With a sigh, Jamin moved to unclip the holster so he could give it back to the Sata'anic commanding officer.
"You ... keep it," Dahaka said. The lizard waxed a deeper shade of green, a color they exhibited when they were pleased. "Any man who can shoot like that deserves to be armed."
The memory of Lucifer's voice whispered into Jamin's subconscious.
'Give them their heart's desires and they will serve you willingly.'
"Damned right," Jamin said.
Dahaka moved to strap himself into his own jump seat. Ignoring the happy banter of the other soldiers, Jamin shut his eyes and hummed that silly little hymn his mother had taught him about a long-lost goddess as in his mind's eye he placed his new pulse rifle into his secret treasure-box, the place he stored all of his heart's innermost desires.
~ * ~ * ~
Chapter 34
No bastard ever won a war by dying for his country.
He won it by making the other poor dumb bastard
die for his country.
--General George Patton--
Galactic Standard Date: 152,323.12 AE
Former Third Empire: Jehoshaphat
Supreme Commander-General Abaddon
Abaddon
Supreme Commander-General Abaddon closed his eyes and focused upon the disharmonious vibrations which rattled up through the floor of the Jehoshaphat into the palm of his hand, diagnosing what ailed his gorm beag even before the flight engineers had completed their external inspection of her hyperdrives. It had been a long time since his first-love had sustained such damage, but not the first, and this vibration was familiar as he pictured the damage to her starboard engine as though it was his own wing.
"It's not the reactor," Abaddon rumbled, his grey eyes still closed. "It's a constriction in the ion induction chamber where it mixes matter with hydrogen prior to ignition."
"But the engine took a direct hit, Sir," the Mantoid Assistant Flight Engineer said. "We can see the damage to the starboard wing."
Abaddon didn't bother opening his eyes, but focused on the feel of his inanimate lover trembling beneath his fingers.
"The Jehoshaphat is hungry, not hurt," Abaddon said. He lurched to his feet, his falcon-grey feathers spread wide for balance. He noted he was not quite so graceful at getting up as when he'd been young.
The Mantoid Assistant Flight Engineer took a step back, his portable flatscreen trembling in his hand. Abaddon pointed to the large, holographic image of the Jehoshaphat which had been enlarged to show the damage to the injured hyperdrive. Where the tail-end of that engine's exhaust port had once been now lay a hunk of mangled metal.
"See that discoloration," Abaddon pointed to the steady discoloration which streamed out of the now-shortened exhaust vent like heat waves. "It does not have the white look about it of smoke. Her exhaust is pink. That means she is short on nitrogen, not failing to ignite."
He reached into the hologram and expanded upon that section of the Jehoshaphat's wing. He traced the image down from the mangled metal to the slender braces where the enormous brackets rejoined the body of the ship. Abaddon blew the image up, and then blew it up again until at last he could see the place his instinct told him was the most likely place for just such an obstruction to occur.
"Well I'll be damned," the Assistant Flight Engineer said.
Displayed on the screen was a deep crack in one of the few weak places of his ship, the place where one component joined to another. Here the fuel lines for carbon, nitrogen and oxygen were fed up into the hyperdrives to mix with the hydrogen captured by the large scoop at the port-end of the hyperdrive from open space. A small, green line of green nitrogen gasses streamed out of the crack, without the discoloration of oxygen or carbon. Not a catastrophic failure, but it was sufficient to cause the starboard engine to operate on less-than-optimal efficiency. What was of more concern was the damaged support for the wing. If that came off while jumping through hyperspace, the Jehoshaphat would tear herself to pieces before they leaped out the other side.
"Compute how much we'll need to compensate for the loss of propulsion caused by the shortened exhaust vent," Abaddon ordered. "As soon as you fix that leak, we're going right back into battle."
"Yes, Sir," the Mantoid engineer saluted him.
Abaddon settled back into his commander's chair. He settled his hand upon the armrest and pretended it was the Jehoshaphat's broken 'wing' he gave comfort to.
"Soon, gorm beag," he whispered the endearment to the ship Parliament had given him after he'd proven a mortal could be a worthy enemy for a god. "Soon you shall be fixed, and then I shall let you off your tether again."
His duties done, he inspected what damage had occurred to the other ships under his command. His mouth tightened in a grim line as he read the names of men and women who had died. He tried to put faces to the names, hybrid and naturally-evolved soldier alike, pulling up their service records if memory, at first, evaded him. The Emperor never took the time to learn the names of the men and women he sent to die, but Abaddon always burned each name into his brain. These were men and women he had sent into battle; men and women who were no longer here because of him. It was a solemn ritual, and the crew knew not to hurry him as he read the rosters of the dead. When the battle was done, he would personally write to each and every one of their families and thank them for the sacrifice they had made on behalf of the Alliance.
The Alliance? Did he even believe in such a thing anymore?
Yes. He was certain he did. Not the vision enumerated by the Emperor, though he'd been perfectly happy with the Alliance as it had been back before the Emperor had abandoned them to fend for themselves, nor even the squabbling factions of Parliament which, most of the time, could not get out of their own way. He traced his fingers down the rows of cuneiform which symbolized the lives of soldiers. No, he believed in this Alliance, the men and women who'd willingly thrown themselves into Shay'tan's path to protect an ideal, the right of his wife's people, and his own people even though most of the dead were naturally evolved soldiers and not the just the Emperor's genetically engineered ones, to exist.
He clicked off the smart pad with a rueful sigh.
"Sir?" his Logistics Officer asked, a brand spanking-new Mantoid cadet who'd been assigned to replace his old one who had retired just days before Lucifer's breathtaking rebellion. She extended her bright green grasping fingers, three of them, to take the briefing report off of his hands.
"I'll be down in my chambers," Abaddon said, "catching a bit of sleep. Wake me if anything needs my attention."
"Yes, Sir," the Logistics Officer gave him a crisp salute. She tilted her bright green, heart-shaped head as he walked away without a word, not having served him long enough to understand that after he read the names of the dead, he always needed to withdraw.
He walked through the corridors of this ship he loved, noting the places where fresh coats of paint hid old battle scars from the last time the Alliance had gone head-to-head against the Sata'anic Empire. He queued up the monitor through which he could send an encrypted 'picture word' to his wife, painfully aware of just how weary and old he must appear to her right now. His features softened as he looked at the picture of Sarvenaz placed just behind the camera and pictured that he spoke to her. He felt as if she could hear him, even if she wasn't here to understand his words. He sent the message through a convoluted series of secure channels so Shay'tan's spies could never trace it to his only vulnerability, the woman who was his heart and soul.
That done, it was time to catch a few Zzz's before the next crisis arose, the next battle, and the next repair which needed his attention. He sprawled out on the empty bed, unable to get to sleep, the ache in his tissues where she should have laid every bit as palpable as a thousand cuts of his sword. He finally curled up around a pillow and pressed one of Sarvenaz's head-scarfs against his nose so he could inhale her scent as he dreamed she was still at his side.
The rude whistle of his communications
device awoke him from a nightmare in which the Prince of Tyre circled a strange, blue planet which was in the process of being consumed by fire. Abaddon smacked at the communications pin still attached to his chest.
"What is it?" Abaddon grumbled, his voice filled with all the sleep he should gotten, and had not.
"Sir," Captain Shzzkt's voice crackled out of the tiny pin. "I'm sorry to disturb you, but Brigadier-General Rahotep has received intelligence about an abandoned base deep inside the former Third Empire."
Abaddon sat up, his earlier weariness vanished.
"Sata'anic?" Abaddon asked.
Captain Shzzzkt hesitated. "Sir? Rahotep said the Free Marid claim Shay'tan ignored the planet until late last winter, and then all of a sudden he's had an armada stationed around it, protecting it ever since."
Late last winter? That was around the same time they'd noticed an uptick in suspicious Sata'anic shipping activity.
"The Free Marid?" Abaddon called into the intercom. "How do we know we know they're not Sata'an-Marid implants?"
The Free Marid Confederation was all that was left of the Marid Kingdom. Shay'tan had annexed the six planets which clustered around the Marid homeworld and, after six generations of brainwashing, convinced them they were Sata'anic citizens. The Free Marid, on the other hand, were the Marid rejects; privateers, adventurers, and idealists who'd happened to inhabit the most far-flung colonies when their planet of origin had submitted to Sata'anic rule. Shay'tan didn't bother finishing them off because their planets were worthless as resource worlds. The Free Marid Confederation survived by smuggling black market trade goods between the two great empires, but like most privateers, they were prone to double-cross.
"Brigadier-General Rahotep sent a scout ship in to verify what they said was true," Captain Shzzzkt said. His insectoid voice rose so high with excitement that his voice enhancement box had difficulty picking up the syllables. "Sir! Rahotep hacked into a video feed with … I'm not sure what it is, Sir. It looks like some sort of cryo-chamber. But Sir? It's … it sure looks like a human locked inside."
Abaddon realized he was already on his feet. He grabbed his pulse rifle and his sword, already out the door before he even had a chance to secure them to his hip. He hurried down the hallway, tugging at his belt.
"What's our ETA for repairs on those engines?" Abaddon asked.
"Engineering says they need three days,"
"Tell them they have eight hours!" Abaddon barked. "And alert the fleet. As soon as the Jehoshaphat can move, we're kicking Shay'tan off of that planet!"
~ * ~ * ~
Chapter 35
December, 3,390 BC
Earth: Village of Assur
Pareesa
The cold pallor of winter blew down from the Zagros Mountains and clenched its skeletal fingers around the men huddled together on the flat plain just outside the south gate of Assur for warmth. They were an unlikely looking bunch, elite warriors mixed in with old men stooped from decades bent over their fields and women, many not much older than Pareesa. They wore the same dejected, defeated look that she hid; an invisible enemy, unseen, but every bit as palpable as the winter wind.
Siamek met her gaze and nodded. He felt the peculiar melancholy this morning, as well…
"Alright men," Siamek ordered. "Pareesa will lead us for the warm-up."
Even the warrior's groan of complaint was half-hearted. Pareesa glanced down the line, wishing fervently one of them would show a little rebellion. Her gaze met Firouz's, the trickster of the bunch, half a trickster ever since Dadbeh had left the village.
'Please, Firouz,' Pareesa implored the elite warrior with her eyes. 'A little help, please?'
Firouz's lip twitched in a wistful gesture that might have been a smirk or sadness. All his life he'd been told to stop joking around. Now that he no longer wished to be funny, it was what people needed him to do.
"Would that include a trip back into my house to linger before the hearth?" Firouz asked half-heartedly. He held out his arms as though warming them before a fire.
A low rumble of laughter rippled through the warriors. This was a sentiment every man here shared, including her.
Firouz looked to his left where Dadbeh had always stood, ready to pick up his one-liner and turn it into a series of dialogue. His laughter died on his lips. Without Dadbeh here to throw in a snarky comment, Firouz's humor fell flat. He looked up at Pareesa, his expression mournful.
Pareesa gave him an apologetic look. Two weeks ago, Dadbeh had quietly gone on a quest to find out where the lizard people had taken Shahla's body. The villagers feared Dadbeh had simply lain down in the wilderness and allowed the hyenas to take him, but Pareesa suspected he hadn't come back because of her. He had loved Shahla. She had killed her. And now … Firouz looked as lost without Dadbeh as she felt without Mikhail.
"Pareesa?"
Pareesa looked up into Siamek's concerned eyes. She'd missed her cue to begin the warm up exercises. She was slipping. They were all slipping without Mikhail's blend of strict discipline and quiet good example. Well, she'd be damned if she let that happen on her watch!
"Alright everyone!" Pareesa shouted. "If you're cold, it's because you're not moving. Let's start out with a quick run down to the fields."
"But the fields are submerged," a warrior from Nineveh called out.
"I said run down to the fields," Pareesa said. "Not go for a swim." She gave him a jackal's grin, an echo of the old Pareesa, the one which had once been carefree and full of mischief. "Unless, of course, you find yourself in dire need of a bath?"
"No, Sir!" the Ninevian shouted.
His teammates slapped the man on the back and made crude jokes about smelling like a billygoat in rut. There. That was better.
Pareesa pointed to the north.
"Let's go, then!" Pareesa ordered.
She led the pace in a brisk run around the outer wall of the village. They ran in silence, without the usual sing-song rhymes. When they reached the steep embankment which elevated Assur above the flood tide of the Hiddekel River, they picked their way down the jagged pathway carefully, none wishing to take a tumble down the hill. Pareesa measured the length of the line and frowned. Yesterday, Eshnunna, Dur-Kurigalzu and Arrapha's had sent runners to inexplicably order their men to return home. Mikhail's alliance was disintegrating before her eyes!
She made her way down to the bottom of the trail. The river lapped within inches of the footpath, but within a few hundred paces there was a nice flat spot, the ground still soft from its annual tilling. It was a nice place to practice moves where warriors were likely to be thrown to the ground. She lined them up to conduct their daily routine.
"Ninety-seven, ninety-eight, ninety-nine," Pareesa counted out her weapon of choice against insubordination, pushups. "One hundred!"
The warriors helped each other up and settled into a lackluster slouch like beasts of burden who understood it was a choice between the plow-harness or the butcher's knife. How could she give these men heart when the Evil One had carved out the heart of her hero?
"I hope everybody brought their swords?" Pareesa asked.
Wooden sticks slipped out of belts or pack-bundles. Within minutes she had the warriors broken up into pairs and practicing sword-thrusts. She fingered the hilt of the lesser Sata'anic sword. She'd promised Mikhail she'd leave his sword under his bed just before he'd slipped into the sleep which usually preceded death. She refused to take his sword from him, just in case he awoke and wished to hold it.
Or carry its essence with him into the next world…
Pareesa shoved the unwelcome thought out of her mind and rubbed her nose against her shawl. She would not give up hope. Mikhail never gave up, and neither would she. She wiped her eyes, pretending to pick out an insect even though, this time of year, the pests had gone into hibernation.
She demonstrated the sword routine she'd practiced all morning with Siamek, a blend of a staff- kata and a vaguely-remembered move used by the God of War. W
as he still here, that ancient god? She closed her eyes and focused on the tickle. Yes. He half-listened to her the way a parent might listen to a child chatter, not really paying attention to the words, but if the child shrieked, the parent would be there to fend off the hyena.
She realized somebody had been standing behind her for quite some time. She turned and stared up into the quiet, watchful gaze of the man who had loved her enough to take a spear for her. Despite her melancholy, her lips curved up into a smile.
"Ebad?" Pareesa said. "You're supposed to be in bed."
His arm was bound around his torso. Most of the wound had healed, but the deepest slice kept opening up if he moved his arm too vigorously. Ebad's expression was wistful.
"Needa said I could make short trips outside."
"This is not a short trip," Pareesa said. She pointed to the pathway down the steep hill. "Even if you made it down here okay, you're still too weak to make it back up the hill."
"Ipquidad will help." Ebad pointed to the gentle giant.
Ipquidad met their gaze, and then resumed thwacking at one of the men from Nineveh with a methodical thunk-thunk-thunk. Yes. If Ipquidad could carry Mikhail, Ebad would be no problem.
"You'll tire yourself and slow down your healing," Pareesa objected half-heartedly. Truth was, she was grateful he was here.
Ebad's expression was solemn. "I thought it might help morale if at least one of us got up out of our deathbed."
Tears rushed to Pareesa's eyes. She turned away from his earnest gaze, staring out across the Hiddekel River which had grown so broad it was difficult to see the other side. She gasped for breath, willing herself not to cry. As she stared, she recognized what she'd assumed to be debris was in fact a river canoe which grew larger the closer it approached.
She reached back and took Ebad's hand as they waited to see who traveled downriver. The thwacking of swords around her grew silent as the other warriors recognized Nineveh's canoe materialize out of the mist. As they neared the shore, Qishtea stood up, clad from head to toe in the formal regalia of a chief.
Sword of the Gods: Agents of Ki (Sword of the Gods Saga) Page 36
