Strangely, I was not shocked by the presence of this religionist element in the least. Rather, I found it to be quite acceptable. It seemed to be utterly in harmony with its surroundings, and I realized that my reaction stemmed from the memories of my former selves who had already made its acquaintance.
Coming in for our final approach, the details of these previous visitations made themselves known and only intensified my eagerness; of the long hours that I had spent contemplating ancient texts in the monastery’s library, or taking my ease in conversations with the priests over exquisite teas, or even enjoying the simple pleasure of strolling in its carefully tended gardens.
Apparently, I loved Shamballa Station. Always, and quite dearly. It was both an old friend, and at the same time, an entirely new one!
Another revelation surfaced that was even more profound, and it concerned my present incarnation. You see, dear reader, I had changed.
I understand that you might expect me to reveal some great and seminal event that had facilitated this. But life is not always filled with dramatic moments that mark a definite turning point. For me, the transformation had been quite subtle and had not taken place all at once, but gradually, so that it had slipped by without my detection until this very moment.
As you might well recall, when I was Awakened, I had been taken aback by the ethnic diversity of my companions and had even felt somewhat uncomfortable. I now believe that this reaction stemmed from a habitual racism that had been an integral part of my previous incarnation, even though I had denied its existence.
And I blame my upbringing in British Seattle for this, and beg the reader to extend me some clemency. After all, I had been the product of my environment, and my prejudices had gone unchallenged.
Quite simply, there had never been any reason for me to do so; people of non-European heritage had been part of the servant class, and what dealings I had had with them had centered on fulfilling my needs and nothing more. They had not figured in my consciousness as individuals in any way, and no one that I did consider to be my contemporaries felt otherwise.
But thanks to the dramatic alteration in my circumstances (which I suppose, does qualify as a singular occasion), I had been forced to confront this issue head-on. And as I had come to know my squadron-mates, my biases towards them had fallen away like so many dead leaves; no longer viable and allowed to wither into non-existence.
This did not occur through any conscious act on my part, but as the result of my dealings with them on a daily basis. It was during this, that the pilots of Nazca had proven themselves to be people of great merit, and my equals in the truest possible sense.
This understanding, coupled with the associations that were coming to me from my former lives (which were clearly more enlightened than I), was part of what had lent itself to the excitement that I was now experiencing.
There were individuals living in Shamballa whom I would never have associated with had I not gone through all that I did and changed as I had. They were people that I valued for their friendship and wisdom, even though their ancestry was much different than my own. I suddenly found myself in possession of a level of acceptance and tolerance that I had never imagined I had even lacked!
Race, I had inadvertently discovered, was only a matter of pigmentation, and did not dictate inner quality. Nor the worth of an individual.
With my weaknesses laid bare for my audience’s review and their judgement, which I hope will be favorable, I shall now return to my tale, adding only that this was not to be my only epiphany by any means. Far more was in store for me.
***
Once we had landed, we were met by a native ground crew. Just as in Nazca, they were accompanied by a floating metal sphere (which I now understood was called a Post-Flight Servicing Module). The jumpsuits that they wore were a brilliant saffron color, and the logo that they bore upon their breast was an eight-spoked wheel, surmounted by a stylized sun.
This was both the insignia of the station, and Shamballa itself, and seeing it and the robed monks who also came out to extend their greetings, made my heart soar anew--especially when I recognized their leader. Although he was slightly older than my memories insisted he should be, he was very much the same man who had befriended all my other selves.
We exchanged a smile as he drew near. That, and a simple bow that had nothing whatsoever to do with the Fellowship or the Masters, and everything about the regard that we had always held for one another in previous lives.
“Brother Dorje,” I said.
“Namaste,” he answered in Hindi, “Nag po cho.” ‘Nag po cho’ I knew, was his pet name for me and it meant ‘black bird’ in his native Tibetan. Hearing it, I smiled again.
“Are you well,” I asked, wondering at how long it had been since he and I had laid eyes on one another. This was a thing that my memories refused to supply me with and I was forced to work with what I had.
“Well enough,” he replied. “A few decades have come and gone, but they rest lightly on my shoulders. And you, I see, are as youthful as ever.”
The people of Shamballa were extremely long lived by conventional standards, often attaining centuries of existence and leading to the erroneous belief that they were immortals. And, given the Masters penchant for making copies of those that they valued, it was quite possible that some of them did indeed enjoy eternal youth as clones.
This was not Brother Dorje’s case however; his vitality was due to the life-giving nature of his habitat and not the product of any advanced science. In fact, he was young for a Shaballan, just two hundred years old, although a casual observer might have placed him at a mere fifty at the most.
“Are you staying with us long?” he inquired.
“Not very,” Major Sixkiller informed him. “Just a night or two and then it’s back to Nazca and the grindstone.”
“I understand,” Brother Dorje returned a trifle sadly. “Our duties to the Masters must outweigh our personal desires. But we shall make the best of our time together. Come.”
He led us away from our Phaseships and into the monastery proper. Upon entering, I caught the scent of sandalwood in the air, and detected the faint sound of a gong being struck and voices chanting in devotion. Again, fleeting images of other visits asserted themselves in my consciousness, and I sighed in recognition and contentment.
“Your rooms are in the western wing,” he announced. “I do hope that while you are here, we will have the time to share some tea together.”
“Of course,” I replied. “I could not bear to miss it.”
Before I could avail myself of this pleasure though, the Major and I were required to observe a military courtesy. This was to pay our respects to Wing Leader Khentetka on behalf of our squadron and allow her the opportunity to convey any messages that she intended for Hamilket.
Locating her proved to be a simple affair; the monks were quite familiar with her habits, and directed us to the monastery’s library where she had established an office for herself. The Wing Leader herself was a young woman, only a few years older than us, and in the course of our conversation, I learned that she hailed from the same universe as Hamilket.
She was not an Atlantean however, but an Egyptian. It seems that in her world, Egypt did not enter the decline that it had in so many other timelines, but had survived to become a technologically advanced civilization. I also found out that her nation and Hamilket’s enjoyed a warm relationship and that the two worked together as dominant powers in international affairs.
In comparison, Greece and Rome were poor and insignificant states, and when I inquired about it, I was informed that England was nothing more than a collection of feuding kingdoms. Thoroughly gracious, Khentetka did not lord this over me, and even apologized for the disclosure. Even so, it was not the happiest news to hear. I had hoped that my mother country had fared better in her time than it had in mine.
As for our business with her, she had little in the way of messages for us to bear; merely her
best wishes to Hamilket and the warning to be cautious on our return flight. Evidently, the Deviators had been active in her part of the River, and two Phaseships, however skilled the pilots, faced the possibility of encountering a larger opposition. With this sobering admonition in mind, we thanked her, and took our leave.
By this point, the monastery’s bells were ringing for the midday meal and we hastened to the communal hall where it was being served. There, we were treated to a marvelous repast which was quite unlike any served elsewhere. Because of their religionist beliefs and out of the requirements that their longevity demanded, the Shamballans were strict vegetarians.
It was far from a tasteless repast however. The monastery’s chefs utilized spices that the outside world had never encountered, and this, along with all manner of exotic vegetables and fruits, helped to create dishes that would have caused even the most committed carnivores to set aside their beef or pork in its favor, and possibly even renounce flesh forever. It was presented to us in generous portions, and we consumed it sitting alongside the monks in companionable silence (for the monks also observe the practice of saying only as much as necessary in order to promote contemplation and a peaceful atmosphere).
Afterwards, Major Sixkiller retired to our rooms and I sought out Brother Dorje in the gardens. There, the monastery had installed a lovely little tea-house, and I found him there, awaiting me with a fresh pot of Darjeeling and two cups.
I was not surprised by this in the least though. My memories informed me that this was a ritual that he and I had always observed when I came to visit, and I took my place next to him, eager for my beverage and his company. As always, the conversation centered on the doings of his people, and my adventures to date.
Brother Dorje was an excellent listener, paying close attention to everything that I told him, and only interjecting when I mentioned something that he was unfamiliar with. I shared my entire narrative with him, from my days in Seattle, through my Awakening, and then my life as a Crononaut.
It was when I reached the tale of the Chuchniya and the Siberian shaman that I faltered however. The memory of that event still haunted me and I found that I had trouble discussing it with him.
It was more than the mere revulsion that one might feel when encountering some bizarre and unattractive animal though. Both the beast’s actions, and the shaman’s commentary had conspired to create a sense that I had crossed paths with something truly inexplicable. Something that was well beyond my ken and hailed from a universe far stranger than the one that I now resided in.
Even so, Brother Dorje was unfazed by the tale, and continued to smile pleasantly. At last, when I finally allowed myself a pause, he volunteered his insights and it became my turn to be the audience.
“We know of the creature you are speaking about,” he told me in Atlantean. “Here, it is called the Yeti, but it is the same being, and there are many legends about it. Most of them are tales created by superstitious peasants who view it with awe and fear.’
“But there is one story that shed’s an entirely different light on the matter. If I may, I would like to share it with you--although I will refrain from doing so if you find the subject too distressing to continue.”
“Please,” I invited. “Have no concern on that account. I would rather gain wisdom than hide behind unreason, however comfortable that might be.”
Brother Dorje nodded approvingly and began. “Many years ago, there was a very wise and learned monk who chose to become a hermit. He left his monastery and sought out the solitude of a cave in the mountains. There, he spent his time in contemplation and prayer.’
“One day, a Yeti came to the cave. He was a large and terrifying creature, but the monk did not feel fear. His years of study had taught him to throw off the shackles of his emotions and react with wisdom instead. Rather than cower in terror, or respond with aggression, he welcomed the creature.”
I raised an eyebrow at this. It was not how I would have handled such an event. But I did not interrupt him; I wanted to see where his tale was leading.
“The Yeti, realizing that he had been accepted for the first time in his life, left without doing the monk any harm,” he continued, “And the following day, the creature returned, bearing an offering of food that he had gathered from the wilderness. The monk accepted it gratefully and this was the beginning of their friendship. Soon, the Yeti was a regular visitor to the cave.’
“But then one day, there was a terrible avalanche and the Yeti did not make an appearance. Fearing the worst, the monk left his cave, and after many hours of searching, he found the Yeti dead at the bottom of a gorge. Grieving for his friend, the monk gathered up the remains and took them back to his old monastery where they were enshrined.”
“I take it that there is a moral to this story?” I asked.
“Indeed,” Brother Dorje answered, taking a sip from his cup. “It teaches us the value of showing compassion and acceptance to all beings regardless of their outward appearance. No matter how alien we might seem to one another, we are all part of the same cosmos, and equally deserving of charity.”
I nodded, more in gratitude for his willingness to share his insight than in agreement. As relaxed as I had become with regard to the racial diversity of human beings, I could not bring myself to equate the creature that I had encountered with beings like myself or Brother Dorje.
There were I found, limits to what one could accept or tolerate. Even so, I decided to award the monk the courtesy that he deserved and ruminate over his words when the occasion arose, although I strongly doubted that my position on this particular matter would change significantly.
***
We departed Shamballa at sunrise, filled with a fine breakfast and accompanied by the blessings of the monks. As we cleared the mountains surrounding the valley, we were treated to a truly awe-inspiring vista. The sun shone like one of the monastery’s lanterns, clear and bright, painting the snowcapped peaks with a pale golden light that had yet to touch the lands below them. These still slumbered, swaddled in dreams and the blue and purple shadows of the night. It was a truly glorious morning, and I for one, was reluctant to leave it for the starless dark of the No-When, and the long trip back. But duty had its demands, and the Major and I ascended and made our transition to the River with only the slightest hesitation.
Sadly, Khentetka’s warning proved to be prophetic. We were only a little more than an hour into the flight, when Blackbird made a dire announcement.
“Penny, I just detected enemy Phaseships. They’re headed our way.”
My heart began to race as I called up the information. According to the holographic display, we had no fewer than ten Deviators coming towards us, and by the way they were starting to array themselves, it was plain that they had seen us.
Almost two full flight wings, I thought with a shudder.
“Major,” I said. “The enemy has arrived.”
“I see ‘em,” Sixkiller replied. “There’s no way we can take ‘em all on. We’ll have to break and run for it. Head for the nearest century and try to lose yourself there. We’ll hook back up when we’ve shaken ‘em off our tail.”
Already, she was banking down and away from me, and I immediately followed suit, taking care to travel in the opposite direction. This, I knew would force our opponents to choose between us, or compel them to split their forces. There was even the faint chance that they would see the folly of such a pursuit and carry on with their original mission.
But as I went into a steep dive, I realized that the enemy pilots were not about to disregard us. Their flight broke into two sections, and one of these raced towards me, firing their chronoguns as they came. I sent Blackbird into a corkscrew, avoiding their fire and entered the century a second later.
I came out over a dense forest, which according to my readouts was in Central Europe in the year 10,000 BCE. Not that this mattered overly; just then, I was far more interested in my pursuers than in what historical epoch we were travell
ing through.
More fire registered on my rearward screens and I could tell that two of the Deviators were close on my tail. In response, I decided to initiate the same tactic that had led to my defeat in Serbia, and dropped abruptly whilst engaging my airbrakes.
Just as I had done, my adversaries failed to anticipate this move and overflew me. The instant that they were past, I let loose with my weapons, scoring an immediate and decisive hit on one and forcing the other to veer away to the left. To my satisfaction, my victim lost all control and began to plummet earthwards. As for their partner, I did not give chase; there were three others closing in and they were of much greater concern.
Instead, I brought Blackbird’s nose upwards, rose and dropped on them. Again I fired, and I managed to disable the middlemost of the trio. In the meantime, the first Phaseship had come back around and its pilot was doing their level best to position themselves behind me.
I was not about to let this happen easily though, and twisted away--which as fate would have it brought me neatly into line with one of the survivors of the trio. Unhesitatingly, I raked their wing, and a third Deviator dropped to its destruction in the forest below. Had I not been in the midst of a desperate struggle to survive, I would have felt exultation. Five against one, and I had vanquished three!
As it was, the final two Phaseships had come together and were hard on my tail. Only the intercession of Blackbird’s assisted steering allowed me to escape their fusillade, throwing me against my restraints as if I were riding some kind of wild beast. But at last, my incredible luck deserted me and a stray bolt sheared off my right wingtip.
The Phaseship shuddered, and I struggled with the controls to keep it under my command even as another bolt completed the damage that the first had begun. Crippled, Blackbird heeled over and began a long, sickening spin towards the ground. Alarms were wailing in the cockpit, but I didn’t require them. The trees, coming up at me like so many green spears intent on impaling me, were warning enough.
Blackbird: A Warrior of the No-When Page 21