by J. Naomi Ay
The Duke had been married for a number of years to Princess Marie of Cyganus, and together they had produced a teenage son, Loran, who was in New Mishnah finishing high school. His intention was to continue on at the University the following year, studying Business Management like his father and late granddad, or at least, that was what Duke Petya had informed young Loran his attentions were.
While Luci was basically content at this late stage in a rather tempestuous life, she still found herself at times lonely and inconsolable. Her friends and companions, save one odd duck here or there, were all gone or at the very least, prolonged missing. She had nothing to do all day save watch the vid and sleep. That was until Loran introduced her to social media. Now, Luci spent far too many hour chatting with complete strangers on Footbook, a site where people posted pics of their feet and talked about themselves.
Luci had acquired a bunch of new friends by joining a group of similarly aged women. At least, that was who she thought she was chatting with. From the appearance of their manicured toes and the absence of bulging varicose veins, the pics could have been anything or anyone. Despite the uncertainty of whom might know her innermost thoughts, Luci found comfort in this galaxy-wide group of strangers.
“I’m feeling blue today.” A woman might begin a new thread.
“I’m always blue since I’m Andorian,” another would reply.
“I’m sad because my kids have grown and left me.” A third lady would type.
“I’m missing my husband who I killed,” Luci interjected. “Although, my mind was taken over and controlled by Emperor, so it really wasn’t my fault at all.”
This would garner Luci pages of sympathetic virtual hugs, frowning faces, and tearful emoticons. Then, the conversation would drift to a low cal, low carb, low fat recipe using artificial everything, and combined with only air. Alternatively, someone would post a pic of a buff and shirtless man to which all the women’s feet would wag in virtual appreciation. If he happened to be wearing a cowboy hat or have sopping wet hair, the post would be followed by emphatic typewritten sighs.
“Are you sure you aren’t spending too much time on the internet, Mother Luci?” A concerned Marie would hesitantly ask.
“These are my friends,” Luci declared. “I can’t abandon them in their hours of need. Oh, look at this funny ecard. I never knew a cat could do that with a chicken.”
Marie would walk away, resolving to take Luci out to a restaurant or shopping in the mall the very next day, as her internet addiction seemed to be growing only worse. However, it was relatively harmless to everyone concerned, and in either case, Marie had more issues than just Luci.
At the age of forty, Marie discovered, she was decidedly middle aged. Her once galaxy-renowned beauty had faded. Her formerly portly husband, the one who had been the younger and less interesting sibling, was now the highest ranking duke in the entire Empire. For Marie, this was a double whammy as Petya's status garnered attention from every quarter. Women threw themselves at his flat and widely oversized feet.
Petya, having always lived in his brother's shadow, discovered that he quite enjoyed this new found popularity, and consequently, the Duke of Korelesk was hardly home. In fact, Marie heard rumors of an apartment in the city, a pad, as it were, where young women were conveniently stowed, and where the Duke engaged in all sorts of lascivious entertainment.
Despite everything Marie tried to re-attract her husband's attention, he no longer seemed to be interested in her at all. At first, Marie fought back. She exercised her figure into shape, as well as tucked, toned, and botoxed her aging lines away. Her once natural pale blonde tresses were dyed twice monthly and sometimes, received touch-ups in between. Her make-up was expertly applied daily by the cosmetician on staff. When all that failed to enchant the wayward duke, Marie took counsel from her sister, Queen Elana of Cyganus.
"Forget him," Elana scoffed. "Men are pond scum."
Marie didn't particularly agree, especially since up until now, Petya had been quite nice. Elana had been having a difficult time since her husband Captain Marik Korelesk was killed while on SpaceNavy duty for the Empire. Not only were the circumstances of his death quite odd, but Elana was later jolted by the news of her husband’s infidelity.
About a year after Marik's death, the Imperial Prince Shika’s ex-wife, Hannah had arrived at the Cyganian Court to introduce Elana to Marik's new heir.
Naturally, Elana was horrified, especially since the child looked exactly like his sire. She banished them both from Cyganus, which did little to deter Hannah, who wasn't interested in that planet, in any case. Hannah wanted Korelesk, something Petya now tenuously held, and this was another reason for Marie to be concerned. With Petya's recent activities, Hannah might seize the opportunity to wander into his path, and thus another Korelesk brother would be led astray.
"I must save Korelesk for my son," Marie silently vowed, for whatever Petya did would have ramifications to her beloved young Loran. Like every noble mother, Marie knew she must do whatever it took to ensure her son inherited his realm.
Chapter 4
The day the child appeared in the village, Tuman de Kudisha was cleansing the Temple for the upcoming holiday. He hoped both of the Imperial Princes would be in attendance. In fact, Prince Revak had never been to Karupatani. Prince Shika, of course, had been here many times and even lived amongst them for a while when they were both teenagers. Tuman recalled fondly hanging out with Shika back in the day, the girls, the drugs, the booze, and the wild parties.
Now, as High Priest of the entire nation, all that wildness was a distant and sometimes, unbelievable memory for Tuman. If someone would have told him back then that his life would be dedicated to the Holy Word and the only narcotic he would ever have was the ceremonial drug, Barkuti, Tuman would have laughed and replied that they were full of shit. Now, the words of the Great Father and the spirit of the Eternal One were more intoxicating than anything he had ever smoked.
Tuman's great revelation, the change that had inexorably altered his then decadent life, had come in the form of a dream. He remembered only a flight amongst the stars on broad wings, a bright and over-bearing silver light that seared his brain, and a voice that sounded surprisingly like the MaKennah’s. What he said, the exact wording, Tuman couldn’t recall. However, by the time he awoke many hours later, Tuman was a changed man. One night he fell down a drunken loser, and the next morning, he rose a pious and reverent priest dedicated to spending his entire life combing the Holy books for the meaning of what he had seen.
"Tuman?"
"Yes, Father?" Tuman finished dusting the candelabra, setting it back on the high shelf next to the sacred urn.
Years ago when they still performed the MaKennah's bleeding ritual, it was this ancient clay vase they had used. The exterior was faded, the once colorful paintings of angels now only muted shadows of the formerly brilliant blues, reds, silvers, and golds. The interior was still darkly stained from the blood it once contained, a magical substance of which Tuman had never experience, but heard tales.
"Your sister, Lucreda has found a child wandering in the forest," Rekah announced, striding over to his eldest son's side. Reaching down the urn, he turned it about in his hand, his fingers lightly tracing the pale drawings.
Rekah had passed seven decades in this village, the last three as de facto chief. He was still strong and lean, moving about with the determination of a much younger man. The only indication of his age was the slight wrinkle to his dark skin and the propensity to forget his many grandchildren's names. This was excusable as Rekah and his three wives had bred a virtual nation on their own.
Tuman had seventeen siblings, fifty-three nieces and nephews, as well as a few grand nieces and nephews that he knew of. As Tuman had never married, he had no descendants of his own, at least those that were considered legitimate. He suspected there might be some scattered about. After all, his youth had been a bit wild. However, it was the Karupta way to let the mother decide
whom shall be recognized as a child's father. When Tuman was prolifically spreading his seed, and despite his noble name and blood lines, no one wanted their child recognized as his.
"A child?" Tuman repeated, his voice echoing through the empty hall, resonating off the stained glass windows, and marble walls.
When Tuman was a child, the Temple was still the original structure constructed from ancient woods during the Great Father's time. During Tuman's adulthood, the MaKennah had bequeathed an enormous sum to construct a new, updated building reminiscent of the ancient Holy place on the planet Rozari.
Now, instead of freezing in the winter and roasting their bodies, as well as their souls in the summer heat, the people of Karupatani worshipped in the grand and glorious, well-vented building at the center of the village. Sometimes, when he was alone, Tuman preferred to say his prayers at the old building which still stood deep in the forest; a monument to what they had once been and how far they had come.
"Yes, a child," Rekah repeated loudly, his voice echoing off the marble walls, and rising to the high frescoed ceiling as if in song.
He glanced up at the intricately painted angels, the Archangel Mika'el directly above him at the center, and considered, not for the first time, that the image resembled his cousin, the MaKennah. It was not just the similarity in their faces. No, there was definitely something more to it. Perhaps, it was his posture, or the assuredness and cool certitude of all things eternal which was projected upon his face.
Of course that might have been the artist’s intent. What better model for the celestial champion than the Great Emperor? Missing only was that ever present cigarette upon his lip and that tale-tell waft of gray smoke which some, including Rekah's aged mother, had theorized was meant to obscure the otherwise visible and beatific halo.
"What sort of child?" Tuman asked, interrupting Rekah's thoughts as he shifted his gaze to the second angel depicted kneeling at the Big Man's feet. She didn't have a name for she was certainly not a member of the exclusive club of Archangels. Rather, Rekah suspected, she was somewhat low on the heavenly totem pole, achieving her elevated status only from the winsome charm which she had used to bewitch Mika'el, as well as some others.
"Hmmph," Rekah snorted. His nether regions aching as he recalled the violent kick they had sustained when the she-angel's look-alike delivered her foot into their very tender core. Despite the pain then and even now, he found himself unable to draw his eyes away from her face. "Kari-fa lenak teroki maya kanah," he mumbled, prompting Tuman to snicker at the old man's use of profanity.
"A wicked fucking bitch she may have been," Tuman smirked, crossing the room to return his dust rags to the appropriate closet. "But as Queen and Empress, she served well, especially for only a Human."
Rekah snorted again.
"There are plenty, I among them, who miss her intensely including, I suspect, you." Tuman gazed at the renditions himself for a few moments, recalling how the Empress had saved his own life by rescuing him from the river when he had been a foolish and braggadocios youngster.
"I miss him," Rekah agreed, pointing a slightly bent and arthritic finger at his once beloved Imperial Cousin. "And, I look forward to the day when I shall join him again."
"Ha! Wherever they are, Father, I suspect you shan't be welcome. But, do not worry. Mother Letitia and Sister-Mother Carina are anxiously awaiting your arrival."
"For this reason alone, I shall live to a hundred and fifty years."
"Indeed, you shall." Tuman made to take his father's arm, to guide him from the sanctuary, but testy old Rekah pushed him away.
“I am not so infirm that I need your assistance yet.”
“No, you are not.” Tuman locked the door with his key, one of only two in the village. The second key belonged to his half-brother, Aran, assistant priest and the one responsible for the music. “So, will you tell me of this lost child my sister has discovered? Is he from our village or a wandering nomadic tribe?”
“We don’t know.” Rekah quickened his pace to keep up with his eldest son. He glanced heavenward, noting the darkening clouds portending a rain that would be neither gentle nor warm. Winter was quickly approaching, bringing with it a bitter chill and the dampness which would set into his bones and not leave until the sun was hot in the sky, and the new wheat nearly waist high. “Your sister says he refuses to speak. I will go over to view him now. Will you join me?”
“Of course,” Tuman replied, smiling slightly at his father whose arrogance made him bend and limp, refusing an arm or even a stick. "Do you think my sister shall feed us? My stomach tells me it is time for our nighttime meal."
"Perhaps," Rekah murmured as the men approached the steps to his daughter's house, while casting his eyes away from his own house where Seesi waited upon the porch. Her arms were crossed angrily in front of her chest, her face locked in a perpetual scowl brought on tonight by Rekah’s tardiness to dinner, the weather, or simply life.
"Lucreda?" Tuman called, leaving his shoes upon his sister’s porch and pushing open the door to expose the front room. Next to the fire sat a child, his long, wavy, black hair reflecting the flames. Lucreda knelt before him, a spoon in her hand as she tried to coax the boy to drink a bowl of soup.
"Kari-fa!" Rekah gasped, his hand immediately drawn to his heart.
"Well, who have we here?" Approaching, from his sister’s side, Tuman gazed down at the small boy. He appeared about five or six years with skin as pale as a Lightie, yet with the proud, noble features undeniably of Karupatani.
"Lucreda," Rekah demanded, his voice inexplicably gone hoarse. "What color are his eyes?"
"Why they are very interesting, Father," Lucreda replied. "I find them beautiful in an odd way. One moment, they look colorless, and in the next, they nearly shine. I would say they are a very light blue-gray, like the color of water on a cloudy day."
Chapter 5
Miltan was having a bad day. Despite the stitch she put in it this morning, her face still sagged, giving her the appearance of triple chins. Her eyelids drooped, and there was some sort of blotch on her temples just above her left eye. She wondered if it was a skin cancer, but she couldn’t see it close enough to tell. When she put on her glasses, the frame blocked the blotch, so she was forced to push her face all the way up in front of the mirror which made everything look bad.
"What are you doing?" Puna asked, coming into the bathroom in that thin silky robe which Miltan liked best. It was a dark green color which matched Puna's long thick hair and clung to her lithe young form in all the right places. A hole was suggestively cut in front, from which extended Puna's anterior arm. A saucy slit crept up the back, allowing her dorsal leg to strike sexy poses.
"What do you think this is?" Miltan ignored the girl's gyrations and continued to poke at the blemish, causing it to bleed a thin trickle of copper colored liquid.
"How should I know?" Puna shrugged and let the robe drop to the floor. She paused and waited for Miltan's reaction. Unfortunately, the older woman was too engrossed in the possible harbinger of her imminent death to either notice or care.
Half of Puna, perhaps the right side, hoped that Miltan’s spot was terminal, and the President of this Lumineria II would once and for all be finished with her. The other half, the left side still thought fondly of her companion, even loved her a little, although Puna wasn’t entirely sure why.
The sex was fun. Miltan had a skill that surpassed any man or woman, although now in her senior years, she had been slowing down a bit. When they were together, all six of Puna's limbs as well as her head and internal organs quivered like jelly. In fact, the sensation was so intense and enjoyable, Puna wondered if it ought to be illegal.
Puna would have liked to get pregnant though. Lately, she kept having dreams of a baby kicking about in her womb. Sometimes, it was just gas caused by an errant mushroom consumed at dinner or far too much sour ale wreaking havoc in her intestines. Still, she was disappointed when she awoke in the morning to discover
her belly flat, no adoring tiny face gazing up at her with unbridled devotion, and only Miltan’s snores to fill her heart.
A baby would require a man, which wasn't actually a bad option to Puna. She had never been averse to the male sex. In fact, she rather liked them. Unfortunately, she was bound to Miltan's side by the order of her superior, Rosso, a man whom she unequivocally obeyed no matter what he said.
Miltan was bound up in Rosso’s servitude also. His daily instructions arrived each morning in a secured and encrypted email packet, along with what appeared to be supermarket adverts and offers for credit cards. Of course, no casual observer would be looking through Miltan’s personal emails for Rosso’s communications, but all precautions were taken as one never knew who they could trust.
After determining that the blemish was probably just an ordinary spot of adult acne, Miltan finished her morning preparations, and headed to the Square Office. This was the exclusive and official domain of the President of Lumineria II which Miltan had occupied for nearly twenty years. Once upon a time, she was elected, or so the people thought, as Rosso owned the concession which provided the official voting machines, and so ultimately, only Rosso cast a vote.
“Coffee, Madame President?” Puna arrived a few moments later pushing a cart with a coffee service and a selection of sweet rolls.
She, too, received a morning communique from Rosso, surreptitiously arriving with her copy of Women’s Wear Daily and Vogue. This morning’s missive advised her to standby at the ready, be prepared to persuade using all the powers she possessed. That was her primary responsibility when it got down to it. Puna was where she was solely to bend Miltan to Rosso’s will.
“Anything interesting going on today?” she asked, serving Miltan her single cup of decaf, two lumps of sugar and a splash of cream. She placed a jelly donut on a dish and prepared a second dish with a plain, unfrosted one, just in case Miltan was feeling fat and desiring to cut back.
