“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 frust
ration 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?”
Sword of the Gods: The Chosen One (Sword of the Gods Saga) Page 17