Sword of the Gods: The Chosen One (55 page)

“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.”

“Is that why you don't
like him?”

“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.”

“Green is not your
color, child,” Papa said.  “You should have more compassion for your own
family.  Gita is shy and Shahla seeks out her company because she needs a
mirror to reflect what she wishes to see about herself.  If
you
took
Gita under your wing, she would blossom.”

“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 the solar plexus … 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.”

“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?”

“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.”

“I hate the death
rituals,” Ninsianna shuddered.

“If you wish to be
entrusted with the life-giving abilities of a shaman,” Papa warned, “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.

~ * ~ * ~
* ~ * ~

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
underlying, though not by much.

“Chief of Staff
Zepar,” Lieutenant Apausha greeted.  “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,” Zepar 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.

“Please … 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 Marid pirate.  The
implication was clear.