Sword of the Gods: The Chosen One (Sword of the Gods Saga)

by Anna Erishkigal

  “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 han
ded 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 husba
nd! 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?"