distance of the galaxy and not merely the manipulations of one old god against another?

"You have made me the happiest man alive," Abaddon whispered in her ear.

Her lips turned up in a smile as he nibbled on her earlobe. Yes. She definitely felt better. An hour or so after the morning sickness started, it went away just as mysteriously as it had come. He trailed kisses across her high cheekbones to the lush, pink lips he loved to kiss. The Emperor had stolen this from his species, this exquisite feeling of being joined as one heart and soul with your mate. He better than anyone remembered the real reason the Emperor had forbidden his species to take a mate. He was, after all, one-quarter Seraphim, the bloodline diluted just enough that he wouldn't form the lifemate bond inadvertently. He could sense it happening now, and he allowed it, for it was something he hadn't even realized he'd wanted until he'd met her.

"Husband," Sarvenaz's forehead furrowed in concentration as she tried to pull the few words they both shared out of her memory. "You … no … work … late?" Husband. His heart thrilled at the forbidden endearment. It had been the second word he'd taught her, right after he'd taught her to say his name.

"Ahh, chol beag," he pulled her in closer and nuzzled her cheek. "You know I must go. This Alliance is not going to protect itself. But I'll be back as soon as I can. You know I will."

It had become a bit of a game. He had to leave, but Sarvenaz wished for him to stay. She slid her arms around his chest and snuggled closer, one leg thrown possessively over his. Abaddon liked this game even though, for the first time in his 630 yearlong military career, it made him late for work. At his rank, who would chastise him? Sarvenaz's eyes got that look they always got before she 'convinced' him to linger.

"I don't know what I did to deserve you." Abaddon fished a strand of stray hair that had migrated across her cheek out of her mouth and tucked it behind her ear. "You act as though everything I do is wonderful."

"Husband …" Sarvenaz looked into her own mind, trying to pull up an adequate word to describe what she wished to say. Not finding any, she pieced together smaller words to do the trick. "Husband …" She slid her fingers through the grey feathers of his wings.

"Angelic," he said. "Husband is an Angelic."

"No," she said. "Husband is …" She chewed her lip. Abaddon didn't interrupt her. If he was patient and waited, she usually found a way to communicate what she wished to say. "Husband is … énas theós." She touched his wings again.

Abaddon curled the wing around her, pulling her closer. "It's called a wing, mo ghrá. The Eternal Emperor gave them to our species so we could protect him. A long, long time ago."

"No ... just ... wing." The sparkle in her eye indicated she'd come up with a word to describe what she wished to say. "Sarvenaz ... people ..." She made a motion with her hand as though it were a puppet talking.

"Say? Speak? Tell?" Abaddon went through possible words with her.

"Sarvanez people say speak tell," she said. "Your people. Sarvanez people say speak tell ... your people."

She repeated the same thing several more times until it dawned upon him what she was trying to say.

"Your people have stories about my people?"

"Yes," Sarvanez said with a triumphant smile. "Sarvenez people say speak tell ... stories ... about ... husband's people. Angelics."

"And what do these stories tell?"

"Husbands … people …" Sarvenaz made a gesture with her hands as though they were the rays of the sun. She followed up the sign language with a hand to her forehead, her lips and her heart. The Sata'anic Empire had such a gesture whenever they praised their emperor and god, Shay'tan. It reinforced what Lucifer had said about their homeworld being lodged someplace in the Sata'anic Empire.

"I can't believe Shay'tan let you go." Abaddon pulled her tighter into his arms. "He never lets any female go. He keeps the lizard females confined to the Hades cluster."

Sarvenaz's dark eyes sparkled with victory. She could sense she'd already won their daily tussle over how late she could make him linger, even before she'd pulled out the heavy artillery. As if it took much persuasion!

Abaddon gave a content sigh, acknowledging his complete and utter defeat. His subordinates were talented enough to keep things running without him for just a little while longer. He'd already served far beyond his mandatory 500 years in the Alliance military. As soon as Lucifer got his override through Parliament, he intended to tender his resignation and retire. He didn't know how many years he had left in this realm before She-who-is called him into the next one to defend her, but he intended to spend what little time he had left siring and raising as many offspring as his wife would give him.

"Husband … say speak tell … story?" Her eyes were filled with curiosity. Although her speech was still limited, she enjoyed hearing him tell his tales. He suspected she analyzed the pattern of his language, increasing her vocabulary each time he told a tale.

Shay'tan had let her go. Did she have any idea how lucky she was, to escape the yoke the old dragon imposed upon all females in Sata'anic culture? Yes. He would tell her that story today.

"Have you ever seen one of the Sata'anic females on your homeworld?"

Sarvenaz nodded. Male and female were two of the earliest words she'd mastered, and she'd readily recognized the Sata'anic lizards when he'd shown her a picture of one of them. She recognized those two words, not the rest of his question.

"No, I suspect you haven't. Shay'tan keeps them too tightly locked up within the Hades cluster so the males don't get any ideas about casting off his rule. Even more strictly than he does the females of other species he subjugates."

Sarvenaz ran her hand down his chest to caress his abdomen. It was part of the game they played each morning after the morning sickness passed. She would entice him to linger, and he would allow himself to be enticed. Her curiosity, however, was genuine. Her eyes sparkled as she watched his mouth form the words, her lips moving silently to repeat each one she recognized. It was how he gauged how much she really understood. For all the bribes he'd turned down cold over the years, money, power, even governorship over his own world one time in the uncharted territories, the old dragon couldn't have sent him a more tempting bribe than the one hanging off of his every word.

"I'm one of the few Alliance citizens who has ever seen a Sata’anic female," Abaddon said. "One day during a border skirmish I captured a Sata’anic destroyer. When I went inside, do you know what I found?"

He'd always scoffed at how animated the Prime Minister was during one of his speeches, but he found himself borrowing a bit of that body language to tell his tale, gestures succeeding in telling the story where words failed. Sarvenaz smiled at him, her lips silently repeating the words 'Alliance' and 'found.' Newer words in her vocabulary. She understood enough for him to continue the tale.

"I found a Sata’an general in the launch bay," Abaddon said. "He was not attempting to escape himself, but squeezing his three wives and a clutch of unhatched eggs into an escape pod meant for two so they would survive. Since Shay’tan keeps all females confined in harems on their homeworlds, I knew I had captured a very high ranking general, indeed!"

"Sata'an … general?" Sarvenaz chewed her lip and pointed to the uniform he neatly placed over the back of a chair each night so it wouldn't wrinkle. Although the names of Alliance military ranks puzzled her, she'd readily grasped the concept that there was a chain of command here on this ship and that he was the top dog.

"Yes," Abaddon said. "A general. Like me. After his pulse rifle was exhausted and he had no more weapons to fire at me, he drew his sword and stood between me and his family. He begged me to kill him, but allow his wives and offspring to escape. We conversed a few minutes about a man's wish to protect his family, and how much he regretted that his reluctance to be parted from them had put their lives in danger."

He traced the line of Sarvenaz's jaw, the way her lips parted and eyebrows rose in curiosity as he told his tale. Until he'd met the Sata'an general, he'd always thought of the Sata'anic lizards as monsters. Enemies he'd casually slaughtered, as all Alliance soldiers were taught to slaughter the enemies of the Eternal Emperor. After that day … well let's just say that since then he'd been comparing Sata'anic morals to hybrid ones and finding his own people coming up short.

"I took pity upon him," Abaddon said. "The general ordered his wives to finish squeezing into the life pod. They were crying as he shut them into the pod and programmed in the coordinates to where they could find safety, but they obeyed. As soon as the escape pod cleared the ship, he kneeled, dropped his sword, and bowed his head to give me access to his neck so I could decapitate him in a single stroke."

"Husband … kill … general?" Sarvenaz frowned.

Aha! She did understand that much of the story! He was unsure how much she knew about the military structure of the Sata'anic Empire because, although she was familiar with the lizard people, it seemed Lucifer's assertions that Shay'tan had simply ignored their world because it had no resources were accurate.

"Yes," Abaddon said. "I smote him. Not because I hated him, but because I respected him too much to dishonor him by turning him over for interrogation. If I had, Shay'tan would have seized his assets and cast his family out into the street in punishment."

Sarvenaz nodded, the frown line disappearing from her brow. Although he doubted she understood exactly why he'd chosen to let the general's family go before killing him, she seemed to understand from the tone of his voice that he bore that dead general enormous respect. Abaddon pointed to the sword he'd leaning casually against the same chair where he kept his uniform.

"To this day, I honor that Sata’an general's memory by carrying his sword."

Sarvenaz smiled and said something in her own language that he couldn't understand. She snuggled in closer, rubbing her hand down the hard, flat washboard of his abdomen and looked at him with a hungry expression. She resumed her game of tempting him.

"I have to go to work now, mo ghrá," Abaddon said.

Sarvenaz pulled out the heavy artillary, demanding his surrender by caressing his manhood to stand at attention. He was putty in her hands, and she knew it! But he was not without his own weapons in this delightful war they waged each morning against the outside world. He nibbled down her neck until she shrieked with laughter. How he loved to hear her laugh! In a species prone towards seriousness, human laughter was a drug he could never get enough of. It filled his heart with joy as he prepared to mate with her again … for pleasure … as no Angelic female would ever allow.

He nuzzled her neck and counted again, just to be sure. Three grey hairs. Whatever Lucifer had cooking up his sleeve worried him, but it paled in contrast to the gift he'd just been given. At last, he'd a mate. She didn't want to leave him … and he was going to be a father. In love for the first time in his life, the old General swore he would never, ever let her go…

No matter what it cost him.

Chapter 95

August - 3,390 BC

Earth:  Crash Site

Ninsianna

Yawning and stretching in her downy bed, Ninsianna opened her eyes to find her new husband intently staring at her, a slight smile upticking the corner of his mouth.

“I think my wing fell asleep.”

“Huh?" She caressed the enormous, brownish-black wing that covered them both, blankets a hindrance to a species that came equipped wearing their very own down comforter. She ran her fingers beneath the quills to tickle his warm, avian skin.

“Not that one." His smirk blossomed into a full-blown smile that threatened to melt her heart. “The other wing.”

Feeling beneath herself, she realized at some point during the night she'd rolled onto his other wing, completely enclosing herself in the soft, downy feathers that covered the underside of his wings. The downy under-feathers of all avian species had evolved to feel the subtle caress of the wind and shelter their loved ones from the cold. It felt so safe, to be nestled in the enormous wings of a species created to protect the weak. By the way he twitched as she caressed him, she could tell the lack of circulation had caused him to be on pins-and-needles for quite some time.

“Why didn't you say something,” she asked.

“I didn't wish to wake you." He ran his thumb down her jaw and across her lips, his expression tender. “I still fear that one day I shall wake up and discover that all this time, I have only been dreaming of my one great love."

"We are now married," Ninsianna smiled. "Until death do us part. She-who-is herself has given us her blessing." She caressed the frown of worry that marred his perfect brow.

Running her hand down his rock solid abdomen, she found his manhood standing at attention, rising up to meet her touch as she ran her fingers along the shaft. Naked pleasure crossed his usually serious face. Here in bed together, locked away from the outside world, he dropped the emotional walls he used to keep his feelings hidden from the world and gave her unguarded access. He gave a little cry of discomfort, half laughter, half sigh, as her wiggling caused pins and needles to shoot up his numb wing.

“We shall have to do something to wake up your wing." She stroked his manhood. “Can you think of any way to get the blood flowing again?”

“If my blood flows any faster,” he said with a growl. “My head will explode." He shifted his weight on top of her, nuzzling down her neck as he pulled the errant wing from underneath them both.

“It's not your head I'm interested in,” she teased, stroking him into a quivering mass of anticipation as she guided him between her legs and tilted up her pelvis to greet him.

This time there was no discomfort, only pleasure...

Chapter 96

Galactic Standard Date:  152,323.08

Orbit – Haven-1

Colonel Raphael Israfa

Raphael

Raphael greeted the biomechanical 'needle' using the voice translation device developed to communicate with the strange life form. Although life in the Milky Way tended to clump into one of six basic life forms, occasionally something drifted in from someplace else that didn't fit life as they knew it. Needles fit that category. The living remnants of some great civilization that had risen and fallen in a distant galaxy, needles were a curious synergy of biology and machine.

They were sentient, gentle creatures whose level of intelligence was about that of a 5-year-old humanoid. Obedient and eager to please, they had to be cared for like children. Raphael would like to believe they cared for the trusting biomechanoids simply because it was the right thing to do, but years of watching Parliament fracture into squabbling political and business interests had left him skeptical. The reason needles were cared for was because they were trans-dimensional creatures that could leap instantly from one end of the galaxy to the other. The next-fastest method of transportation, FTL (faster than light) drives, took weeks, even months to make that same journey.

“Hey, buddy! It's time to go play with your friend on Jophiel’s ship. Would you like that?" The little ship excitedly bumped Raphael's hand with its nose.

“Here's your oxygen mask, Sir." Ensign Zzz'ler handed him the life support gear he would need to make the jump. Needles only provided transportation and warmth, not life support, so oxygen was a necessity.

“Time to strip."

Raphael couldn't help but flash Zzz'ler his dimple as he removed the outer layers of his uniform and shoes before lowering himself into the slender marsupium[3]. He was every bit as excited to be making this journey as his needle was.

Zzz'ler helped him jam his wings into the carrying compartment, crushing a few golden feathers in the process. The confines of the needle were so tight that he didn’t even have room for a full accompaniment of clothing! Had he been more muscular, like General Abaddon, or taller, like Mikhail, he probably wouldn't fit at all!

He patted the inside of the marsupium, signaling the needle to shut the cargo doors, and suppressed the urge to fight his way out as the ship molded itself around his body. There was a good reason the slender biomechanoids were called ‘needles.' They were a claustrophobic ride. Luckily, the creatures could jump as soon as they exited the cargo bay, landing close enough to the receiving ship that time spent in the coffin-like passenger compartment was mercifully brief.

“Let’s go,” he said into the voice communicator built into the oxygen mask as he patted the tender insides of the needle, giving the non-auditory signal it had been trained to recognize.

The long, slender creature shifted around him as it was guided out one of the torpedo ports. Needles were like carrier pigeons. They preferred to jump back and forth between familiar locations. Something truly terrifying must have happened to cause an entire herd of them to suddenly jump galaxies twenty-five years ago. He felt the discombobulating juxtaposition of the needle slipping into the subspace between dimensions and out the other side near Jophiel’s ship.

“Ohthankthegodsthatsover,” he gasped for breath the moment the needle released him. Climbing out onto the flight deck inside Jophiel’s command carrier, he ruffled his crushed feathers.

“Here’s a change of clothes, Sir,” the flight crewman who had been assigned to assist him and care for his needle said.

“Thank you, Lieutenant … Hadraniel, correct?"

He pulled on a uniform jacket and shoes before turning back to his trusty little needle. He spoke into the voice translator so it would understand him.

“Thank you, my friend." He tickled one side of its javelin-like nose. If it was a nose. Nobody knew for sure.

The playful ship wriggled and rolled over so he could scratch its tender underbelly. Few people rode a needle by choice, but he and this little ship had been logging in quite a few hours lately. Thanks to the needle, he'd been able to pull off a feat of spatial engineering no mortal could have otherwise accomplished: be at opposite ends of the galaxy in the same day. Uncomfortable or not, his needle enabled him to balance his mission to find this mysterious solution Shay'tan had found with his yearning to be with his family.

“Lieutenant Hadraniel will release you in a few minutes so you can go play with your friend,” Raphael told it. “Okay?”

The ATO would release it to fly close to this systems sun and feed upon the cosmic radiation it used as food. It would come back in eight hours or so when it finished eating and playing so he could make the jump back out to Zulu Sector. Only thirty-five needles existed in the entire galaxy, all stationed on different command carriers in case of emergency, but the creatures were naturally herd animals. This needle would play with Jophiel’s needle as they fed together and played.

Raphael turned his attention back to the Lieutenant assigned to care for his living ship. “Where can I find General Jophiel and my son this fine afternoon?"

“She is in her quarters anxiously awaiting you to relieve her of duty, Sir,” Hadraniel said with a flat expression. The hint of mirth in his voice betrayed his amusement at how much extra work the sudden insertion of a five-month-old ‘airman’ into their midst was causing their commanding officer.

He noticed the envious looks some of the hybrid members of the crew gave him. Their relationship was causing morale problems amongst the fleet. Already, female hybrids were balking at giving up their offspring while males were demanding the right to choose one mate. As Jophiel went, so went the entire Alliance fleet.

Raphael gave the lower-ranking crewmen a crisp salute, careful to neither grin at them, nor appear too stern. They saluted back. Raphael gave them a respectful nod. Although they resented his special privilege, he wanted to make damned sure they had no obvious reason to resent him.

As he wound his way through the labyrinthian hallways of the enormous Alliance flagship, he mused about how he could accomplish his long-term goal of convincing Jophiel to say yes to his frequent proposals of marriage. Although their relationship had become much closer since Uriel’s brush with death, Jophiel worried about the message adopting a double-standard would set for the fleet and tried to keep things professional between them. She'd not yet given an answer to his request to make their relationship a permanent one.

Raphael chuckled. Actually, she had... She'd told him ‘no.' But he wasn't about to take ‘no’ for an answer. He was every bit as determined to undermine her resistance as he'd always been to get Mikhail to smile.

He paused outside her door to straighten his collar and a few errant feathers and then knocked. The moment he stepped in the door, he could see how frazzled she appeared. Although Uriel was not crawling yet, his son had recently mastered the art of belly-wiggling. The little imp was pulling on the wires which connected his mother's electronics, gurgling and cooing contentedly as he risked pulling the equipment down upon his head. Curled up fast asleep at his side was the gourock water-dragon, Uriel’s second-favorite form of entertainment. His first most-favorite form of entertainment was distracting his mother. Jophiel was trying to process some status reports on Sata’an incursions and Uriel was not helping her concentration.

“Reporting for duty as requested, Sir!" He gave her a crisp salute. She was still, after all, his commanding officer.

Her genuinely relieved smile as she looked up and made eye contact took his breath away. Whoever had accused the unflappable Supreme Commander-General of icy emotionlessness had never seen her like this. Warrior queen. Mother of his only child. Breathtaking.

The stacks of folders containing smart-pads and old-fashioned paper reports sat in disarray, unlike the neat stacks which had greeted him the first time his Supreme Commander-general had summoned him into her office and coldly asked him if he'd like to sire offspring number twelve. She brushed a strand of white-blonde hair out of her eyes that had fallen out of her tightly-coiffed regulation bun and, when it refused to stay, simply blew it out of the way with an exaggerated 'puff.'

“I am hereby ordering you to take YOUR son and get him out of my hair!!!” she laughed. “He's getting into everything!”

“MY son?" Raphael's brow wrinkled in mock indignation, but the dimple gave away his mirth.

“Yes …" She gave him a smile that made his heart skip a beat. “When he misbehaves, he is YOUR son.”

“Yes, Sir!!!" He saluted before grabbing the wiggly five-month-old and swooshed him around in a circle. “Hey, little guy, Daddy’s here."

Uriel cooed and reached for Raphael’s golden feathers, causing a malodorous air to waft up to his sensitive nose.

“Whew!!! Little buddy … you need a diaper change!”

“He’s all yours…” Jophiel laughed. “Dismissed! Both of you! That’s an order … and oh … take that with you as well." She pointed towards the dog-sized gourock, which had popped up like a jack-in-the-box the moment Raphael had come into the room and gotten entangled in the wires with its flat, paddle-like tail.

“Yes, Sir!" Raphael held up their son's tiny fist to make a mock salute before tugging at the gourock's collar and heading out the door. “Let’s go see about that diaper…..”

Chapter 97

August - 3,390 BC

Earth:  Village of Assur

Jamin

He'd waited for them for more than an hour and not one of them had shown up for practice. It was bad enough their time to perfect their real combat skills had been whittled down to nothing thanks to his father's order to march around carrying buckets of water, but now they hadn't bothered to show up at all? How could they care so little about the village defenses! He moved through the village like a sandstorm, his blood boiling when he found Siamek and the others in the date-palm orchard, surrounded by giggling girls and a bunch of kids shooting sticks at trees.

“You train with children  now?”

“Give it a rest,” Siamek said, the offending bow in his hand. “We're here because your father ordered us to be here.”

Alalah had been placed in charge of all new archer training. She stepped between him and his warriors, bold as no woman would have dared speak to him before the winged demon had fallen from the sky and turned everything in this village onto its head.

“You should try training for a change!” Alalah waggled her finger in his face as though he were a little boy. "How can we defend this village if you undermine everything your father tries to do?"

"Fools!" Jamin whirled to Siamek and hissed. "Don't you understand he makes you do this to humiliate you? I wouldn't get caught dead practicing with a bunch of little kids!"

“You will get caught dead one of these days, young man," Alalah said, "if you don't start paying attention to what's going on around you! By a Halifian arrow!”

Not. Likely. But they didn't know he'd crawled back to the Halifian leader and made some headway figuring out where the kidnapped women were being taken. The fairy tales the Halifians told about lizard-demons were hard to believe, but somebody offered bags of gold to purchase slaves, an unheard of price for a commodity as cheaply and easily obtained as snatching some hapless young woman. He reached into his pocket and touched the tiny nugget he'd traded for as tangible proof to show his father. The Halifians had told him the Amorites were paying them to collect the best and brightest from each village.

Rumor had it the end-buyer was Mikhail’s own people, but instead of simply taking Ninsianna and disappearing as had happened in the other villages, for some reason the winged demon had stuck around. Why? He hadn't figured that part out yet. But when he did, he needed warriors ready to stand at his back so they could kill them! Warriors who knew how to use a real weapon. Not these silly little sticks!

“This is a man’s weapon!" Jamin proudly hefted his spear above his head, the best his father's money had been able to buy. Perfectly weighted, the obsidian spearhead was sharp enough to pierce the heart of a lion, unlike the more mundane flint ones the other warriors used.

Pareesa wrinkled her nose and pantomimed speaking the words he'd just said, rolling her eyes and crossing them as she mocked him. That ever-present anger which had been seething just beneath the surface since the day Ninsianna had embraced Mikhail bubbled to the surface. It was time for him to take back control of his own village! He aimed the spear inches from the little snit's foot and hurled it into the ground. The spear stood there, quivering with unspent energy, his message clear.

“Foot!” Pareesa called. In one seamless move, she reached into her quiver, strung her bow, and let an arrow fly. It landed in the ground against the edge of his footwear. Tit. For tat.

“Goddamn you, girl!” Jamin bellowed. “I’ll teach you your place!” He lurched towards her, intending to wipe the smirk off her face.

“Hand!" Pareesa reached into her quiver in a move so fast it was barely visible and let fly a second arrow.

Some portion of his mind noted the twang of the bowstring after pain registered in the hand he’d been about to use to strike her. He shrieked, holding it as he stared with disbelief at the arrow shot through his palm. Sniggering rippled through the children standing at her back, egging her on. Pareesa had just shot him?

“Bitch!!!” He yanked his spear out of the ground with his non-dominant hand and swung it up to thwack her off the side of her head, ignoring the stab of pain which streaked up his other arm. He'd survived worse wounds than the insignificant toy sticks!

“Heart!" Pareesa grabbed a third arrow and drew her bow, aiming straight for his heart. Her eyes took on an icy stare that was familiar.

“Jamin … stop!" Siamek jumped between them, knocking the spear out of his hand before he had a chance to strike her. “Please … just … stop!" Siamek's eyes were wild and fearful, although who he feared was not clear.

Pareesa stood as cold and emotionless as the mentor she now mimicked, bow drawn, so closely resembling the winged demon it was all Jamin could do to not imagine she had wings.

“Ichi-ho chikazuku, anata ga shinde, jakkasute iru!” Pareesa clicked in the Cherubim language.

Jamin froze. Her eyes didn't flash blue, but he knew she was one of them now. An enemy. Hiding in their midst. Possessed by demons. She even spoke their language.

“Pareesa is our best archer,” Alalah said coldly. “Second only to Mikhail himself. I will not tolerate this kind of behavior, and neither will the Chief! Now go home and take care of that hand!”

Jamin slunk home holding his hand, the arrow sticking through it for the whole village to see. No one dared say a word to him about it. Not even that pesky little voice that had taken to whispering to him in the wind.

He didn't care how long it took. He was going to kill her…

Chapter 98

August – 3,390 BC

Earth:  Assur Village

Shahla

The people of the river bathed at least once per day, twice when the heat became oppressive. Today was one of those days people got their chores done by mid-morning so they could wallow in the current during the apex of the sun. Shahla usually bathed where the warriors could admire her curvaceous figure as she emerged from the sacred waters like a nymph and stretched out her shawl to lay supine in the hot Mesopotamian sun, the water glistening off her pert nipples for all to admire, but today she'd sought refuge upriver so the others wouldn't see her bruises.

She put her head down in Gita’s lap, weeping. The others made fun of her for dragging her peculiar sidekick everywhere she went, but they didn't understand. Shahla closed her eyes and listened to her best friend sing; a dull-feathered nightingale whose beautiful song was both a lament … and a beacon which could illuminate the darkest night.

“You shouldn't allow him to treat you like this,” Gita said as soon as she finished her song, pulling the comb through Shahla’s long hair. She touched the red mark on Shahla’s cheek where Jamin had slapped her.

“You’re one to talk,” Shahla said through her tears. “Your father beats the crap out of you.”

“At least I have enough sense to avoid him,” Gita said.

“It's not his fault,” Shahla sobbed. “He asked me to help him bandage up his hand and I told him he shouldn't have tried to hit Pareesa.”

“Ever since Ninsianna dumped him,” Gita said, “Jamin has been spiraling out of control. His temper has always been volatile, but not like this. You should stay away from him until he gets his emotions back under control.”

“You'd think you wanted to see him back with Ninsianna!” Shahla snapped, sitting up and yanking the brush out of her friend's hand. “Instead of me! Your best friend!”

Gita remained silent, her dark eyes looking through her with a bottomless black stare. A spider. Waiting for the tremor of a fly caught in the periphery of her web. Shahla shivered.

“Dadbeh loves you,” Gita said softly. “Even if he is too ashamed to admit it to his friends. Jamin has nothing in him but hatred right now.”

“Someday Jamin will be Chief,” Shahla proudly stuck up her chin. “He says when he is, he will marry me.”

“Why doesn’t he marry you now?” Gita yanked the brush through Shahla's hair. “If he really loved you, he would have married you as soon as he started sleeping with you again.”

“He says his father is against it,” Shahla said.

“Jamin is using you." Gita's black eyes flashed with anger. “Chief Kiyan just wants his son to be happy. If Jamin said he wanted to marry you, I'm certain the Chief would allow it. Goddess only knows your father has pushed often enough for a union!”

“I don't understand why everything has to be so difficult,” Shahla sighed. She put her head back down in her best friend's lap, closing her eyes as Gita brushed her hair.

Gita began to sing once more, only this time she sang one of the ‘marching songs’ the men sang as they carried buckets from the Hiddekel River, arms outstretched to strengthen their muscles, marching in perfect formation to water the fields. Exercises taught to them by Mikhail.

“Somebody has been lurking in the shadows again." A smile lightened Shahla's dark mood as she pictured how ridiculous the villagers looked doing the awkward exercises which Jamin mocked. “And you accuse me of mooning over a hopeless cause?”

Gita pulled the comb through Shahla’s hair. She paused, her eyes focused far away. Shahla could almost feel the air around them change as her best friend made a life-altering decision.

“I am tired of always being a victim,” Gita said, her voice almost a whisper. “I'm going to start taking those self-defense classes Mikhail teaches. A lot of the girls are doing it. I'd like you to take them with me.”

Gita clutched her hand as though she wished to will Shahla to go with her so she didn't have to do it alone. Alone. Never in her life had Shahla seen anyone as abandoned and alone as the black-eyed girl nobody in the village but her had ever bothered to see.

“A chief’s wife must be supportive of her husband,” Shahla said with a haughty toss of her hair.

From the disappointed twitch of Gita's lip, she understood her only real friend had made up her mind to go without her.

Shahla lowered her voice to a whisper. “Besides, if Jamin thought –I'd- betray him, too? He would kill me.”

Chapter 99

Galactic Standard Date:  152,323.08 AE

Earth:  Sata’an Forward Operating Base

Lieutenant Kasib

Lt. Kasib

Lieutenant Kasib tucked his tail up alongside his right side in a crisp salute and knocked on the crude door they'd jury-rigged for privacy in the stone house they'd commandeered as part of their Sata'an Forward Operating Base on Earth.

"Come in," General Hudhafah called.

Kasib's long forked tongue tasted the air the moment he stepped into his commanding officer's office, searching for pheromones which would indicate the nuances of the general's mood.

“Our intermediaries came up short, Sir,” Kasib said. “We only have 283 women in this shipment. Not 300 as ordered.”

“Ba'al Zebub will be displeased,” General Hudhafah's dorsal ridge rose in irritation. “What excuse did they give?”

“Your orders were to only obtain a few women from each tribe to obtain the greatest genetic diversity, Sir,” Kasib said. “One of the tribes has organized and is fighting back.”

“Find out who their leader is and kill him,” General Hudhafah ordered, taking a sip of the fermented Earth nectar he'd begun to develop a taste for. “Without a head, the serpent will die.”

“Would you like me to assign a battalion to quash the rebellion?”

“No. We're spread too thin,” General Hudhafah's tail thumped against the floor, deep in thought. “We're almost out of supplies. Until the armada gets here with reinforcements, it's better to act through intermediaries.”

“What would you like me to do, Sir?” Kasib asked.

“Offer a bounty,” General Hudhafah bared his fangs in a grin Kasib knew from experience was a predator about to corral a prey animal. “For the ringleaders. Dead or alive. The idiots practically grovel at the sparkles we put in our paint to shield our ships from stellar radiation. Offer the morons a whole bag of the stuff. That will motivate them.”

“Yes, Sir,” Kasib saluted his commanding officer. “Right away.”

Chapter 100

Mid-August – 3,390 BC

Earth:  Village of Assur

Colonel Mikhail Mannuki’ili

Mikhail

The temperature changed perceptibly the closer they got to the river. They'd enjoyed solitude away from the hubbub of the village, but the stream which had babbled so delightfully alongside his ship in the spring had dried down to little more than a trickle. He'd ended up carrying her to the river each day, far from any village, to wallow in the currents and escape the summer heat. Although it was a strain upon the wing which still ached, the thrill of carrying his beloved airborne inspired him to soar higher, longer, and more gracefully than he ever would have thought possible. It was funny, how love inspired you to do things you never would have done otherwise?

Dogs barked and children ran through the streets, calling their names as he circled the village. Ninsianna waved and greeted each child by name, nearly pulling him off balance. Banking his wings to glide in for a landing, he touched down a few feet from the front door. Before she could wriggle out of his grasp, he carried her across the threshold, grinning at her giggles as he paused to figure out how to fit both her and the width of his wings. The temperature dropped several degrees the moment they got out of the sun, but it was still almost as miserably hot in here as it was outside.

“Home sweet home…” Ninsianna said without enthusiasm.

“For now…” Mikhail put her down. “At least until I can build our own house."

The house he pictured was nothing like the houses of this village. The ceilings would be high enough for him to stretch his wings, with lots of windows to catch the breeze. The kitchen would be large enough to fill with family and friends, and there would be a real bathroom with running water. But to build it, he needed time. And to get time, he needed to hurry up and finish training the people of this village to take care of themselves!

“I see our parents moved your things out of the main living area,” Ninsianna said. “I presume they moved them into my room.”

“Where we'll be sleeping really, r-e-a-l-l-y close together!" He pulled her close and nuzzled down her neck until she shrieked with laughter. Ninsianna’s room was small and her bed even smaller. He wouldn't have room to flare his wings without knocking them into the wall.

The sound of voices alerted them they were no longer alone. Ninsianna’s parents had headed back from the fields the moment  they'd seen them glide in for a landing, their arms filled with the bounty they'd planted as a family only months before. For some reason, it felt right.

“Welcome home!" Needa hugged them both and kissed both cheeks. “I trust you two had a … fruitful … honeymoon?”

“Mom!” Ninsianna blushed at the implied meaning. It was too soon to tell if their time together would prove to be fruitful or not.

“Trying my hardest, ma’am,” Mikhail grinned as he pulled Ninsianna against him for a hug. It was the understatement of the year! For someone who had kept his libido so tightly leashed, he was discovering he enjoyed making love to his lovely wife. Preferably as much as possible!

“Mikhail!” Ninsianna exclaimed. “You're worse than she is!”

“Supper will be ready in an hour,” Needa said. “Mikhail … could you please go milk the goat?”

Mikhail groaned. He, Angelic Special Forces Colonel, fiercest warrior this village had ever seen, supposedly a sword of the very gods who ruled this galaxy, consistently lost his daily battle with their recalcitrant dairy goat, ‘Little Nemesis.' No matter what he tried … food bribes, coercion, force, even terror, the goat would just not cooperate. He usually ended up spilling as much milk as he was able to extract.

“A wise man must learn to coax a reluctant female." Immanu gave him a knowing look. “It's your only weakness…”

“The goat?” he asked.

“No … the gift of persuasion…” Immanu  donned his most enigmatic shaman look. “A wise leader must know not only how to defeat his enemies in combat, but also how to persuade them to come around to his way of thinking so combat is not necessary in the first place. You must overcome that weakness.”

Mikhail digested that piece of information, puzzling over Immanu’s cryptic words, before shooting him a grin. “It sounds like an excuse to get me to milk the goat instead of you.”

“That too…” Immanu chuckled.

An hour later, with cloven hoof prints all over his pants, they sat down for supper and caught up on what had been happening during the two weeks they'd been away.

“Alalah and Pareesa gave basic archery lessons to Jamin’s elite group while you were gone,” Immanu said, “while Behnam and Orkedeh have been teaching your new combat candidates. Chief Kiyan himself took over teaching them to march in formation carrying water to the fields. They're looking pretty good.”

“Has Jamin taken lessons yet,” Ninsianna asked. “He can't keep refusing to acknowledge things need to change. He's the best warrior we have … after Mikhail."

She caught Mikhail's scowl and shot out her hand to cover his. "Honey … we need him.”

“Jamin won't be shooting a bow, or anything else anytime soon,” Immanu scowled. “He tried to bully Pareesa. Your little çok puan ile mızrak[4] didn't take too kindly to that.”

Ever since Pareesa had escaped capture, she'd devoted all of her time to learning everything she could about the art of warfare. Amongst the trainees, she'd earned the nickname 'çok puan ile mızrak,' [weapon of mass destruction]. She tried to mimic Mikhail's cool reserve and had even taught herself to shoot two arrows simultaneously. Someday soon his youngest student would surpass his archery abilities … and then some! The woman-child was even learning to speak Cherubim!

“Did you take the issue up with the Chief?” Mikhail asked.

“The Chief sided with Pareesa,” Immanu said. “Jamin shouldn't be undermining his authority or the safety of this village by discouraging able-bodied warriors from training.”

“Good,” Mikhail snorted satisfaction.

“Mikhail,” Needa's dark eyes were filled with worry. “You'd better watch your back with that young man. If he ever has the chance to strike at you, he will.”

“I know,” Mikhail said.

“At least the Chief is no longer in denial that he has a problem on his hands,” Ninsianna said.

Mikhail tucked away the errant image of throttling Jamin away into that place he sent all unhelpful emotions that would do more harm than good to brood about. Sometimes he wished he'd smote the skulking peacock that night Jamin had attacked his ship. Had he done it then, killing him would have been justified. Unfortunately, killing the Chief’s son would have barred him from joining this village, now his village. As Ninsianna liked to always remind him, She-who-is was wise in her foresight.

Dinner finished with small talk about things that had gone on while they were absent. Needa talked about how the crops fared and who had gotten sick while they were gone. Mikhail talked about the dream house he wished to build for Ninsianna. Ninsianna and her father bounced ideas for transforming the disorganized villagers into a respectable fighting force. The next time raiders attacked the village, they would be better prepared.

Eager to turn in for an early night, Mikhail grabbed his blushing bride by the hand, bid her parents goodnight, and dragged her upstairs, trying very hard not to be too loud as he thumped his wings against the wall.

Chapter 101

Galactic Standard Date:  152,323.08 AE

Alliance Territory

Centauri Cavalry General Kunopegos

Kunopegos

He looked down on the Alliance Prime Minister. Literally. General Kunopegos, the four-star general who commanded the Centauri Calvary, towered over the tall, slender Angelic by nearly twice his height. He used that height difference now to communicate how displeased he was with whatever stunt Lucifer was trying to pull..

“You said you had a solution to my problem!” General Kunopegos growled. “How in Hades am I supposed to reproduce with that? She’s one-tenth my size!" Crossing his muscular arms in front of his barrel chest he glowered down at Lucifer, his hooves clopping angrily against the deck

“Very carefully,” Lucifer waved his hand as though it was merely a trifle. “But after a human female has given birth the first time, they are physically capable of being a bit more, how shall I put it delicately? Accommodating. If you prefer, we have the technology to impregnate her artificially. Either way, your foal will need to be harvested 11 weeks early and spend time in an incubator.”

“I don't like the thought of my foal spending time in an incubator,” Kunopegos said.

“Well … if you want to keep trying the Emperor’s way …” Lucifer trailed off, flipping one hand to the side as though to say, ‘whatever.’

In fact, every aspect of Lucifer’s demeanor said ‘whatever.' Kunopegos had served the Alliance and, by default, Lucifer, for a very long time. Lucifer had always been a ladies man. A bit of a peacock. Masterfully playing both sides against the middle like one of his adopted father's infamous games of chess. But never had he seen their highest elected official act outright … chilling.

All the fruitless mating attempts he'd tried over the years replayed in Kunopegos mind. The filly he'd asked to secretly marry him all those years ago in defiance of the 'be fruitful and multiply' decree. She'd abandoned him after the sixth mating attempt had failed. The humiliation of being blacklisted, his name available for any mare who wished to inquire as being a risky candidate. The way mares paid him a wide berth whenever they started to come into a heat cycle, avoiding him so they didn't have to tell their commanding officer 'no.'

“I’ve tried every solution and it’s failed!" Sparks flew from Kunopegos hoof as it clanged against the deck with a sound like a ringing bell. “Ever since I was blacklisted, females won’t go for a romp in the pasture! Even when they're not in heat!"

His eyes drifted back to the tiny female Lucifer had brought on board with him, clad in a shapeless garment that covered her from the top of her head down to her toes, tiny even by Angelic standards. She looked more like a child's doll than somebody he should be considering a mating attempt with.

“Many foals are naturally born premature,” Lucifer's voice was hypnotically reasonable, “and spend time in an incubator with no ill effect. I mean … look at her. She is smaller than you are. If you want to beget a foal upon her, you're going to have to make a few accommodations.”

“Why can’t the Emperor just rear them in an incubator from scratch?” Kunopegos lamented. "That seemed to work just fine for some of the lesser species he tinkered with?"

Kunopegos would know. He'd personally helped the Emperor reseed planets with interesting life forms over his five hundred plus years as a Centauri cavalry officer. For some reason even the Emperor couldn't understand, the more sentient species became, the lower the success rate of artificial insemination and incubation.

“The Emperor has not been able to reproduce some critical element of the early gestational period,” Lucifer said. “We can help the little foals along who arrive too early, but we can't replace their mother. Superior races can only reproduce naturally.”

Kunopegos turned the information over in his mind, still considering whether he should quietly ask one of his lower-ranking officers to manufacture a fake distress call so he would have an excuse to get the heck out of there without ticking off the Emperor's son, or should he seriously consider what Lucifer proposed?

“So … is this one an experienced brood mare? Or a filly?”

“This one is a filly, I'm afraid." Lucifer's eerie silver eyes gleamed as though he found that thought to be exciting. “You'll have to be careful the first time you mate with her so that you don't damage her.”

An untried filly? Would be willing to mate? With him?

“I'd feel a little better if I knew she was already … accommodating,” Kunopegos said apprehensively, shoving his libido back where it belonged. “I'm afraid I'll hurt her. Don't you have any mares that are maybe a little more … experienced?”

“Human females prefer to stay with one stallion and rear their foals in a herd,” Lucifer said. “Unless a mare is widowed young. Let’s just say there are few mares willing to leave their families. It's a filly. Or nothing at all.”

“They stay with their stallions and rear their own foals?” Kunopegos asked. “You mean they don't just drop them off at the nearest youth training academy like Centauri mares do?”

“No,” Lucifer said. “Humans are herd animals. They stick together.”

As Lucifer spoke, images of galloping through the ship's pasture with a handsome bay colt with his eyes pranced through Kunopegos mind. On his back, the doll-like female sat nursing a newborn filly with a coal-black coat and her unusual almond-shaped eyes. They ran off together into the sunset, a stallion and his herd, the way his ancestors had once reared their families.

“So how do I do this?” Kunopegos asked. “Go into a stall with a dirty magazine and hand a vial over to my chief medical officer?”

“No, no…” Lucifer said. “Engaging in actual intercourse with a male as large as you her first time might prove uncomfortable. But she has been trained to pleasure you in other ways. Once she has gathered certain … how shall we put it … crucial elements, my laboratory technicians will take care of the rest. I timed this visit for her peak fertility. You should know whether or not the mating is successful within three days.”

“And what do you want in return?" Kunopegos eyed Lucifer with skepticism. The Alliance Prime Minister was like all politicians. He rarely granted favors without wanting something in return.

“My father has had the solution to our dilemma all along,” Lucifer clucked. “And kept it from us. He would rather let us die out rather than break his silly prohibition about seed worlds.”

As Lucifer spoke, a recurring nightmare Kunopegos had experienced ever since he'd been blacklisted replayed in his mind. He was running through a pasture on a planet someplace, chasing a herd that he knew was headed for a cliff. He called out to them, again and again, begging them to stop, but the entire herd simply kept going the direction they were going until they reached the cliff. He got to the cliff and looked down at countless broken Centauri bodies, all smashed upon the rocks below. He always woke up in a cold sweat, his heart racing at the terror of finding himself the last of his species.

“The Emperor has known where they were all along?” Kunopegos swished his tail. “Why hasn’t he brought the solution forward earlier? I've been banging my head against the wall for more than 500 years!!!”

“Hashem was not the one who brought them forward,” Lucifer said. “Shay’tan did. My father ceded that world to Shay’tan millennia ago. Shay’tan would like to … how shall I put it? Tweak my father’s nose by opening up the human homeworld to trade.”

“Hashem is really going to let us die out?" Kunopegos felt as though somebody had just shot him out the airlock of his own command carrier. No. It couldn't be true!

“He has ordered commanders to start promoting the newer sentient races into positions we used to hold,” Lucifer said, his words curiously devoid of emotion given how passionate the Prime Minister usually was on this subject. “We are being replaced.”

Kunopegos heart sunk down to his hooves. It was true. The evidence had been staring him in the face all along and he'd been in denial about it. He glanced up at the Prime Minister and shivered. Lucifer’s cold, silver eyes glittered with some emotion? Anger? No … satisfaction. The Prime Minister had the look of a man who'd just won a large wager.

“I received the promotion order,” Kunopegos said. “I heard General Jophiel threatened to quit if the Emperor didn't make some concessions with his insane breeding program.”

“The Emperor omitted the fact he's been hiding the root race,” Lucifer said. “Do you really trust his explanation now?”

“So what do you want?" Kunopegos pointed at the tiny female. "If I accept this gift?"

“Just keep her existence a secret,” Lucifer said. “That's all. Until I have a chance to move the rest of my chess pieces into position."

"I refuse to participate in a rebellion," Kunopegos growled. "We all saw what happened to the last hybrid who tried that stunt." Kunopegos didn't add that the hybrid in question had been none other than Lucifer's biological father.

I'm only going to petition Parliament to open the human homeworld to trade," Lucifer pooh-poohed, "but it will take time to build support for an override. It's important we hybrids speak in one voice to let the Emperor know we will not allow ourselves be marginalized into extinction.”

“In Parliament…” Kunopegos said with a grunt. “I'll not go supporting an armed uprising.”

“Of course not,” Lucifer said. “I wouldn't ask you to. He is, after all, my father. Now … would you like to meet your new mate?"

The two burly Angelics who perpetually shadowed Lucifer dragged the female closer. She seemed a little off-kilter, as though she'd been drugged. She stood there as docile as an old brood mare suckling her last foal, however, allowing him to canter around her and examine her from every angle instead of screeching like most humanoids did upon being towered over by a Centauri stallion.

“Her hair is so black … and her skin olive." Kunopegos felt how thick and coarse her hair felt, like his hair, only straight instead of curly. “Why are her eyes almond-shaped?”

“Humans evolved naturally,” Lucifer paced like a maestro conducting an orchestra. “They come in a variety of markings just like your ancestors did before they became inbred.”

One of Kunopegos distant ancestors had possessed pinto-paint markings. Another buckskin. Thanks to the desperation of the breeding program, all hybrids knew their lineage, but those markings had been lost for tens of thousands of years. Thoughts of those colorful ancestors came into his mind. Without realizing he'd even done so, Kunopegos had reached out and enclosed the human filly's hand in his large, brown one. She didn't appear to be afraid of him, unlike most races in the galaxy.

“Does she have a name?” Kunopegos asked.

“Her name is Aigiarn,” Lucifer said. “It means shining moon. She comes from a nomadic tribe of steppe-dwellers who live amongst the race that contributed the other half of your DNA, horses. She will be happiest riding upon your back.”

“You mean Shay'tan's colony also has our equine ancestors?” Kunopegos asked, his hooves clomping with excitement. “Why can’t we reproduce with them? Like the Mer-Levi?”

“Alas,” Lucifer clucked. “Your equine ancestors were allowed to rot, the same as these humans. Humans were already sentient when the Emperor decided to tinker with their DNA, but your equestrian ancestors are no more sentient than my avian ones are.”

“But Leviathans…” Kunopegos started to say.

“Leviathans were already marginally sentient,” Lucifer said. “The Emperor transplanted a few of their ancestors to a new homeworld after tinkering with their DNA and then forgot all about them.”

This was no secret. Kunopegos was old enough to remember when an Alliance ship had investigated an unusual energy signature in a remote part of the galaxy and discovered a race of sentient aquatic mammals descended from the same creatures that had contributed the aquatic half of Merfolk DNA. In the time since the loss of Nibiru, the original human homeworld, the Levi had evolved into fully sentient creatures who had achieved space travel on their own. The news had been both good and bad. Merfolk were no longer going extinct, but they were no longer … well … Merfolk, either. After several generations of intermarriage with Leviathans, the Mer-Levi children no longer resembled the half-human hybrids they were descended from.

“The Emperor didn't feel horses were important enough to gift with sentience,” Lucifer said. “If you reproduce with an animal, your offspring will be mentally defective.”

“But human females will breed true?” Kunopegos asked.

“Yes,” Lucifer said. “At least as far as sentience is concerned. Although half your offspring will more closely resemble this human than you. You'll be making a sacrifice to guarantee the survival of your own species.”

“If this is the only way my bloodline will survive,” Kunopegos said. “Then that's what I must do." Turning back to the female, Kunopegos made his choice. “Come, my beautiful filly. Let’s get to know one another.”

Grabbing his hand, Aigiarn swung up onto the equestrian half of his back as though he were a pony and kicked him in the haunches, urging him to run. The thighs that gripped his back were sure of themselves and strong. His apprehensions melted away. This was not the frail, exotic flower he'd first assumed her to be due to her diminutive height. The human root stock was … athletic?

“OOoooooh,” Kunopegos pranced like a colt. “On second thought, perhaps I'll enjoy this little romp?”

The knowing smile Lucifer gave him didn't reach his eyes.

“Gyaah!" Aigiarn slapped his haunches and steered him with her knees towards the pasture visible in the ship beyond, crouching like a jockey. Kunopegos and his mare-to-be did their pre-mating run out into the communal ship pasture.

Chapter 102

September, 3,390 BC

Earth:  Village of Assur

Colonel Mikhail Mannuki’ili

Mikhail

Last night Mikhail had sent the warriors into the underbrush to harvest a shoulder-height walking stick for today’s sparring lesson. They held them now in a disorganized, almost contemptuous manner, more eager to learn archery after watching Pareesa take down Jamin than to master a weapon so mundane as an ordinary walking stick. That was about to change.

“The foundation of all Cherubim training is the ability to defend yourself using nothing but your empty hands,” Mikhail said. “Once you've mastered the art of unarmed combat, you can add weapons comprised of things you might find up in nature. No matter where you go, chances are you'll always be able to find a stick to defend yourself.”

“Why can't we just use our spears?” Ugazum scowled at his stick. Ugazum was one of Jamin's elite warriors who'd attacked him the day his ship had crashed and still gave him a bit of trouble.

“What happens once you run out of weapons?" Mikhail asked. He flared his wings, just enough to watch Ugazum flinch. There. Me … alpha male. You … obey. Oh how he hated this game! He tucked his wings against his back as soon as Ugazum fell back into line

"Now … line up and hold out your sticks so that you stand at least a staff-length apart,” Mikhail said. "Place your staff with your hand at the midpoint." He demonstrated the correct way to hold the staff, walking up the line to correct mistakes. “It shouldn't look much different from the way you might carry a walking stick. Non-threatening. However, you can quickly move into almost any position."

Like a bolt of lightning, he swung the staff into imaginary feints and jabs. A murmur of appreciation went through the trainees at how the innocuous looking piece of wood could be moved to defend against a variety of threats.

“Sir?” Ebad asked. “When will we learn to throw a spear the way that you did at the solstice tournament?" While the elite warriors were competent to use a spear, most of the other warriors were not. Yet…

“Let’s learn how to defend ourselves first,” Mikhail said. “And then we can learn to throw it later. If it doesn’t have a spearhead at the end, there's no point in throwing it. You'll simply disarm yourself.”

The warriors practiced thwacking one another until the training took on a satisfying percussion. Chief Kiyan came striding up, a staff in his hand.

“Chief on deck!" Mikhail saluted the way he would a superior officer.

The salute the trainees gave the Chief was disorganized and awkward, but heartfelt. The Chief noted who was in attendance and how well they swung their staff weapons before pulling Mikhail aside.

"I see you've attracted more female warriors?" Chief Kiyan laughed. "You've gathered quite the harem."

Mikhail shot the Chief a raised eyebrow, his best approximation of the one Needa used whenever she found something hard to believe.

"They merely wish to learn to defend themselves," Mikhail said.

"More likely they wish to catch husbands," the Chief shot him a wolfish grin. "Word has gotten around around the fastest way a girl can gather a retinue of adoring retainers is to take your class."

Mikhail gazed across the now-36 females who buzzed around Pareesa like bees. "They seem to care more for each other's company than the men."

Except … the women kept giving the men that furtive side-glance Ninsianna often gave him when she wished to cause his temperature to rise. The men, in turn, seemed to show off even more when the women did that. Mikhail filed the information away in that growing mental database he called inexplicable human behavior.

"I have an idea for a morale-building exercise," the Chief said. "A large herd of gazelles has begun their annual migration across the plain."

"A hunt?" Mikhail looked at the size of the group. "There are far too many to take them all. Who do you propose?"

"Thirty of your most promising men," the Chief said, then added, "and women. Select a few warriors from each group. The older warriors, the newer ones, and a few of the elite warriors."

Mikhail looked at the people training, already calculating who he'd recommend. "Let me know when. I'll have them ready."

The Chief moved off to scrutinize the warriors, occasionally stepping in to test his own staff routines against the newer ones Mikhail taught the warriors. Ever since the Chief had given up on Jamin picking up the baton of leadership, he'd been taking a personal interest in the village defenses.

Mikhail glanced across the field and noticed Ninsianna walking towards him with her bow, a nice fat goose slung over one shoulder. She sat down on a rock to watch him train, giving him an enormous smile that distracted him from the much less enticing task of watching novice staff-fighters accidentally hit one another off the head. He suppressed the urge to do a hop-flap over to kiss her, his entire body aware of her eyes watching as he trained their people. Now it was him showing off…

"Pareesa … could you please help me demonstrate?” he asked.

“Yorokobi, kyōshi to [with pleasure],” Pareesa clicked in the Cherubim tongue. Not only did the little demoness fight like hellspawn, but she'd also learned to say the names of the maneuvers in the Cherubim tongue.

“Just like we practiced earlier, okay?”

“Hai, sensei wa [yes, teacher], watashi wa junbi ga dekite iru [I am ready],” she answered.

“Showoffs wa, oha ga kikkā o shutoku [showoffs get their tail feathers kicked],” he warned half in one language, half in the other as the Cherubim had no direct translation for the word ‘showoff.'

He swung his pole around to make contact with hers in the choreographed moves that would allow his students to gain familiarity with using the staff. As the tiny archer adjusted to the strength of his blows, he increased his speed and strength to give her a good workout. Pareesa responded by coming at him with a ferocity which no longer surprised him.

“Hey! Hey! Hey!" he cautioned. "Don't get too big for your kilt, little fairy.”

Pareesa laughed and made a surprise lunge that was not part of the routine, nearly hitting him on the shoulder as she danced out of his way.

“The only one too big for their britches is an oversized slowpoke like you!” she taunted, cocky about her ability to land blows she'd learned only yesterday. She'd obviously spent the entire night practicing by her skill and the dark circles under her eyes.

“Are you sure you want to do this?" He could see his students, and Ninsianna, enjoyed watching the fiesty young woman give him a run for his money. “In front of everybody?”

“Give me your best shot,” Pareesa taunted.

He noted Ninsianna's raised eyebrow.

“Okay, you asked for it,” Mikhail said.

He swung his staff like a whirligig, jerked it up and knocked Pareesa's staff out of her hand. At the same time, he hooked one foot behind her knee and knocked her to the ground with his staff at her throat. She landed with a thud. His students laughed. Some were happy to see her provide a continuous source of entertainment, others glad to see her get what she had coming to her. Pareesa lay there for a moment, blinking with surprise and most uncharacteristically free of a cocky retort.

“Are you okay?” he asked. He reached down to pull her up.

“Yup!" Pareesa grabbed one hand and pulled herself up, laughing as she strutted back into line with the other women with both hands raised in the air as though she had won their match of only a moment before. Half a dozen young men made a beeline for her, slapping her on the back and making crude comments about her fighting abilities that were usually only shared between an all-male pack.

“Show's over,” Mikhail announced. “Pair up. Now it’s time for you to practice what Pareesa just demonstrated." He glanced at Chief Kiyan, who watched his little prodigy with amusement. Chief Kiyan had backed Pareesa in the arrow incident, not his own son. The man had an eye for talent.

"Chief ... would you mind sparring with our little weapon of mass destruction?” Mikhail asked.

“Of course,” Chief Kiyan said. He put his staff into a fighting position and beckoned. “Come, little fairy."

Although the exact method of staff-fighting Mikhail taught was new to the Chief, the older warriors had learned to use a spear to block blows back when border skirmishes with the Halifians were a lot more common.

“Don't let her get too cocky,” Mikhail whispered before turning back to the group. He ordered them to start. “Ready ... set ... go....!”

Ninsianna sauntered over. Was it his imagination, or did she deliberately sway her hips to taunt him?

“She has a crush on you, you know?” Ninsianna said.

“What?”

“Pareesa ... has a crush on you?” Ninsianna repeated, a little smile on her face. “Why do you think she trains so hard.”

“Really?" He frowned as he glanced over to watch Pareesa keep glancing back at him as she sparred the Chief, as though seeking his approval. "You say that about all of them. How can you tell?”

“I can see the energy, remember?” Ninsianna used the cover provided by one wing to reach around and possessively pinch his backside. “Ever since you rescued her, Pareesa has had a huge crush on you.”

“She's just a little girl." He glanced over to where his youngest student had knocked the Chief onto his back and made him admit defeat before letting him back up. “Isn’t she a little too young?”

“She's a fierce warrior in a young woman’s body,” Ninsianna said. “And she is exactly the same age I was when I developed my first crush on an older man." Her eyes crinkled up in an enigmatic smile.

“Oh,” Mikhail raised one eyebrow. “An older man? Who?”

Her smile grew even wider as she lowered her gaze and peeked at him through veiled eyelashes, the look that never failed to make his heart race.

“Why? Are you jealous?” she teased.

"Yes," Mikhail none-too-seriously admitted.

“It's none of your business!" Ninsianna laughed. "It happens to every girl at some point. Young girl. Sexy older man. Lucky you. You get to have Pareesa follow you around like a love-sick puppy!”

“How do I discourage her without hurting her feelings?" Mikhail asked. "Pareesa is my best student.”

“Very delicately,"Ninsianna said. "Or you shall have another goat on your hands!”

"Oh, no," Mikhail groaned aloud, thinking of his ongoing war with the family's dairy goat. “I don't want that to happen. How do you recommend I handle this?”

“Ask Pareesa to help you train some of the young men who are having trouble mastering the basics,” she said. “Young Ebad over there has been mooning after her for months. Ask her to train him. And about a dozen of his worst-performing friends. It will solve two problems at once.”

“Pareesa will chew him up for dinner and spit out his bones for breakfast,” Mikhail said. “She won't be happy I've saddled her with someone as inept as Ebad.”

“He will learn ... for her,” Ninsianna said. “And she will be the better for it. Tell her you want her to do it as a special favor because you're afraid he'll get himself killed."

Now that wasn't a lie!

"How did I ever get so lucky to win the heart of a wife as smart as you?" Mikhail grinned.

"You fell out of the sky, remember?" Ninsianna said. "Anyhow ... I have got to go dress this bird so Mama can cook it for supper. I'll see you in a few hours, okay?”

He bent to kiss her, lingering to taste her sweet lips. She nipped his lower lip and pressed into him. Desire tingled through his body and made the outside world fade from his consciousness.

The sound of sticks hitting each other and grunts of pain ceased. Hoots and cat-calls came from the back of the line. They'd lingered longer than was appropriate. Between tending the fields, training new warriors, consulting with the Chief about the village defenses, and helping Alalah and Behnam work the kinks out of the women's archery training program, he could never seem to find enough time to spend with her, even now that they were married and sharing the same bed. He had a tendency to grab stolen moments such as this and not want to let her go, resulting in much good-natured teasing about the normally reserved Angelic turning to putty in Ninsianna’s hands.

Reluctantly, he pulled himself away and turned back to his work, watching Ninsianna’s pert little backside out of the corner of his eye as she went about her business.

“Okay, everybody ... let’s get back to work!”

Chapter 103

Galactic Standard Date:  152,323.09 AE

Uncharted Territories:

Diplomatic Carrier ‘Prince of Tyre’

Special Agent Eligor

Eligor

“Bring this human to the Prime Minister’s private quarters,” Zepar ordered.

Eligor looked at Lerajie. Lerajie looked like he wanted to throttle the weasely Chief of Staff. Things had been weird on this ship for a very long time, but the last few months? Well … even with the so-called ‘combat pay’ and bonuses, if not for the carrot of being first on Lucifer’s ‘mail order bride’ list the minute the Prime Minister pulled off whatever little coup d’état he was cooking up with the females he was 'gifting’ all over the Alliance, both of them would have been out of here.

“Well?” Zepar asked. His eyes had that cold, feral stare that always made Eligor shudder.

“Sorry, Sir." Eligor interrupted Lerajie before he could tell Zepar to go to hell. “Right away, Sir.”

The dark-skinned human male had been a problem since the day Sata’an traders had transported him onto their ship. Lucifer’s goon squad always intercepted incoming shipments before the others could get a look at the females they shipped in. Rumor said they were a bit simple, to put it kindly. Or at least that was how the fourteen pregnant females Lucifer had ordered them to guard around-the-clock acted. Like … monkeys. Big, stupid, very attractive monkeys.

But the male … the male had been so combative that even Lucifer’s goons couldn't handle him. Eligor had been called in to hold him down while they sedated him. The man had been drugged into a stupor ever since, but as Eligor had looked into the dark-skinned man's eyes, there had been real intelligence in those eyes. The sounds that had come from his mouth had not been the hisses and guttural yowls of the fourteen females Lucifer had impregnated, but the pattern of a language. A pre-language, perhaps?

The dark-skinned man shuffled down the hall, nearly falling as they led him through the ship. He didn't act like a sentient creature now.

“We've got to report this to somebody!" Lerajie interrupted his thoughts. “Even if they are just animals, we can’t keep standing by and doing nothing. They are the precursor to our species!”

“Do you really think Lucifer will just let you just waltz off of his ship?”

“I don't care what I signed,” Lerajie said. “The Emperor would be furious if he found out how Lucifer is treating his root stock!”

“I'm not worried about the non-disclosure agreements,” Eligor said. He noted the icy stare of the two guards who perpetually stood outside Lucifer’s door like a matched pair of gargoyles. “Shh…  Not here.”

They handed over the dark-skinned male. They were dismissed. The two goons shoved the heavily-sedated male through the door. Eligor and Lerajie headed towards the mess hall to grab a bite to eat.

“What do you mean, it’s not getting tossed in jail that worries you,” Lerajie asked as soon as they were out of earshot of the goons.

“Did you ever hear from Pistis again after he threatened to blab about the female Lucifer gifted to General Kunopegos?” Eligor asked.

“He quit,” Lerajie said.

“His sire contacted me looking for him,” Eligor said. “No one knows where he went.”

“So?” Lerajie said.

“What about Tabbris?” Eligor said. “Heard from him since he tried to file a report through official channels about the rough treatment of the human females Lucifer raped?”

“No,” Lerajie said. “You don't think…”

“Open your eyes,” Eligor said. “Before you get yourself killed.”

Chapter 104

Earth:  September 3,390 BC

Mesopotamian Plain

Colonel Mikhail Mannuki’ili

Mikhail

Every fall, great herds migrated across the alluvial plain in search of the abundant grains that grew not only where the Ubaid planted, but anyplace else the flood waters deposited silt. The herd they stalked now was a creature the Ubaid called reem. Sand gazelles. A dainty, goat-like creature that moved in herds across the desert, searching for forage. Although hunting gazelles didn't carry the prestige that taking down a larger animal such as an Auroch would have, it was an opportunity to take his most promising warriors, young and old, on a bonding exercise.

He'd selected the thirty warriors to accompany him via the most democratic means possible. A contest. Whoever scored highest in a cornucopia of skills that included not only traditional warrior skills, but also newer ones such as ability to follow orders, had been selected … including three women. A contest was the best way to avoid accusations of favoritism.

"Do you have such creatures in the kingdom you come from, Mikhail?" asked Varshab, one of the Chief's older generation of warriors.

"Not these creatures, exactly," Mikhail pointed to the dainty creatures. "But I believe I may have seen something like these before."

"Don't be fooled by their diminutive size," Kiarash joined the conversation. "They are small, but exceptionally fleet of foot."

"And nimble over rough terrain." Varshab pointed off in the distance where the flat river plain rose up sharply to meet the desert, a steep rocky rock face even a man would have to work hard to climb. "If they make it up there, we'll have a hard time chasing them. By the time we climb after them, they'll be long gone."

"That shouldn't be a problem for you," Kiarash pointed to Mikhail's wings.

"It's not about me." Mikhail glanced over his shoulder at the younger warriors amassing behind them, eager to begin the hunt. "It's about them … working together. If supper gets away from them, I'm not going to fly in and save the day. It's a lesson they need to learn."

Mikhail gestured for Siamek to move towards the front.

"Sir?" Siamek asked.

"We'll separate into three groups," Mikhail said. "Ten warriors each team leader."

Although Siamek had not yet lost that wary expression, Mikhail had no complaints about how he carried out his duties. He was a solid performing, competent leader, perhaps not the best in each of the individual weapons skills, but the most consistent performer overall. More importantly, he had a modicum of common sense and not a lot of self-ambition beyond doing his best, two important traits for a second-in-command.

"Who has to take the three … um … Sir?" Siamek stopped himself from saying the word 'girls.' Pareesa had qualified on her own, male or female, but he'd done a separate contest to make sure two other women qualified for today's hunt, one of them a recent addition to the team.

"I want Pareesa to go with Kiarash," Mikhail said. "I'll take Azin. You should take Gita."

Siamek blanched. "I'd rather not, Sir. Why can't I have Azin?"

"I want the teams to be evenly balanced as far as abilities go," Mikhail said. "I know she's brand new, but she won her slot fair and square. I want her paired with you and Varshab "

He was trying to walk that fine line between encouraging Pareesa to be the best warrior she could be while not encouraging the 'crush' the little fairy purportedly nursed. Originally he'd intended to bring the newbie along in his group so he could keep an eye on her, but Ninsianna had erupted in a fit of temper, which seemed to be occurring more and more the last two weeks while she fended off a stomach bug. It was important to show the other warriors that women could perform under fire.

"It could be worse," Varshab ribbed Siamek. "He could have made you take along Ebad."

Siamek snorted, trying not to laugh. Pareesa's prize 'student' had not qualified for today's hunt. Nor had any of the other fifteen young men Mikhail had saddled her with bringing up to speed so that the sons of potters, weavers, and other tradesmen who had never hunted a day in their lives wouldn't accidentally shoot each other.

"You'll survive," Kiarash slapped Siamek on the back.

The team leaders briefed, Mikhail called the other warriors to gather around and assigned them to teams.

"Two groups will move in a V-formation to herd the gazelles towards that embankment," Mikhail said. "Meanwhile, the third group should circle around that ridge and make sure they don't escape."

"But the river has dropped below the level of the embankment, Sir," Siamek said. "They'll slip past us on that narrow spit of land."

"That's where the teamwork comes in," Mikhail said. He pointed to the grazing gazelles. "A-team[5] should move ahead so that their end of the V stretches out that way. B-team will block them from coming back this way. C-team will surprise them when they try to climb that embankment. They'll have the high ground, so they should be able to intercept enough gazelles for a respectable hunt."

He'd made them leave their bows behind so they would be forced to work together to get in close to the quarry. Gazelles were swift creatures. It would force the warriors to think quickly on their feet and use the command signals he'd been teaching them to let the other person know what they needed to do.

"Why does C-team get to do all the killing?" Firouz lamented, sans his sidekick Dadbeh, who had not made the cut. Mikhail had assigned him to Kiarash's group, trying to break up the 'elite' warriors amongst the newer ones who were showing promise in skills such as the ability to follow a chain of command.

"How many gazelles does a hunting group this size usually kill?" Mikhail asked.

"Thirty men?" Siamek said. "We usually get one each. Jamin always got two."

"Well let's see how many we get if we do it my way, okay?" Mikhail said. "The worst that can happen is we all go home hungry and take our lessons on teamwork more seriously next time."

With a 'hoo-rah' and bumped fists, the groups broke up. The sun began to climb in the sky towards its apex as they waited for C-team, headed by Kiarash, to move into position. After half an hour or so, he spied Pareesa scrambling up the rocks, fleet as a gazelle herself. With a nod to Siamek, the B-team began to circle around the water's edge, cutting the gazelles off from the river. The herd milled about and stomped their feet, sensing predators were moving in for the kill.

"Let's go," Mikhail signaled his group when Siamek gave him the signal to move into position. A-team began to spread out in a line, the fastest members moving their end of the V towards the tail end of Siamek's group. Mikhail anchored the far end, giving his team a series of hand signals to communicate they needed to straighten out their line and move in unison. As expected, when the two lines converged and began to move towards the grazing herd, they began to stampede.

"Hey-yah!" Mikhail gave the signal to rush at the gazelles. The gazelles made a break for it.

The warriors were under orders not to throw their spears until the gazelles approached the rocky embankment. Mikhail couldn't remember ever hunting a herd animal such as this before, but many of the Ubaid had. Once the creatures hit the obstacle, experience dictated half would attempt to climb to safety while the other half would try to break back through the line. They were more likely to make a clean kill when an animal ran at them, keeping their spears in their hands so they could make another kill right away, than when one was running away, disarming themselves.

"Now!" Siamek shouted, beginning the hunt.

The warriors moved into rough lines, not perfect, but Mikhail noted the way some of the groups gelled to move the way they did during training. The warriors still tended to cluster into social groupings, but little by little, as gazelles ran back towards them and broke through the lines, the warriors were forced to close their ranks and move with better coordination. The largest buck nipped at the flanks of the female gazelles and began to herd them up towards the cliff, exactly the way that Varshab had said they would. When the gazelles got halfway up the hill, C-team erupted out of the rocky hill and panicked the creatures, turning half of them back as expected. The big buck spied a weakness in Siamek's line, a place where the warriors had not kept their line straight, and made a break for it.

"Close that line!" Mikhail shouted. His words were drowned out by the sound of hundreds of tiny hooves pounding against the rocky soil. As he'd hoped, the gazelles had found the places they were weak and dozens of them escaped, demonstrating better than a week's worth of words why they needed to become better coordinated.

Kiarash signaled one of the C-team warriors close to the failing line left by B-team and scrambled down the rocks. Firouz rushed after the disappearing herd.

"No!" Mikhail shouted in vain, his words lost in the ruckus. "You're supposed to close the line!"

Firouz chased after the buck, pursuing the status symbol of taking down the largest gazelle himself rather than the group goal of capturing the greatest number of gazelles. Meanwhile Siamek had regained some control over his team and signaled Gita to close the line. Their easiest route of escape now blocked, the gazelles acted as the older warriors had predicted. Half of them began to climb to where C-team waited to ambush them, the other half tried to break through the combined lines of A-team and B-team.

A doe with two kids rushed at him. Mikhail lifted one wing and let them pass. Immanu had tutored him before the hunt that a wise leader allowed the very young to escape so there would be gazelles to hunt next year. A young male rushed at him, his horns showing he was about a year old. Perfect eating. Mikhail stabbed at the creature with his spear. The poor thing flailed, crying out as the spear missed its heart. Mikhail pulled his knife and finished it off. He had no problems with hunting, but he couldn't bear to watch it suffer.

"Whoo-hoo!" the warriors shouted, stabbing away as gazelles practically impaled themselves upon the warriors spears.

"Don't let that line open up!" Mikhail warned one of his own team members, a middle-aged man who showed promise despite claiming he'd never hunted the animals before. The man closed up the line as they tightened around the herd of frantic gazelles like a noose.

He killed a second young buck, and then an aging doe. All around him, his team members were doing the same. The death-screams of frantic gazelles cried out from the rocky embankment, where C-team was engaged in a bloodbath of animal slaughter. Another doe rushed at him, her belly swollen.

"Let her go!" Azin shouted. "She is with fawn. It's bad luck to kill her."

He lifted his wing and let the creature pass. A second one slipped away, good reflexes allowing it to get the better of him. Immanu had lectured him to not allow the warriors to kill the entire herd, something rarely accomplished, but of concern with a well-organized group. No more than a third or She-who-is would punish them for their greed by denying them meat next year. Mikhail gave a rough count and estimated they were almost there. A few more, perhaps.

A blood-curdling scream broke through the air, not one of the gazelles. A human scream. A roar, and then another scream. But where? He scanned the warriors. A-team … ten men. B-team … Siamek had paused killing gazelles and pointed down towards the narrow peninsula where Firouz had disappeared. Another scream, and a roar.

Céilí mór!

The gazelles forgotten, the warriors rushed in the direction Firouz had disappeared. Mikhail spread his wings and leaped into the air, flying above the embankment to see where the screams were coming from. No sooner had he reached the top than he spied a large predator with a golden pelt leap towards a second such predator which dragged the screaming Firouz off by the leg. An enormous…

Mikhail dropped to the ground, his wings trembling with the memory that wanted to come to the surface, but wouldn't.

"Just let him go!"

He held out his hand to the creature which had Firouz by the leg, trying to reason with it. A deep rumble growled in its throat. The second creature snarled at him, baring enormous fangs. The larger of the two had a reddish mane like a king wearing a crown. It dropped Firouz's arm and crouched to leap at him, sensing he was a threat. Firouz cried out and tried to roll away. The female leaped on the prey animal dropped by her mate, pinning Firouz to the ground. It was a … a … a…

"Please," he told the creature. "We can work this out. Who is your commanding officer?" The overwhelming sensation he should remember who these creatures were muddled his brain.

With an ear-splitting roar, the big male leaped at him, fangs going straight for his throat. An errant thought went through his mind. Why was one of his own men attacking him? Disbelief slowed his reaction time. He fell backwards, claws raking at his wings and tearing out clumps of feathers as the creature bit at his head, trying to bring him down the same way it brought down a gazelle. Standing up, the creature was the same size as he was without his wings, but for some reason all he could think about was how small this creature was compared to what it should be.

"Don't make me kill you," he pleaded. Every fiber of his being screamed that killing this creature would be wrong!

Fangs broke through the flesh in one wing, claws dug into his arm. Whatever he thought these creatures were didn't matter. He needed to fight back or he would be killed.

He heard the shout of the other warriors rushing up behind him, spears held aloft as he pulled his knife and rolled, he and the creature locked in each other's embrace. The big male outweighed him. It came down hard on one wing and knocked him onto the ground, flat on his back. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the other warriors rush towards Firouz, stabbing at the second beast. The female roared as a spear pierced its hide, rushing at the warriors who were stabbing at it with spears. A second spear landed in its hide. The creature screamed

"No!" Mikhail shouted. Killing these creatures was wrong!

The big male which was on top of him snapped at his head, its enormous claws ripping out chunks of feathers and clawing at his flesh. It knocked the knife he'd hesitated to use right out of his hands. It was him … against the beast.

"Get out of the way!" Varshab shouted at him.

"Don't kill it!" Mikhail shouted. He rolled so that his wings shielded the creature, preventing them from plunging a spear into its heart. Fangs grazed his cheek, barely missing taking out an eye. Mikhail grabbed the jaws and pulled them apart, the creature's hot breath bellowing in his face. His hands were a paltry weapon against jaws so powerful. The creature furiously clawed with both front and hind legs, trying to get its kill. Their close proximity was Mikhail's saving grace, too close for the creature to claw at anything except his enormous wings. He flailed, no more able to hit the creature with the club-like leading edge of his wings than the creature was able to get at him with its claws. Mikhail spied his knife and moved his hand, yelping as enormous jaws clamped down around his wrist. He punched it in the head with his other hand and reached for the knife he'd dropped.

The creature snapped at his head. It left open its chest, a mistake any first-year cadet learned to avoid.

He had no choice. Training took over.

He stabbed the creature in the heart.

The creature's death-cry reverberated through his very soul, making him cry out along with it. No! He pushed it off of him, pulling out the knife and pushing his hands over the wound to staunch the bleeding. The other warriors rushed in to finish it off.

"No!" he shouted. He waved them off, his eyes blurry as he pleaded with the creature. "Don't die. Please don't die."

He waited for the big male to speak to him. To say something. To explain why it had felt the need to attack him. But it didn't. There was intelligence in those golden eyes filled with pain, but no words came from its mouth. It breathed, and breathed again, and then it was silent. Staring at the blood on his hands, Mikhail raised them up to the sky.

"Why?" he shook his fists into the sky. "Why why why?"

The female was already dead, filled with spears. The warriors danced around her like carrion birds, celebrating the death of the noble creature. Pareesa helped Firouz to his feet, a little worse for the wear, but he would survive. Warriors slapped him on the back and congratulated him on his kill. Tears streamed down Mikhail's cheeks at how wrong this all felt.

They stopped celebrating when they realized he was crying.

"I'm sorry," he told the beast whose name he couldn't remember, but knew he should know.

He stared at the blood on his hands, red against his pale flesh. Wrong. He ran his hands through its pelt and put his head down to listen for its heart. It was silent. He'd killed it. Even though he couldn't remember this creature's name or where he'd seen one of them before, in his soul he knew he'd killed one of his own. He put his forehead down upon the still-warm comrade he'd just killed, sobs wracking his body as he drooped his wings and finally allowed seven months of mourning lost memories to spill from his shattered psyche.

The warriors gathered around in silence, not understanding why he grieved.

"Mikhail?" Pareesa asked. She placed a hand on one wing. "Are you okay?"

"This was wrong," Mikhail hiccoughed, forcing himself to regain some sense of composure. "I don't know why, but I feel as though I just killed my own brother."

"These are lions," Pareesa said. "Big cats. Sometimes we have to hunt them or they'll eat our goats."

Pareesa put her hand on his shoulder and gave it a squeeze, surprisingly strong for such a young woman. It was the gesture of comfort one equal gives to another, this warrior princess. He tried to suppress the sobs that kept shuddering in his chest, but he couldn't. They didn't understand.

"Where he comes from," a soft voice said. "There are lions who are also people. Just as he is part eagle."

He looked up to stare into the blackest eyes he'd ever seen, so black it was impossible to tell where the pupil ended and the iris began. The scrawny black-eyed girl kneeled before him and the dead creature, tears streaming down her cheeks at the sight of his tears. He shivered at the sensation of having his soul laid bare before those bottomless black eyes. It felt like being naked.

"I think so." Mikhail was trapped in those eyes like a prey animal, so much like Ninsianna's, only black instead of gold.

"They are but animals," Siamek said. "Smart animals, which is why we fear them, but still just animals."

"It's very brave what you did," Varshab said, "killing a lion with nothing but a knife. Only the bravest warriors dare come up against a lion."

He cringed as he noticed the warriors had pulled their spears out of the female and were pulling out their obsidian blades to skin it.

"You must take its pelt and carry it back to the village," Kiarash said. "It will show those few who still question your methods how brave you are."

"Only Jamin has ever killed a lion single-handedly," Siamek said. "We call this beast the king-maker. Only a great leader dare take on a lion alone."

Mikhail ran his hand through the great beast's pelt. It was not the creature he'd first mistaken it to be. He could see that now. But in the moment … it had seemed like…

"It's just an animal," Pareesa said. "See?"

It wore no uniform, no rank pins. Its claws were dirty and chipped, with no sign of being groomed and its fur unkempt and not brushed. The fingers on the paws were too short, too paw-like, and it didn't have opposable thumbs. Something about the way its hip and shoulder joints were shaped also didn't look right. Whatever his subconscious had been screaming out at him, this creature was close, but not exact. Regardless, he reached down and closed its eyes.

"I think … I think Gita is right," Mikhail wiped clean his cheek. He shook his head, frustrated at the memory which lurked just beneath the surface, but refused to come free. "I think where I come from we have people who look like this." He glanced up to thank the young woman who'd provided him with a logical explanation for his bizarre emotional reaction, but she'd disappeared.

Two of the warriors helped Firouz hobble over.

"Thank you," Firouz said. He pointed to the big male gazelle he'd taken down for himself, the buck which had been leader of the herd. "I'd killed it and was carrying it back when they came out from behind those tall grasses. I didn't even see them coming."

Mikhail rose to his feet.

"Had you not broken rank," Mikhail's wings trembled with rage. "This wouldn't have happened. You were supposed to fill the hole in the line! Not go chasing after your own glory! This is why eleven people were killed during the raid!"

Anger filled his body, begging to be let off its leash. He could feel it there, a wound so deep, so palpable, so horrible and black it felt like the chill of death. The warriors backed off. Firouz cringed in fear.

'You must control your anger. Anger opens the door to other things...'

The warning of a Cherubim master he only vaguely recalled replayed over and over again in his mind, words to an incantation to calm his emotions. He stepped back, his mouth moving as he whispered the words to the prayers they'd taught him to control his rage. The emotion seethed beneath the surface like an ancient volcano, trying to get out. The Cherubim had taught him that he must never lose control of his anger.

He was a foot taller than Firouz and with his wings he was huge. An image of how he must appear popped into his mind and shamed him. He was acting like a bully. He whispered the prayer, more focused this time. Calmness poured through his body like water, soothing the angry cauldron simmering beneath the surface, covering the ancient wound he couldn't remember receiving with dirt and whispering for it to lie at rest.

'It was nothing but an animal…'

It would be an abomination against the goddess to kill such a noble creature and not use every part of it as SHE intended. He didn't need Immanu to tell him that. He handed his knife to Pareesa.

"I can't do this," he said. He turned so he wouldn't see the other warriors, already skinning the dead female lion. "This animal is too much like a creature I know to be a friend. You do it for me. Present its hide as a gift to the Chief and make sure they bury the both of their remains side-by-side with honors. When you're done, I'll come back and say the death rituals."

"But it's just an animal," Kiarash said. "We only pour water over its nose before we skin it to give thanks to the goddess."

Mikhail gave him a look that communicated he wouldn't be questioned on this matter.

"I'll fly back and get Immanu." With the blood of his brother still on his hands, he took to the air to fetch his father-in-law.

Chapter 105

Galactic Standard Date:  152,322.11 AE

(three months prior to the crash)

Colonel Mikhail Mannuki’ili

Mikhail

“Colonel Mannuki'ili,” General Jophiel said. “We've received intelligence that the Sata’an Empire is amassing resources in Zulu Sector.”

“That’s pretty remote, Sir,” Mikhail said. “Isn’t that uncharted territory?”

“That sector doesn’t belong to either empire,” Jophiel said. “There's nothing out there … at least not that we know of. Now, all of a sudden, Shay’tan has every vessel he owns heading out there to trade. He's up to something.”

“What are your orders, Sir?” he asked.

“Take a scout ship and start shadowing these so-called traders,” Jophiel ordered. “Find out where they're going and what they're up to.”

“That’s too remote for a scout ship. What's my jumping off point?”

“I'm stationing you with an old friend,” she said. “Report to Colonel Israfa on the 'Light Emerging.' I'm positioning his command carrier on the border between Zulu and X-ray so it doesn't arouse too much suspicion. You'll be black-ops on this one, eyes-only, but Colonel Israfa is in the loop.”

He noted the unconscious way she caressed her swelling midsection. The corners of her mouth turned downwards in a sad little smile. Mikhail had known her too long to be fooled by her professional demeanor.

“He's a good man, Jophie,” Mikhail said softly, using her familiar name. “You shouldn't have sent him so far away.”

Her expression softened as a smile tugged at the corner of her lips. Wistful…

“Take good care of him for me, will you?” Jophiel asked.

Chapter 106

September - 3,390 BC

Village of Assur

Ninsianna

Ninsianna awoke to the rhythmic sound of Mikhail's heartbeat whirring through the brachial artery of the arm she used as a pillow, her cheek resting upon his chest. While she'd been sleeping he'd captured her hand and placed it over his heart, his large, strong hand gently caressing her smaller one. He was awake already, watching her with that unreadable expression he habitually wore. Ninsianna thought of it as his ‘default expression’ because he always donned it whenever he had something on his mind. The village was ecstatic with the bounty they'd brought back and divided amongst the whole village of fifty-three gazelles and two lion pelts, but for some reason he refused to speak about it.

“Good morning.” He stroked her hair. She liked that he was fascinated by her long black hair. She'd allowed it to grow longer since she'd met him because she knew it pleased him.

“Good morning,” she answered, stretching. It was rest-day. They didn't have to tend the fields, teach any classes, or do anything else except spend time with each other and her parents. She reached up to touch his cheek and looked into his beautiful blue eyes. “What's on your mind?”

“I have to go back to my ship today,” he said. “I remembered a little bit more about why I was sent here.”

“What?" Ninsianna felt a feeling of dread. Something significant had happened yesterday during the hunt. She could see the way the light streamed from his body and flowed someplace far away, no longer centered on her or her village.

“The Sata’an Empire is building bases in this sector," Mikhail said. As he spoke, he looked not at her, but inward, trying to pry loose the memories that wanted to remain hidden. "I was sent to investigate what was so important about such a remote spiral arm. I was shot down before I had a chance to send my report.”

“Why haven’t they just come and gotten you, then?” Ninsianna asked. She couldn't understand much about what he spoke of, empires and sectors, but she could see the concern in his eyes.

“I was in stealth mode when I was hit,” he said. “Black ops. Like a wolf stalking a prey animal through the grass. They have no idea where to look for me. But the fact they shot me down means there must be a Sata’an base somewhere on this planet.”

What was a black ... op? Her gift of tongues translated the foreign word, but it still meant nothing to her.

“Why?" she asked. "What would these people's interest be here?”

“I can’t remember!” Mikhail's voice rose with frustration. “I can't remember enough to piece it all together! All I remember is that it's critically important that I report the existance of this base back to Supreme Commander-General Jophiel.”

“Who is General Jophiel?” Ninsianna asked. Until now, Mikhail had only spoken of his Cherubim Master and friend Raphael. Images from her vision ... the one that showed he wouldn't be here to protect her when the Evil One came ... intruded into her mind. Was he trying to tell her that he had to leave? Ninsianna swallowed, trying to hide her fear.

“She is the highest ranking military authority we have and equal to the civilian Prime Minister,” Mikhail said. “She is second in power only to the Emperor himself.”

“She?” Ninsianna tilted her head in disbelief. “Your highest ranking military authority is a woman?”

“Of course,” Mikhail said. “Many of our generals are female. Why do you think I keep insisting that the Chief include women in the training?”

"Oh," Ninsianna said. What else could she say, other than a feeling of elation at the fact that a woman could be a general. “Why is my world so important?"

“Why? I still can’t remember why!" Mikhail stared out the window, his facial features showing rare frustration. "Every single moment of every day, it eats at me, this mission I know I was supposed to complete! I can even remember how urgent I felt it was to complete my mission at the time!" He lifted her chin so he could stare directly into her eyes. "I was supposed to follow that enemy ship and report where it went. Now I remember who I was supposed to report that information back to."

“Then we must go back to your ship and send that message so your people know where you are," Ninsianna said. Her own words gave her a mixed thrill of fear and elation. Elation ... his people would come for him and then he would take her to see the stars! Fear because ... what if his people made him leave her behind?

“First I need to get the communication system running," he said. "All I have is battery power. Somehow, I must compress a databurst into a beam and hope I’ve got it aimed in the right direction so I can reach Raphael’s ship with what little power I have left. If his ship is still even in this sector. It has been seven months...”

Ninsianna propped herself up onto her elbow and stared into her husband's eyes.

“Mikhail ... I don't understand a word you just said.”

“The gift ... is it fading?” Mikhail asked. His brow furrowed in concern. He liked that he could converse with her in his native tongue ... or reel him back to the planet in the Cherubim language whenever he was forced to use his ‘gift.’

“The goddess' gift works just fine,” Ninsianna laughed. “I just don't understand how your tek-no-lo-gee works. You haven't taught me yet.”

“Oh ..." Comprehension dawned about the nature of the problem. His lips curved up in a smile, his blue eyes flashing with rare excitement. “Then you must come with me and I'll bring you up to speed on the last 70,000 years worth of technological advances.”

“I think I'll enjoy some more time alone with you at your ship,” Ninsianna lowered her voice to a sultry whisper. She suggestively ran her hand down his abdomen. “We never get to spend enough time together anymore.”

The troubled expression he'd worn ever since he'd come back from the hunt yesterday faded. In her hands, he was putty, and she knew he relished each and every second of it! With a growl of pleasure, Mikhail rolled on top of her for a playful morning romp.

“And I wonder why I can never get any work done while you're around,” he said.

It was Ninsianna’s squeals of laughter and the sound of wings thumping against the wall that woke Ninsianna’s parents up on this fine rest-day.

Chapter 107

Galactic Standard Date:  152,323.09 AE

Haven-3

Prime Minister Lucifer

Lucifer

“Sire,” Zepar shook Lucifer awake. “Sire! Wake up. You'll be late for your meeting.

A sensation akin to a man with a sonic jackhammer pounded into Lucifer's skull and made it feel as though someone was sucking his brain out of his head and spitting it back out afterwards into his lurching stomach. Not again! Lucifer groaned in agony.

“Couldn't you call in sick for me or something?” Lucifer whimpered. It hurt so badly that he didn't dare open his eyes. “I need to go to a real doctor so I can get my head examined.”

“No!” Zepar said quickly. “You can’t, Sire. If you tell an Alliance physician you've been experiencing blackouts, they'll have you removed from office so fast your head will be spinning.”

“I no longer care." Bile rose in Lucifer's throat, burning the entire way up. “Zepar! Quick! I need a bucket!”

Lucifer spent the next 20 minutes heaving curdled chunks of goddess-only-knows what kind of meal into an ice bucket. He was too shaky to even make it to his bathroom to worship the porcelain god. At some point the vomit-induced fog cleared enough for him to recognize he was back at his penthouse on Haven-3, not his ship. Finally, he began to regain his equilibrium.

“Tell me about my schedule for the day,” Lucifer eyed Zepar with weary determination.

“You're scheduled to meet with the Ministry of Education at eleven o’clock,” Zepar said. “You have a prescheduled mating appointment at twelve-thirty, and then we need to hop a three o’clock transport to Haven-1 to make the seven o’clock banquet with the Eternal Emperor.”

“When did we get back to Haven?” Lucifer asked. The last thing he remembered was finishing up a budget meeting in Parliament and hopping a transport back out to the borderlands to rejoin his diplomatic carrier. The ship should remain elusive in case Jophiel decided to bust his chops by having one of her goons run a ‘safety inspection’ of his ship.

“We hopped a needle back last night,” Zepar said. “You had quite a bit to drink. Perhaps that's why you're feeling under the weather this morning?”

“Yes, of course,” Lucifer said. That old feeling of dread surfaced as Lucifer realized he had no recollection of arriving. “Zepar, what day is it today?”

“Thursday, Sire,” Zepar said.

“I mean, the date?” Lucifer asked. “We've been moving around the galaxy so much lately that I'm planet-lagged. What’s the date here on Haven-3?”

“September 17th, Sire,” Zepar said. “The Eternal Emperor’s birthday. He asked you return to celebrate his 1,178,432nd birthday party tonight.”

What?

July … August … September … oh … fuck…

“Can you leave me alone a few minutes to get dressed?" Lucifer's voice betrayed how shaky he felt. “Oh … and get me the brief for today’s meeting with the Ministry of Education. I can’t remember jack-shit about why in Hades I'm even meeting him in the first place."

“Whoever does?” Zepar flipped one hand back in a dismissive gesture. “The brief will be in your hands within 20 minutes." Zepar left him alone to get cleaned up and ready for the day.

Three months. How in Hades had he just lost three months of his life? And worse … what had he been up to all that time? Holding his head to prevent it from splitting in two, Lucifer frantically spooled up his electronic scheduling device, clicking through his appointments for the past three months to try to piece together what in Hades he'd been up to.

He'd done the budget meeting he recalled coming back for and hopped a transport back to his ship. He noted receipt of several more shipments of human females. He'd met with various high-placed members of the Alliance who were experiencing fertility problems and made cryptic notes in his schedule with some sort of code, presumably tracking numbers to keep track of the females since they weren't sentient enough to even have names. Although he had no recollection of it, everything on his schedule fit his plan to stave off extinction by opening the human homeworld to trade. He stopped, however, at the last appointment in his schedule. His hand trembled as he scrolled back, then forward again, certain his hangover must be causing him to read what was written in his social calendar wrong.

“Kunopegos is ten times the size of a human,” Lucifer said, horrified. He immediately reached for his comms pin. He wouldn't tell Zepar just how long of a blackout he was waking up from, just the last week. “Zepar … I need you to come back in here in half an hour.”

He got showered and dressed, playing it as cool as possible. His heart raced. He should step down from office! He knew he should step down! It wasn't right that the Alliance's highest elected official lost months out of his life! But if he did, all of his efforts to override his father’s seed-world policies would go out the window. Hashem didn't know how to fix the hybrid fertility problem. It was up to him to save his species from extinction!

Should he discuss this with Zepar? No. Deep down he'd always known Zepar was only along for the ride. If Zepar knew how badly he was losing it, he would ditch him in a heartbeat. He had to somehow enlist his help without Zepar knowing just how much help he really needed. Lucifer composed his features to play it cool.

“Sire,” Zepar said as he came back in. “Are you ready to go?”

“I don't know how to say this,” Lucifer said, “so I'll just come right out with it. I think I may have experienced another blackout. The last thing I remember was we were scheduled to meet General Kunopegos to discuss the human females, but then I can't recall what happened afterwards. I need you to fill me in on the details of that meeting.”

“You've been pushing yourself too hard,” Zepar placed a sympathetic hand upon his shoulder. “Would you like me to cancel your twelve-thirty mating appointment so you have time to take a nap? The only reason I scheduled it was to create a smokescreen. It will look odd if you suddenly lose all interest in females. You do have your reputation to maintain, Sire.”

“No,” Lucifer sighed, his expression wistful. “I'll keep the appointment. One little bun in the oven is not enough. It would be nice if I could find a mate who is fully sentient and can also give my offspring wings.”

Zepar started laughing, looking at him as though he were joking.

“What’s so funny?” Lucifer asked.

“Sire ….” Zepar said, holding his sides. “You're too modest. You have fourteen offspring on the way, not one. That's why we left your ship in the uncharted territories. You have an entire harem on board your ship.”

“Fourteen?" Lucifer sat down on the edge of his bed in shock. Zepar’s laughter began to sound further and further away.

“Yes, Sire,” Zepar laughed as though he thought Lucifer was pulling his leg. “And every single human female you've gifted to an Alliance hybrid is pregnant, as well. There are over three hundred half-human, half-hybrid children waiting to be born. All because of your efforts. And the Emperor doesn't have a clue!" Zepar shook his shoulder with glee. "Sire! You're a hero!”

“I'm a hero,” Lucifer whispered. He rustled his white feathers. “Yes. Of course. Let’s get to that Ministry of Education appointment.”

The remainder of the day, Lucifer cross-referenced his appointment calendar to figure out what in Hades he'd been up to, what legislation he'd introduced, who he'd spoken too, and what they had spoken about. Zepar had invented code words for the back-room deals politicians often did to grease the wheels of government. They didn't write anything down that might be subpoenaed by a grand jury, but all politicians were expected to keep an itinerary. There were an awful lot of ‘fudge records’ lately.

Lucifer faked his way through the Ministry of Education meeting. The mating appointment was pleasurable and vacuous. He didn't even have to use his gift. The female had one prior successful mating and only mated with him in an effort to produce an heir for the emperor's adopted son. It wasn’t until he got to his father’s birthday jubilee that a common thread began to dawn on him. He'd never experienced a blackout when he met with his father.

He passed through the extensive security which had been at the Eternal Palace ever since his father had gotten back from the highest ascended realms: the body searches, the eye scanner, the reaction time tests, and the infra-red. Looking for something. What was his father looking for when he ran all those tests? Dignitaries swirled through the palace, all vying for a moment alone with the Eternal Emperor. Lucifer slipped through the line of well-wishers, anxious to throw himself upon his father's mercy. Whatever else was going on, his father was a scientist. He might be able to fix it.

“Father,” Lucifer trembled as he stood before the Eternal Emperor and prepared to throw his fate to his mercy. “Can I speak to you please? Alone?”

“Not now." Hashem nodded acknowledgement to the long line of well-wishers who were filing past.

“It’s really important,” Lucifer begged him. He trembled, and then did that thing that was forbidden for mortal creatures to do. He placed his hand upon the Emperor's forearm.

“I told you, Lucifer,” Hashem swatted at Lucifer's hand the way one might swat at a fly. “I don't know how to fix you.”

“It’s not that problem." Lucifer kept his voice low so that the well-wishers wouldn't hear. “This is something else. Father … please … I really need your help.”

He shouldn't be losing time like this. There was something really wrong with him, and Zepar was taking advantage of his blackouts for some purpose he couldn't fathom. There was no way he was losing that much time without Zepar being aware of it.

“Your Majesty,” a female voice said.

The Emperor never even made eye contact with Lucifer. He turned, smiling towards the source of the voice. Lucifer's gaze followed that of his father, right into the ice-cold stare of that Bitch, Jophiel, and her flavor-du-jour, Raphael, father of her latest offspring. It seemed Lucifer was not the only one yearning for something a little more meaningful!

“Jophiel!" Hashem put his arm around her and led her away from the well-wishers, turning his back on Lucifer. “When will you let this fine young man make an honest woman of you?”

“Shhhhh!!!” Jophiel's cheeks flushed pink. “We're trying to keep things low key. You know what the consequences are to the Alliance if we do that.”

Lucifer’s blood began to boil. Here he'd tried for 225 years to fulfill his father's wishes and produce offspring, spending every available minute that he wasn't performing the duties of Parliament attempting to ‘perform’ his duty to produce a lawful heir, and now Hashem urged Jophiel, the only female Angelic who could consistently produce offspring, to just take herself out of commission?

Memory of how many times he'd pleaded with his father to pay attention to the problems of his empire rankled him. Hashem had skipped town and left Lucifer holding the bag. Then suddenly, after 200 years gone, his father had come back, taken one look at Jophiel, and created a brand-new military position that was the social equivalent of his position. Hashem had been lavishing attention on the icy Angelic female ever since. All because of a freak resemblance to his mother! Just like that, he'd been replaced, 200 years of faithful service running the Alliance in his father's absence just pushed aside and forgotten!

Lucifer didn't even bother to say goodbye. Radioing Zepar, he ordered him to ready his needle. Blackouts or no blackouts, it was time to step up the pace and finish unrolling his plan.

Chapter 108

September – 3,390 BC

Earth:  Crash Site

Ninsianna

Ninsianna watched her husband squat, wings dragging on the ground, as he fiddled with the underside of a peculiar contraption built out of spare parts of his ship and the spiderwebs he called wires with the handy little spear he called a screwdriver. Scrutinizing Mikhail do anything with the magical devices was always curious, but these days, with the thoughts of She-who-is coming into her mind so easily, her husband's tek-nol-o-gee had begun to take on the appearance of something clunky and old-fashioned.

“And what does that wire thingy do?” Ninsianna pointed to the contraption he'd built at the end of the long, thick ropes he also called wires.

“It's called an antenna,” Mikhail glanced up, his expression one of quiet competence. “It takes the message and throws it across the sky so that somebody with a second antenna can hear it. It's kind of like playing catch.”

“Is it supposed to be all twisted like that?”

“No. I'm cobbling something together and hoping it will work." He wiped the back of his hand across his cheek and smeared it with the black substance he called 'grease.' Minutes turned into hours as he moved back and forth between the chunks of his sky canoe he was tying together and the wires she knew would jolt you with lightning, his focus single minded as he tried to make the technology work.

The goddess didn't need tek-nol-o-gee to communicate over vast distances! She just did it! Perhaps She-who-is might be willing to help? Ninsianna closed her eyes and focused inward, picking up the sturdy thread of energy that connected her to the goddess. Yes. Last night's dream was HER will.

Dividing her attention between the material realms and the dreamtime as Papa had been training her to do, she asked for information about the people Mikhail was trying to contact. Her attention was drawn to the sturdy thread which connected her husband through the dreamtime to his friend. Aha! She followed the thread from her solar plexus to him, and then a second thread connecting him to his friend until at last she came to the other side. Oh! She could see his friend Raphael!

Ninsianna whispered into Raphael's mind that Mikhail was trying to contact him, but without shamanic training, Raphael thought he heard his own thoughts about his missing friend. Drat! They would need to use Mikhail's tek-no-lo-gee after all. Ninsianna sought the best information available about how to help him do just that and it was granted to her.

“Aim this … here,” she walked over to the tripod he'd set up outside the ship and aimed it in a different direction.

“But those are the last known coordinates of the Light Emerging,” Mikhail said. “I thought you didn't understand antennae theory.”

“Raphael is in that direction now,” she said. “You must wait until I tell you to throw your message or it won't make it. There is an object in the way.”

“I don't see anything,” he said. “It's a clear sky.”

“Not here … up there,” she pointed towards the sky. “A big rock. It will move out of the way in a little while.”

“Ninsianna…” Mikhail realized she was in ‘that other place.' “Don't go too far ... okay. You scare me when you do that.”

“I'm fine." She focused on the thread connecting him to Raphael and used it to remote-view the sky canoe her husband was trying to communicate with. “Why do you have giant insects on your ships?”

“You can see them?” he asked. “I keep getting images of them, but I can’t remember anything about them except a name. Glicki? The memory is still buried.”

“All will be revealed when She-who-is needs you to know,” Ninsianna gave him a cryptic smile. She journeyed further into the stream-of-consciousness of She-who-is and spoke continuously about everything that she saw, but she was no longer aware of what she said.

Mikhail said they needed to send the message at nightfall … something about the sunlight interfering with the signal and the planet aiming the signal in the wrong direction. Focusing on what that meant, images of solar dynamics jumped into her mind, her blue planet one of many spinning around a sun. Flares emanated from the sunlight and interfered with the ‘subspace radio signals' Mikhail spoke of. It was so beautiful, all the pretty little stars and planets rotating around one another like a child's mobile. They would have a brief window to throw the signal between the goddess' pretty little baubles so it didn't bounce off of one of them before reaching the other side.

“It’s spooky when you divide your consciousness like this,” Mikhail said. He watched her as he wired up the equipment on the tripod, not quite hiding his unease behind his stoic mask. She understood he didn't deliberately hide his feelings from her. It was simply habit.

“It’s kind of spooky when you enter the killing dance,” she said, not paying attention to what came out her mouth. “You enter the dreamtime when you do that, you know? You just don't realize it. Raphael's coloring is gold … darker than the Evil One … but he's good … I like him … he's a good friend.”

Mikhail scrutinized her, the screwdriver paused in his hand.

“You can tell all that just by … doing … whatever you’re doing?” he asked.

Ninsianna understood her husband was a creature of logic. To him, the dreamtime was nothing but a myth, a comforting place people went when they died. It was curious, how readily his people accepted having an immortal creature as their emperor, and yet rejected the notion these creatures had powers beyond the tek-no-lo-gee they created and their very long lives. Ninsianna sought information to help him understand the stream-of-consciousness she now swam through.

“There is a scientific principal for the dreamtime,” some other consciousness spoke through her, not her, or the goddess, another traveler perhaps? “The subatomic particles that make up the universe connect All-That-Is in a unified theory of physics. Life is consciousness solidified into physical form. Consciousness is pure energy. Any two minds can connect across infinite time and space simply by joining their neutrinos inside the time-space continuum…”

“Ninsianna?” She felt Mikhail take her hand. “Are you still in there? Honey … come back. Please…”

“You'll only have point zero two three seconds to send your data burst before you run out of power." Whatever old god had decided to gift her with his knowledge spoke directly through her. “You'll need to record your message and compress it into an encoded data stream no larger than one point two three gigabytes of data or it will fail.”

“I computed one point seven two gigabytes,” Mikhail said.

“Your computations are wrong.”

“Ninsianna … please thank whoever is helping us and come back,” Mikhail put his arm around her shoulder and led her inside the ship. “The antenna is all set. Let’s record our message, but I would rather have you here when I do it than somebody I don't know.”

“Jophiel is the white queen. She named the baby Uriel. Raphael is the father. He is the other white knight. You didn't tell me that she asked you to father one of her offspring. She-who-is was very upset when you refused. Hashem told them they may marry. The white queen is torn. The Alliance will fracture.”

Ninsianna rattled off meaningless facts as though she were one of these com-pu-ter-minds Mikhail explained had once run his ship, devoid of all human emotion.

“Ninsianna,” he put his hand on her cheek in the gesture she often used to communicate with him when he needed physical contact. “Come back. You said you would always come back to me.”

Ninsianna let go of the stream of consciousness she'd been following and followed his voice.

“Hey,” she registered his look of concern. “Why so glum?”

“You scare me when you do that." His expression was serious. His expression was always serious, but it was more serious than usual.

“Do what?” She knew what she knew while she was in the stream-of-consciousness of She-who-is, but the moment she came back into the real world, everything started to fade. Papa said there used to be an entire temple devoted to listening to the last chosen priestess of She-who-is. People would come from miles around just to listen. She wished somebody would do that for her.

“You never remember what you say while you’re in there,” Mikhail said. “You were quoting the quantum theory behind the dreamtime.”

“The what?” She didn't have any idea what he said. “You’ve got a message to record. Let’s do it, okay?”

“According to your friend,” he said, “I have to record a shorter message. I won’t have time to formally introduce you. Will you stand at my side while I record it? Raphael can figure it out any missing information from the image.”

“What friend?”

“Never mind,” he kissed her cheek. “I'll record it and use that machine over there to make the message smaller. Then we'll send it out and hope for the best. Either way, at least I can say I tried to complete my mission. If they never come for me, I'm perfectly okay with that." He wrapped his arms around her and kissed the top of her head. She knew part of him hoped they would never come for him, but a larger part felt duty-bound to finish whatever mission he'd started. It was what made him who he was.

“Where do I stand?" She'd never been part of a message before. Would it hurt? She moved in closer to his side.

“Right where you belong." He aimed the camera to show the cracked hull of his ship. Placing his bow and arrows and a spear within view of the camera, he grinned like a cat that had just swallowed a big, fat robin. Every aspect of his physiology, his arm possessively thrown around her shoulders, the way he tugged her close just before he hit the ‘record’ button, all shouted ‘mine!’

“Ready? Three … two … one … Raphael … my ship is toast … the Sata’an have set up a base on an M-class planet at these coordinates ... Zulu three zero one eight five two nine … meet Ninsianna, my wife … end transmission.”

“Now what?" That was painless.

“I'm running it through the data compression sequence right now,” he said. “And … it’s ready. Ninsianna … is that asteroid out of the path so I can send the transmission?”

“The what?”

“Can you go to that ‘other place’ just for a second and tell me when it's okay to hit this button?” Mikhail was not a superstitious person, but even he'd been forced to acknowledge that her visions were highly accurate.

Ninsianna shifted focus back down into the thread and immediately recalled the information she'd stored there. “Not … yet … not … yet … wait … w-a-i-t … NOW!”

Mikhail hit the button. A small hum went through the ship as he channeled the subspace message from the console, down the wire, and outside to the antenna. A few milliseconds before he'd computed the magic would run out, the lights shut off and the hum stopped. The entity in the dreamtime had been correct. His computations had been off.

“The magic lanterns are gone…” Ninsianna said mournfully. She'd rather liked the magic lights.

“We'll just have to think of other things to do in the dark,” Mikhail gave her a most uncharacteristic grin. He pulled her close, signaling a desire to engage in his new favorite activity to perform in the dark. She'd brought tallow lamps to light their way.

“Do you think we could feel our way back to the sleeping quarters?” she asked. “I'm suddenly very sleepy. I told Mama we might not be back tonight. They won't be worried about us."

One of the unpleasant side effects of too much travel in the dreamtime was how heavy everything felt once she came back. It felt as though she were forcing her body to move through water, her mind to see through a heavy fog, whenever she came back from a shamanic journey. She missed the heady buzz she experienced whenever she tapped into the stream-of-consciousness of She-who-is. But not for Mikhail and the threat to her people, she would just assume let go of the heavy shell which weighed her down like an anchor and join her beloved goddess as her grandfather had once done when he'd finished existing here.

“It's not sleep I had in mind, my love,” Mikhail nuzzled his cheek against hers before playfully nipping her neck. “It's now autumn. We shall have to think of an activity to warm up the bed before we can crawl into it.”

He looked as though an enormous burden had just been lifted from his shoulders. His spirit light no longer reached for the stars, but were now firmly centered on the earth. She could see him let go of the mission which had eaten at him the entire time she'd known him. Mission … accomplished. Cupping his hands underneath her behind, he picked her up and carried her into the sleeping quarters for her requested ‘sleep.’

Chapter 109

Galactic Standard Date:  152,323.09 AE

Earth:  Sata’an Forward Operating Base

Lieutenant Kasib

Lt. Kasib

Lieutenant Kasib's claws trembled as he knocked on the door to his commanding officer's office. General Hudhafah stood as he always did these days, poking pins into an evolving map of the planet. Each day they logged new territory, new resources, and new tribes that either needed to be wooed with promises of the good things Sata'anic rule would bring, or troublemakers roughed up so the rest of their populace could be brought under Sata'anic control.

“Sir,” Kasib said, “one of our ships in orbit just registered a brief data burst emanating from the planet." Kasib's tail twitched with worry.

“Where did it originate?” General Hudhafah hissed. His shoulders bunched as his dorsal ridge reared in anger, an old-school general ready to plunge into battle to defend against any threat.

“The area called Mesopotamia,” Kasib's tongue darted out to nervously taste the air. “It didn't last long enough to isolate the source. It's a large area, like hunting for a scale in a pile of snakeskins.”

“Was the message long enough to convey significant data?” Hudhafah asked. His gold-green serpentine eyes narrowed into slits.

“No, sir,” Kasib said. “It cut off before complete coordinates could be relayed. The signal was extremely weak. The nearest known Alliance ship is on the border with Tango sector. It's unlikely the message got through.”

“Good,” Hudhafah exhaled. “The last thing we need is a command carrier full of hybrids showing up to investigate." The general pointed to a cluster of pins on the map. "Isn’t that the same area we’ve been getting rumors of someone organizing tribes to fight our allies?”

“Yes, Sir,” Kasib said. “We've been unable to locate the remains of the Angelic ship. It must have been completely destroyed. Do you think he survived the crash?”

General Hudhafah picked up another pin, a red one this time signaling potential enemy forces, and absent-mindedly jabbed himself in the finger with it, not hard enough to draw blood.

“When dealing with hybrids,” Hudhafah said, “It's necessary to imagine the unimaginable. There's a reason we have been unable to overthrow the Eternal Emperor even though we outnumber Alliance forces six to one. The hybrids are tough bastards. Don't ever underestimate them.”

“Yes, Sir,” Kasib said. "Should we send in our forces to hunt him down?"

Hudhafah stared at the tiny black pins clustered around the Sata'an Forward Operating Base and the even smaller cluster that shuttled back and forth between the SRN Jamaran in orbit and the planet. Few. Too few…

“What was the bounty we put on the ringleader's life of that tribe near where the data-burst emanated from.” Hudhafah asked.

“A bag of paint sparkles, Sir,” Kasib said. “They call it ‘gold’.”

“Quadruple that reward." Hudhafah's fangs showed through his self-pleased smirk. “Just in case it is an Angelic. Let’s watch the humans kill the only creature who can prevent us from annexing their planet.”

“Shay’tan be praised." Kasib gestured to his head, his snout and his heart in a universal gesture of worship of Shay'tan, their benevolent Emperor and god.

Chapter 110

September – 3,390 BC

Earth:  Crash Site

Ninsianna

So comfy…

Ninsianna resisted waking up, languishing in the dreamy warmth of her husband's firm torso and soft wings.

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” he said. The smirk he always had as he watched her resist the morning blossomed into a full-blown smile. “At the rate you’re going, we’re going to be late getting back.”

“But it’s so nice and warm here!” she whimpered, luxuriating in his warm feathers. “I don't want to leave!”

“We could always stay another day." He nuzzled her cheek. “Who would have thought life in an agrarian society could be so hectic?”

Ninsianna groaned. Last night's urgent dream, while not a nightmare, had been a gentle reminder that she must not impede the real mission She-who-is had sent him to accomplish, organizing and training her people to address the coming threat. Yesterday, after sending his message, Mikhail's spirit-light had re-centered here on her world. Or more precisely, onto her. She must not indulge the temptation to make him cater to her every whim, as he seemed perfectly happy to spend the rest of his life doing.

“No,” Ninsianna gave him a regretful smile. “You must get our people trained. And I promised Mama I would help her bleed sap from the myrrh bush to make the paste that defeats evil spirits in an infected wound.”

With a kiss, Mikhail released his hold, allowing her to slip from the warmth of his downy wings and sit on the edge of the bed. As soon as she did, her stomach lurched. She'd been hiding the symptoms for weeks now, telling him she'd eaten something disagreeable or that her sudden bouts of dizziness were merely the heat. This morning, however, she would have to tell him.

The moment her body became vertical, nausea overcome all other thoughts. With a cry of dismay, she jumped up and ran to the closet he referred to as a ‘bath room.’

“Ninsianna … are you okay?" He leaped up to follow her.

“Yes,” she choked out in between dry heaves. He gathered her hair and pulled it out of the way, although there was nothing in her stomach to throw up. This was her first pregnancy, but she was certain her sickness was more severe than that of the women she'd helped her mother tend to over the years. Mikhail was a larger than a human male. It made sense that his child would put a greater strain upon her body.

“Are you sick?" With her head in the urn he called ‘toilet’ she couldn't see his face, but she could hear the concern in his voice.

“I'm fine.” Her voice echoed inside the bowl, giving it a strange tinny quality. “This is perfectly normal.”

“No ... it's not,” he said. “You were sick last weekend too. I'll fly back and fetch your  mother.”

“There's nothing Mama can do about it." The heaving subsided. She risked sitting upright so she could see his face as she broke the news to him. “It’s morning sickness.”

“Morning sickness? What is making you sick in the morning? You never got sick before."

Mikhail didn't know what morning sickness was? Subtlety was not going to work. She would need to spell things out for him.

“You're making me sick. Or more precisely, you did something to make me sick. It's all your fault, you know?”

“-I- did this to you?” A look of horrified confusion crossed his beautiful, chiseled features. “I'm so sorry! What did I do wrong?”

Ninsianna giggled. Seeing his anguished look, she started to laugh even harder.

“Ninsianna?" Her irrational behavior confused him. His expression retreated into that unreadable one he wore when he was not sure what to do. “What's so funny?”

“Mikhail,” she said. “Haven’t you noticed that the first thing I do the minute I get out of bed every morning is run for the urn?”

“Yes ... you said it was nothing,” he said. “Are you ill?”

“Mikhail ... I'm pregnant.”

“What?”

“We're having a baby.”

“How did this happen?”

“Oh ... I distinctly remember there was lots of kissing and passionate lovemaking involved. Did you somehow ... miss it?”

“No ... but...”

“And then there was moaning and thumping your wings against the walls. And that funny little sound you make when you orgasm...”

“But...”

“And then there is that really funny face you make when you're trying to control your passion, just ... like ... this." She did her best impersonation of the face he made whenever he reached ecstasy.

“I don't make a face like that,” he said as the reality of what she was saying sank in. “Do I?”

“Yes, you do,” Ninsianna said. “And I love it. And I love you. And now we'll have a baby to love, too.”

“But..." Her words finally registered. An ecstatic smile lit up his face. He reached out and pulled her into an embrace. “Really?”

“Really." She nestled her cheek into his chest.

“Wow!" He led her back into the sleeping quarters to crawl back into bed. “I had hoped ... but ... so fast ... I didn't see that coming!”

“Mikhail?" She curled into his side as he protectively curled one wing around her, relishing the sensation of being loved by an angel.

“Hmmmm.....?” He caressed her chin between his thumb and forefinger as he gazed into her eyes, his expression one of utter contentment.

“Do you think our baby will have wings?”

They decided the warrior training and myrrh sap could tend to themselves for one day as they snuggled and discussed their hopes for the new life growing in her womb. Ninsianna didn't, however, tell him about her dark premonition. Pushing it out of her mind, she allowed herself to enjoy the moment.

Chapter 111

Galactic Standard Date: 152,323.09 AE

Zulu Sector:

Command Carrier ‘Light Emerging’

Colonel Raphael Israfa

Raphael

“Colonel Israfa,” Major Glicki said, “I picked up a weak transmission from Zulu sector. It's a compressed data stream from Colonel Mannuki’ili. I'm running it through a decompression sequencer now and boosting the signal.”

“Put it on screen right away!"

Raphael jumped out of his seat as the image of his best friend came upon their central viewing screen. It had been seven months. Mikhail was alive!

“Raphael ... my ship is toast … the Sata’an Empire has set up a large base on an M-class planet at these coordinates ... Zulu three zero one eight crackle crackle...”

“Boost it again!” Raphael ordered. “I need those coordinates!”

“I'm sorry, Sir,” Glicki said, “I boosted the signal as much as I could. There's nothing left to boost. That was all he was able to send. With a signal so weak and our position different than when we lost him, it's a miracle he got a message through to us at all.”

“Sir?" Sergeant Sachiel, another Angelic, pointed to the petite, dark-haired woman standing at Mikhail's side. “I thought Colonel Mannuki’ili went on this mission alone. Who is the Angelic at his side? She looks … odd…”

Raphael took a closer look at the image frozen on the screen. Mikhail had his arm around a pretty, black-haired female, her features even darker than the unusual coloring possessed by his friend. He was also smiling, something Mikhail almost never did. Had he crash-landed on a planet with a surviving colony of the dark-featured Seraphim? Raphael thought they had all been wiped out?

“Magnify the image and run the female through a facial recognition scanner of all known Angelics,” Raphael ordered. “Maybe we can isolate his position that way.”

“Sir?" The quaver in Glicki's voice was perceptible even through the mechanical aid of the voice-booster. She broadcast the magnified image onto the screen. “You'd better take a look at this.”

She blew the image up to focus on the female. The reality of what they were looking at dawned on them.

“Holy shit,” Sergeant Sachiel said.

“Is that…?” Ensign Zzz’lrr asked.

“It can’t be!" another Mantoid said.

They all stared in stunned disbelief at the magnified 12-foot high image of a wingless human female standing at the Colonel’s side, filling the entire room with her presence.

“Glicki!” Raphael shouted. “Get Supreme Commander-General Jophiel on the horn right away. Alpha-priority-one! I don't care what she's doing. Tell her I need to speak to her yesterday!”

“Sir … she is scheduled to meet with the Eternal Emperor,” Glicki said. “What do I say to get her out of that meeting?”

“Tell Hashem I found his solution!” Raphael whooped with glee. “Colonel Mannuki’ili just found the godsdamned Holy Grail!”

Epilogue

Galactic Standard Date:  152,323.09 AE

Ascended realms

Eternal Emperor Hashem

Hashem

“You old devil!!!” Hashem shouted as soon as enough of his consciousness had phased into existence to form a mouth. “How long have you been keeping the human root stock up your sleeve?"

“That's for me to know,” Shay’tan said congenially, a toothy grin on his dragon-like snout as he sat in front of the galactic chess board. “And for you to find out.”

“Goddess!!!” Hashem shouted. When SHE didn't make an appearance, or at least check in on them, he called her again.

The normally even-tempered Hashem let out a rare stream of curse-words that would have made a Marid pirate colony blush when he realized She-who-is was deliberately ignoring him. He'd been around the block enough times to recognize when he was the chess piece being played in the eternal game between She-who-is and her opponent, He-who's-not. As soon as his laboratory assistant had burst into his meeting with the news, he'd made all deliberate haste into the ascended realms. The ‘room’ where he and Shay'tan met wasn’t really a room at all, but an artificial construct comprised of the consciousness of She-who-is. There was no way she didn't know what was going on!

“If you're looking for someone to chastise me for keeping chess pieces up my sleeve,” Shay’tan nonchalantly sharpened his claws. “Then you're whining to the wrong deity. Everybody knows She-who-is is the biggest cheater going. How do you think she's kept He-who’s-not from destroying the universe all these years?”

Hashem looked at the chess pieces splayed across the board. In a heartbeat, the game had just been turned upon its head. Whoever gained control over the human homeworld would get complete dominion over this galaxy. Without a fresh infusion of genetic matter, his hybrid armies would die out. On the other hand, with unfettered access to the root race, Hashem could breed a new generation of super-soldiers and kick Shay’tan out of this galaxy once and for all.

Noticing the black chess pieces surrounding his missing White Knight One, Hashem suddenly smiled. The human homeworld was not within the bounds of either empire. It was completely up for grabs! Whoever’s armies got dominion over that world first would win. The only problem was, Shay’tan knew exactly where the planet was and had a base there, while Hashem didn't. He must find the confounded planet and prevent Shay’tan from sending in reinforcements.

“White Knight Two to Zulu-Sector-Three." Hashem picked up his second white knight and made the L-shaped leap into Zulu Sector where the first white knight had gone missing.

Hashem phased out of the ascended realms before Shay’tan could say another word. He needed to mobilize his forces for what was likely to become the largest battle over a critical resource planet since the Second Galactic War.

End Book 1 of the Sword of the Gods Saga

‘The Chosen One’

Begin Preview – Book 2 – ‘Prince of Tyre’

PREVIEW – ‘Prince of Tyre’

Galactic Standard Date:  152,183.02 AE

(240 years ago)

Haven 1:  Eternal Palace

Eternal Emperor Hashem

Hashem

“He has a right to know!” the dark-winged Angelic screamed as her labor pains intensified.

“She-who-is forbids it."

The Eternal Emperor Hashem paced the secret back room of his genetics laboratory as though –he- were the expectant father. “You must keep this child's existence a secret.”

“You and your stupid game of chess!” Asherah spat in an uncustomary bout of cussing. “Shemijaza is my husband!”

“He should have thought of that before he launched a rebellion!”

For millennia Hashem and Shay'tan had played chess to resolve their differences, and if that didn't work, then they gathered their armies and went to war. Neither old god had gained dominion over the galaxy until one day Hashem's greatest general rebelled. Declaring himself to be the leader of a 'Third Empire,' Shemijaza seized a string of planets too close to the old dragon's border to quash without igniting an intergalactic war. With the Sata'an Empire nipping at his Galactic Alliance, the last thing Hashem needed was a civil war!

Dark-haired, dark-winged, with eyes so blue they were the color of the Haven sky, Hashem had thought it a stroke of genius to send the beautiful, soft-spoken Asherah as an ambassador to entice the rebel leader into rejoining the Alliance.

“You were sent to negotiate a treaty!" Hashem jutted his finger at the foolish woman. "Not to marry him! I can't let the Third Empire gain legitimacy by allowing Shemijaza to produce an heir!"

“I'm half-Seraphim." Asherah panted to control her pain as her contraction intensified. "When we consummated our marriage, my life became tied to his. I should be dead already!”

“You're half shipboard Angelic,” Hashem said. “You can survive if you so choose, as you have already demonstrated by coming here!”

"We're not farm animals to be bred and used as cannon fodder in your endless war against Shay'tan!" Asherah clutched her belly. "Our species is going extinct and you do -nothing- to help us! It's the only reason Shemijaza rebelled!”

Hashem's wild, white hair and bushy eyebrows jutted outwards as though he were a mad scientist. What had once been a symbol of his brilliance as a geneticist, his ability to splice together disparate life forms to create new ones, had become an embarrassing monument to his own incompetence. The genes which carried his army's animal features were recessive. To maintain them, he'd been forced to inbreed them until they had lost the ability to reproduce. Nothing, not his ascended powers, not the best in vitro fertilization methods his teams of scientists could dream up, had been able to fix it.

“Moloch is using your husband to gain a foothold in this universe,” Hashem warned. “Do you have any idea what will happen if the Evil One punches through? Shemijaza's child will be even more genetically evolved than he is! You must keep the child’s existence a secret!”

“I saw no sign of this Moloch." Asherah gripped the bed rails as her contraction built to its crescendo. "Shemijaza had blackouts. Times he seemed a bit … callous. Headaches. He is sick! Not evil. The only evil I see is a selfish old god who would deprive a child of his father!”

Dark feathers flew everywhere as Asherah's instinct to take flight warred with her need to remain Haven-bound because a newborn couldn't fly. The child was coming, whether he wished for it to exist or not.

“The child’s head is crowning, your Majesty” Dephar interrupted, his chief geneticist who was acting as midwife. He grabbed a scalpel and clamps with the same practiced ease he used whenever he delivered any other genetics experiment Hashem had cooked up.

"Shemijaza!!!" Asherah threw back her head and screamed her husband's name.

Her cries awoke something Hashem had never felt before, perhaps it was pity? Yes. He wished to alleviate her suffering so he wouldn't have to feel it himself. With no words to convince her this was the right thing to do, he resorted to something he hadn't done since he'd ceased being mortal.

"Take my hand, Asherah," Hashem moderated his power so he could safely touch her, "and let me help you bear this pain." His hand grew warm where it brushed her skin, the sensation igniting some mortal need he'd long forgotten existed.

"He has a right to know!" Asherah slapped away his hand. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she focused her attention inwards, seeking to make contact through the bond purebred Seraphim formed with their mate.

Asherah was only half-Seraphim, but he'd reason to worry she'd formed the bond which granted her kind telepathy, no matter how far apart they were in the universe. He'd gone through great lengths to make the rebel leader believe she'd committed suicide. If Shemijaza found out Asherah had just borne him a son, he would raze the Alliance into dust to get her back. With Shay’tan sapping his resources, there was no way he could withstand war on a second front.

“Goddess!!!” Hashem shouted, not with his voice, but with his mind. “I don't know how to prevent this!”

The scent of ozone and fresh flowers supplanted the sterile, medicinal scent of the genetics laboratory. A buzz that felt like tiny jolts of electricity filled the air as golden light descended from the ethers and coalesced into a tall, slender female with pointed ears and gossamer wings. SHE rarely descended into material form because it made her vulnerable, but keeping this child a secret was paramount. With a rustle of wings which sounded like crinkling cellophane, She-who-is plastered a sympathetic expression upon her chiseled features and stepped forward to console the grieving mother.

“I wouldn't ask you to make this sacrifice if the fate of the universe didn't depend upon it,” She-who-is's tone was hypnotically reassuring. “Ki warned you of this when you sang her Song to conceive your son, didn’t she?”

“Yes,” Asherah sobbed.

Hashem felt a twinge of envy. Why had a mortal been given access to the Song of Creation and not him? By Ki, no less? She-who-is's mother?

“Your Eminence,” Dephar's snout bowed with awe at the appearance of the goddess who ruled All-That-Is. “The child is stuck in the birth canal.”

“I shall deliver him myself," She-who-is lilted a perfectly shaped eyebrow in Hashem's direction. "He is that important." SHE placed her hand upon Asherah’s swollen abdomen to eliminate the Seraphim's physical pain. “Push, my daughter. I wish to meet this prince of Tyre.”

The child slid into HER waiting arms. He didn't cry as others did upon being cast out of their mother's womb, but looked at HER as though he could already understand what she said. He reached for her face as Dephar cut the umbilical cord and gurgled a sound which sounded like 'SHE.'

The goddess' lips turned up in a smile, genuine this time as she recognized something in the newborn which pleased her immensely.

“You're Lucifer, Bringer of Light." SHE glanced over to the sobbing Seraphim, too grief-stricken to hold the son whose conception had forced her to abandon her husband. "Be grateful, young prince, that this mortal loves you enough to keep you hidden from your -real- father. All-That-Is depends upon you not falling into Moloch's hands."

Asherah wept. She-who-is reached towards her temple to grant her the mercy of wiping Shemijaza from her mind, but Asherah slapped away HER hand. Even Dephar gasped at the Seraphim's audacity.

“Don’t you play your memory games on me!” Asherah hissed. She sat up in her childbed as regal as a queen. “I shall do as you ask, but the soul doesn't forget! Someday Shemijaza and I'll reunite!"

Hashem cringed. She-who-is might be all-powerful, but Asherah understood the rules of the larger game which bound even old gods such as himself. Not quite genetically evolved enough to achieve immortality on her own, the Seraphim was too close to perfection to manipulate against her will.

“So be it." She-who-is wrapped the infant in a blanket and handed him to Hashem. “You must protect this child with your immortal life. Train him to lead his people on the path of balance or I'll hand him over to someone else who will.”

“Yes, your Eminence." Hashem bowed. “I'll raise him as though he were my own son.”

The goddess' eyes burned gold with power. With a disdainful flick of her gossamer wings, She-who-is shimmered out of the material plain.

Hashem looked down at the child who had just been placed into his care. The infant didn't cry. Not even a squeak. He had his mother's delicate facial features, but the snow-white wings and white-blonde hair of his father. Instead of blue, the child had inherited Shemijaza's eyes, so pale and blue they were silver like the moon, a genetic throwback to a bloodline they had all believed to be extinct.

Morning Star…

Would this child also inherit his father's intellect?

Hashem shivered even though he'd long evolved past the ability to feel the cold. Shemijaza had outsmarted him. Outsmarted Shay’tan. Outsmarted every creature in the galaxy including She-who-is. Asherah had brought warning of a new threat snuffling around the rebel leader, one terrifying enough to cause the half-Seraphim to abandon her mate and flee.

Morning Star…

A bloodline that was even older than She-who-is. Heaven help them all if Moloch got his hands on Shemijaza's offspring!

“Asherah?" Hashem presented the infant to the grieving Seraphim, beautiful in her grief. “Your son…”

“Go away!" Asherah curled up in a fetal position and refused to look at her child. “You wanted him, now you’ve got him!”

The infant stared up at him, his eerie silver eyes filled with trust. It couldn't be good for the child to be rejected by his own mother. Hashem knew from his work as a geneticist that most rejected offspring simply withered and died.

Morning Star …

The most genetically advanced bloodline in existence!

Hashem glanced around at the cold, sterile artifices of his genetics laboratory. She-who-is had given -him- the prize, and neither Shay'tan nor the child's own father even knew it! All he'd to do was make sure Moloch didn’t find out, either.

He took the infant and gave Asherah the space to grieve.

'Prince of Tyre'

Book 2 of the Sword of the Gods Saga

Now available at Amazon.com

Lucifer cover art by Rochelle Greene aka Caelicorn © 2012

PREVIEW: Angel of Death:  A Love Story

Book 1 of a new series:

Children of the Fallen

Azrael Thanatos wants nothing more than to follow in the footsteps of his scientist mother. Sent to study humans on a wager between the Eternal Emperor and Shay'tan, he has no idea Earth is gateway to a fiery prison. Far from home, he is befriended by Elissar, a precocious child with silver eyes. When Moloch instigates the invasion of Carthage to escape, Azrael sacrifices his life to snatch his friend from the Devourer of Children's maw.

Saved by a mysterious goddess, Azrael is given a new mission. Watchman. Roaming the Earth without shape or form, he searches for those who would help Moloch escape and drags them to a prison where only Lucifer holds the key. It's a hellish immortality, for who wants to serve alongside the Fallen or exist when no living creature can survive your touch? Haunted by Elissar's death, he despairs of never finding love or friendship again as time grinds civilizations into dust. For who would love Death?

Then one day a child takes his hand and lives…

Life for Elisabeth is not easy. The Angel of Death took her entire family the night a drunk driver plowed through a stop sign and left her in a wheel chair. Azrael is forbidden to interfere as she bounces through foster homes, hardship, and grueling rehabilitation. Then one day he is forced to reveal he is not a figment of her imagination. Oh, how she hates this angel who has taken everyone she ever loved! She will beat him if she has to squeeze the life force from her own body! The invasion of Iraq inspires her to join the Army as a trauma nurse, unaware that Death has fallen in love with the woman who can defeat him.

Will she take his hand a second time?

Angel of Death:  A Love Story

Available at Amazon.com

Angel of Death cover photo by ~xartez © 2011

A Moment of your Time, Please…

Did you enjoy reading this book? If so, I would be most grateful if you would do me the honor of revisiting whatever distribution platform you purchased it from and leaving a written review. This book took more than a year of my life to write working diligently for 5-6 hours each day. Unfortunately, without the multi-billion dollar advertising budget of a big commercial publishing house, most independently published and small-press books don't make back the cost to produce them (much less eat while writing them) … unless … readers such as yourself pass along word to others that you enjoyed it. In this day of online shopping, websites rank which books you see and readers decide what books to buy based on reviews left by other readers. I would be oh-so-grateful if you would do me the honor of leaving a written review.

If this book came your way via a gift or a loan from a friend, you can still share the love by leaving a review on one of the reader-centric review websites:

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Feel free to contact me or leave feedback at my Facebook page. I love hearing from you and I do write back!

Be epic!

https://www.facebook.com/pages/Anna-Erishkigal-author/203837383044945

About the Author

Anna Erishkigal is an attorney who writes fantasy fiction as a pleasurable alternative to coming home from court and cross-examining her children. She writes under a pen-name so her colleagues don't question whether her legal pleadings are fantasy fiction as well. Much of law, it turns out, -is- fantasy fiction. Lawyers just prefer to call it 'zealously representing your client.'

Seeing the dark underbelly of life makes for some interesting fictional characters, the kind you either want to incarcerate, or run home and write about. In fiction, you can fudge facts without worrying too much about the truth. In legal pleadings, if your client lies to you, you look stupid in front of the judge.

At least in fiction, if a character becomes troublesome, you can always kill them off.

Her general-purpose Facebook page is at:

https://www.facebook.com/pages/Anna-Erishkigal-author/203837383044945

Or view book extras, including maps of the real-life village of Assur, fantasy casting calls, artwork of the different species, inspirations, bits and snippets of research, and excerpts from upcoming books at:

www.facebook.com/pages/Sword-of-the-Gods/266590273421583

Other Books by Anna Erishkigal

Sword of the Gods Saga:

--The Chosen One

--Prince of Tyre

--Agents of Ki

--The Dark Lord's Vessel (coming soon)

--The Fairy General (coming soon)

Children of the Fallen:

--Angel of Death:  A Love Story

--A Gothic Christmas Angel (A Novella)

Leviathan's Deep:

--La Sirène (coming Summer 2014)

Short Stories:

--The Watchmaker (A Novelette)

List of Species

Humans:  a species that went extinct after an asteroid hit their homeworld, Nibiru, approximately 74,000 years ago. All attempts to reseed humans onto other planets failed and they died out. It's rumored this is the species which spawned the Eternal Emperor, but the Eternal Palace has refused to comment.

Angelics:  genetically engineered super-soldiers spliced together from a genetic base of humans and the keen eyesight and wings of eagles. They carry the highest percentage of human DNA. They act as the Alliance's air force. Due to inbreeding to maintain their animal features, fewer than 7,500 Angelics remain in existence today.

Leonids:  genetically engineered super-soldiers spliced together from a genetic base of lions and humans. They are the most animalistic of the four branches of the Alliance military. They act as multi-purpose situational forces. When the going gets tough, the Emperor says, 'Send in the Leonids!' Due to inbreeding to maintain their animal features, fewer than 3,500 Leonids remain in existence today.

Centauri:  genetically engineered super-soldiers spliced together from a genetic base of horses and humans. They act as the Alliance's cavalry. Due to inbreeding to maintain their animal features, fewer than 4,000 remain in existence today.

Merfolk:  genetically engineered super-soldiers spliced together from a genetic base of humans and aquatic mammals. They were engineered to act as the Alliance's navy. Five hundred years ago their species merged with a sister-species, Leviathans. Only a handful of purebred Merfolk still exist today. The hybrids are known as Mer-Levi.

Leviathans:  a genetically enhanced species of sentient aquatic mammals originating from the same homeworld that humans came from, Nibiru. They evolved separately after being successfully reseeded on a remote planet. Many of their species merged with Merfolk into the Mer-Levi.

Mantoids:  a naturally evolved species of sentient six-legged insects. They have supplemented Angelics in the Alliance Air Force.

Spiderids:  a naturally evolved species of sentient eight-legged insects. They have supplemented Leonids in the Alliance Air Force.

Delphiniums:  a naturally evolved species of sentient frog-like amphibians. They have almost totally replaced Merfolk as the Alliance's Navy.

Saori:  a naturally evolved species of gazelle-sized sentient mammals. They supplement and support the Centauri Cavalry, but due to their small size, haven't been able to replace them.

Muqqibat:  a naturally evolved species of sentient serpent-like creatures with short arms and legs and a head that resembles a dragon. They are an 'ancient species' and many of their number teeter at the threshold of becoming ascended beings.

Cherubim:  a naturally evolved species of fierce, ant-like creatures which dwell in hive-like colonies of Monks ruled by a single queen. They are the personal guard of the Eternal Emperor and teeter at the threshold of becoming ascended beings. Their population has remained stable at exactly 1,000 for the past 15,000 years.

Seraphim:  an sub-species of dark-winged Angelic which was wiped out 25 years ago by unknown aggressors. Only one member of this species survives, Colonel Mikhail Mannuki'ili. The Colonel went missing 7 months ago and is presumed dead.

Grigori:  a species of fire-breathing dragon which disappeared from the galaxy approximately 150,000 years ago. It's rumored Emperor Shay'tan was once a Grigori, a true dragon, a question which always elicits a toothy, enigmatic smirk.

Sata'anic Lizards:  a species of sentient lizard which make up the largest portion of Shay'tan's armies. They suddenly appeared 74,000 years ago to replace Shay'tan's predecessor species of soldier, the Nephilim, a species which is now extinct.

Marid:  a naturally evolved species of blue-skinned humanoids which had begun to spread out in the uncharted territories until the Sata'an Empire annexed part of their territory three generations ago. They are now divided into two sub-species:  the Sata'anic Marid, who serve in Shay'tan's armies, and the Free Marid Confederation, whose homeworlds still remain free.

Catoplebas:  a naturally evolved, boar-like species that makes up part of Shay'tan's armies. They are known for their pugnacious disposition.

Tokoloshe:  a sentient, bear-like species infamous for its aggressive nature and their disgusting habit of cannibalizing their enemies. The Tokoloshe have spread across the uncharted territories like a plague and all species fear them. Rumor has it they are a science experiment gone terribly wrong, but whenever asked, Emperor Shay'tan and Emperor Hashem point their fingers at each other and say 'he did it.' It's rumored this is the motivation behind the Eternal Emperor's strict 'seed world' policies prohibiting interference with emerging pre-sentient species.

Ascended Beings:  aka 'old gods.' Most are creatures which were born mortal but, after countless lifetimes, genetically evolved enough to figure out how to make themselves immortal. They possess various levels of ability, ranging from demi-gods who can merely heal themselves to 'elemental' gods who have learned to harness the laws of physics. A few such as She-who-is were born full-fledged gods by virtue of the fact they have gods for parents.

Needles:   biomechanical space dwelling creatures the size of a large porpoise with a marsupium (pouch) that can transport cargo or, if small enough, a humanoid,  through space. They can instantaneously 'leap' across subspace the way an ascended being can, but are only marginally sentient. Nobody knows where needles came from. A small herd of them just appeared one day and the Alliance put them to use.

[1] A golem is an animated anthropomorphic being created entirely from inanimate matter to perform a set task, usually through magic or will of the gods. There is a connotation that the golem is incapable of deviating from their set duties even when warranted. The modern-day equivalent would be a robot with limited programming.

[2] A 27-foot/8.2-meter long sea-serpent type creature meeting this description washed up off the shores of Gourock Island, Scotland in 1944. Perhaps it's a descendant of one the Eternal Emperor seeded here?

[3] Brood pouch or carrying compartment.

[4] çok puan ile mızrak translates literally into spear with many points. Weapon of mass destruction is used hereafter for Pareesa's nickname as that's what Mikhail thinks of her in his own mind when he translates from Ubaid into modern Galactic Standard.

[5] Despite Mikhail's use of modern tactical designations, the concept of breaking large groups of warriors up into smaller units or 'teams' pre-dates Mikhail's visit to Earth. The earliest cave paintings depict groups of men hunting mammoths from more than one side. Mikhail is merely perfecting their ability to coordinate.