'Thank you, Lucifer,' Abaddon thought quietly to himself. They had concocted this plan one night when the Prime Minister had still been very young, a discussion about a scenario which had unfolded in a popular television movie. It had not been a real life problem, but a lesson for a young prince about the concept of coup d'état. A lump rose in Abaddon's throat. It was too bad Lucifer wasn’t here to see this. He would have been amused.
"This isn't the end of this, General," the Speaker of the Commons said.
"No, really," Abaddon said, "it is."
He gestured upwards at the arrogant vultures who now cowered in the balcony like domestic waterfowl netted for consumption.
"You just took a vote to put Re Harakhti in my place," Abaddon said. "He's a good man." He gestured at the Leonids who now defended him. "Just remember one thing, Mr. Speaker. With Harakhti's species teetering even closer to the brink of extinction than mine is, if you want his support, you'd better come up with a more creative plan than ordering him to bash down the Great Gate so you can look good for the cameras."
"Then we'll just vote another general to replace him!" the Speaker said.
'Sir," Abaddon said wearily. "Lucifer is dead. And when he died, his wives and offspring were on that ship, which means he died without an heir, which means that YOU no longer exist as a governing body." He turned back to face the cameras. "Long live the Emperor!"
"Long live the Emperor," his men echoed into the video cameras which broadcast this fiasco live throughout the entire Alliance."
Abaddon hobbled out through the entrance he had come in, past the empty throne where the broken little statue of Hashem stood, waiting for somebody to come and glue back on its head. The moment the door shut, he leaned heavily upon his cane. Gods, he was tired! He was getting too old for this kind of shit!
He stared up at the fresco on the ceiling, the one which depicted She-who-is smiling down onto a map of the entire galaxy. The broken spiral arm beckoned to him, the one he'd seen when he'd been dead. There. Earth was somewhere there.
He turned to his savior, who'd been the only vessel close enough to respond without arousing suspicion. The only reason the Emperor's Vengeance was even here was because it had sustained heavy damage in the fighting and put in for repairs.
"Thanks," Abaddon said to Rahotep. "I owe you one."
"You owe me two, actually," Rahotep rumbled. He flexed his claws and snarled as they passed through the courtyard and then through the larger Parliamentary office building which ringed this complex like a fence. Landed on the front lawn were two shuttles, his, and a shuttle to carry the men of the Vengeance back to their ship. Surrounding that shuttle were people, ordinary people, Alliance citizens, the ones he'd given his entire life to defend.
While some stood in shocked silence, too afraid to boo, some shouted 'Lucifer!' and others shouted 'Long live the Emperor!'
A guard ran out of Parliament, carrying a long, slender object. The Leonid and Spiderid soldiers whirled and aimed their pulse rifles at the man. The guard froze, his tentacles frozen in fear.
"S-s-sir," the guard said. "I t-thought you m-m-might want this?"
The man kneeled and placed Abaddon's sword upon the ground.
Some of the citizens remained quiet, but the greater part of them cheered. It had been his testimony which had swayed the people to follow Lucifer. His life of service still carried some weight to those of them who remembered what it had been like to live underneath the shadow of Shay'tan. One of the Leonids retrieved his blade and gave it back to him.
"Thank you," Abaddon said to the guard.
He kissed the blade, and then slid it back into its sheath. It felt good there, where it belonged. He swore that so long as he was still alive, never again would he let anyone ever take away his sword.
"Where to, Sir?" his pilot asked as soon as he buckled in.
"Set a course for the Jehoshaphat," Abaddon said. "Make no stops. We can't be sure at this point who will be loyal to whom."
The news feed which was still broadcasting live from inside Parliament showed the vote as the Speaker of the Commons issued a writ to strip Abaddon of all command and arrest him, just as they had done to Jophiel.
"Where will we go, Sir?" the pilot said. "We are all now criminals."
The shuttle breached the atmosphere. Abaddon stared out across the stars, towards the Orion-Cygnus spiral arm.
"Earth. We go find Earth. Ki has given me a clue."
~ * ~ * ~
Chapter 70
Time: Indeterminate
Ascended Realms
Bishamonten
The Infernal Palace was a very different place when SHE was in residence. Whereas when only HE was there the abode of the two gods who ruled the universe was completely dark, when SHE was there, it was a bright, sunny place, with vines growing up the black walls covered in white flowers, birds singing, and a variety of critters who peeked out from amongst the chess pieces.
Just because the Infernal Palace didn't appear quite so intimidating as the last time he had been there, Bishamonten wasn't fooled. She-who-is could be far more fickle and capricious than the Dark Lord ever was, and whatever SHE wanted, He-who's-not usually gave her.
Even if it was his head…
Both gods were seated at the smaller chess board, the one which had been placed over Hashem's Milky Way galaxy. He-who's-not lurked like a great, dark presence, dwarfing his mate with his massive bat-like wings. She-who-is, on the other hand, was a petite, blonde-haired, blue-eyed beauty, with sharp features and gossamer wings. SHE stared forlornly at her little white queen, her expression tearful as He-who's-not fiddled with his dark knight.
Bishamonten gave the two gods who ruled the universe a respectful bow.
"You summoned me, Your Graces?"
"HE did!" She-who-is jabbed her finger at her husband. "I don't see how you can help."
She-who-is was infamous for her temper tantrums, and Bishamonten had known her long enough to see that he had arrived at the tail end of one. But unlike her usual fits of anger, which were often motivated by not getting her own way, the goddess appeared to be genuinely aggrieved, her eyes puffy and red-rimmed from crying.
"Ki needed to save him," the Dark Lord said gently. "So she did. Now the Champion can go find your Chosen One."
"He abandoned her!" She-who-is blurted.
"He has not abandoned her," He-who's-not said. "He was never supposed to be with her in any capacity except as guardian. You interfered in his life's path."
"You did too!"
This was a marital dispute which Bishamonten intensely wished to avoid getting sucked into. There were never any winners when the two gods fought … only losers. Huge, galaxy-shattering, planet-destroying losers. She was an endearing, generous deity … when she wasn't worked up into a fit of temper. Bishamonten could only pity the Dark Lord, who forever had to endure her mood swings.
She-who-is began to weep. Around them, the white flowers wilted and the small animals and birds twittered around her, anxious to see HER in this mood.
"First I lost my Morning Star, and now I have lost my Chosen One," She-who-is wept. "What good is it being a goddess if everything you care about always gets destroyed?"
"The Champion will go looking for her," He-who's-not said. "And then he will find her."
"But what shall I tell my favorite?" She-who-is sobbed. "That while she was a prisoner, I went and gave away her husband to somebody else?"
She-who-is' gossamer wings drooped with regret.
Bishamonten bit his non-corporeal tongue. Before Ninsianna had been kidnapped, he hadn't cared for how cruelly the goddesses' Chosen One had treated his novitiate. It reminded him a little too much of the way She-who-is mistreated her husband. The Dark Lord's pitiless black eyes met Bishamonten's. It was disconcerting to see those terrifying black orbs filled with an expression of 'help me out here, friend…'
"The girl threw herself off a cliff into the river in grief," Bishamonten said. "And I, to
my shame, was not there to intervene. Ki's Agent served her purpose, and now she is gone."
She-who-is stopped crying.
"Gone?"
"She is gone," Bishamonten said. "And he has absolutely no memory of her." He suspected the only reason the Champion didn't remember his new queen was because She-who-is had resorted to her old tricks.
"Well if she is gone, then," She-who-is said to her husband, "there should be nothing preventing him from finding her."
"That is the idea, my sweet," He-who's-not said. "Go, my love. Search through your realms and find her. Moloch cannot exist except as a parasite off of his own bloodline."
"I have searched everywhere!" She-who-is exclaimed. Her beautiful features turned sinister. "That girl knew something. I know she did! Why hasn't she passed into my Dreamtime?"
The Dark Lord placed his enormous dark hands around HER tiny white ones.
"The girl is gone now," HE said. "And my Champion shall give his life to find your Chosen One. He loves her. More than his own existence."
She-who-is' lip trembled, and then she pulled away.
"Very well, then," She-who-is said. She waved her hand at her retinue of creatures. The animals rushed at her, not eager to be left behind in the Dark Lord's realm. With a crisp 'snap' of her gossamer wings, the goddess that ruled All-That-Is disappeared, taking her creations with her.
It took a moment for Bishamonten's eyes to adjust to the total darkness. While SHE had been here, there had been a pleasant, underlying hum, but now a horrible emptiness ate away at his nerves. The Song of Destruction. The powers of Chaos which the Dark Lord ruled.
Shadow cats crept out of the walls and circled around him, attracted to his soft, blue light. The Dark Lord reached down and picked up the most-developed of the litter, the one which had been assigned to watch Ninsianna. The creature purred as its master absent-mindedly rubbed its nothingness.
"I have another favor to ask of you, old friend," He-who's-not said.
Bishamonten nodded. It behooved him to ingratiate himself to the Dark Lord.
"The girl…"
"Is dead?"
"Not yet," He-who's-not said. HIS ebony features reshaped themselves into an expression of concern. "I am not good at these things, tinkering with the lives of mortal men."
Bishamonten waited, wise enough not to say 'I know.'
"So long as she lives, my Champion shall live as well," the Dark Lord said. "If she dies, no matter what games my mate plays to make things come out in her favor, when he feels her death-wound, he shall remember not just this lifetime, but all the lifetimes he has ever known her, and he shall follow her into the land beyond."
"Why did he not follow her the first time he felt her die?" Bishamonten asked.
"Their union was unconsummated," the Dark Lord said. "Incomplete. A partial union which had been cut short again and again. This time, he has bonded with her completely. It was how she was able to heal him."
He-who's-not stroked the shadow cat which sat in his lap like a little black blob, his dark features thoughtful.
"She is powerful, the girl. She took on Moloch's venom, drew it right out of my Champion's body and brought it into her own to transmute it. She is in terrible shape, close to death, but I have intervened to preserve her until she can heal."
"How?"
"The girl's natural inclination is to hide," the Dark Lord said. He ran his clawed hand along his hairless head, pausing to scratch at the places where six horns erupted from his skull. "I think it would behoove us if you were the one to teach her how to use that gift. For if She-who-is finds her, you can be certain there will be a mishap."
"You wish me to teach her the path of shinobi-on-mono?" Bishamonten asked. The invisible warrior.
The Dark Lord's lips twitched in about as close as an ironic smile as the humorless god was capable of displaying.
"I think, perhaps, it will be she who teaches you a thing or two about hiding," the Dark Lord said. "Not even SHE can see her when she wishes to hide. But she is untrained. I know of no person on her world who is capable of teaching her how to use her gift."
"Very well, my lord," Bishamonten bowed.
The Dark Lord stared out across the enormous hall where the larger universal game of chess unfolded, his expression worried.
"If she dies," the Dark Lord said. "My Champion will die as well. A clever man would eliminate him, not by killing him, but by killing her. As much as it goads me to perpetuate a lie, until this game is finished, that is the way things must remain."
"I understand," Bishamonten nodded. He turned to go.
"One more question," He-who's-not said. "The second agent? Do you have any idea as to her identity?"
"I thought it was the little fairy general?"
"I am certain it is not," He-who's-not said. He fiddled with his dark knight. "Ki's Agents are always subtle, the last person you would expect to pull the stellar matter out of the black hole. And their mission? It is usually something you do not expect. Whoever this second Agent is, if you encounter them, you are to give them all necessary assistance."
Bishamonten bowed.
"As you wish, my lord."
Since it was considered bad form to dematerialize out of the Dark Lord's presence, Bishamonten wound his way back out through the enormous chess pieces, each one representing a galaxy the two deities controlled, through the enormous doors and out into the chaos beyond. He hated this place! They all did, with its infernal silence and the sound of chaos crushing molecules.
In a blink of an eye, the God of War moved to carry out the Dark Lord's plan.
~ * ~ * ~
Chapter 71
January: 3,389 BC
Earth: Uruk Territory
Gita
The cold grip of death carried her as she floated in the song, rocking gently as her body was carried downriver. There was no sensation here, other than the cold she felt no pain. She would just let go, and then she would wait for him, for he had given himself to her, and once he crossed over, she understood he would be hers.
Days passed by as the gentle currents carried her downstream, but try as she might to just let go, something whispered to her. Stay. Mikhail needs you. You cannot let go so long as he is still alive.
Something tugged at her chest. Pain. Shouting. Arms picked her up and carried her away.
More time passed and she realized she was no longer cold. That sensation of floating faded into a new song. Children's voices and the sing-song humming of an old woman. Fragmentary glimpses of curious eyes and wrinkles blended with the pain of somebody poking at her chest. A new voice joined the others. Masculine. Familiar. Not his voice, but a voice which was welcoming nonetheless.
Gita opened her eyes.
Staring back at her was a thin, rather comical face with a broken nose and mismatched eyes, one eye brown and the other hazel-green. His brow was furrowed with worry, and he held a cloth to her forehead, warm and wet and scented with a bit of cedar.
"Dadbeh?" Gita whispered.
"Hey," the elite warrior said. "What you doing all the way down here?"
Gita groped for the song which had receded the moment she had opened her eyes. It was still there, just harder to hear when she focused on something else. She could still feel him, and she knew he was still alive.
"Gita?"
Gita opened her eyes again, not particularly happy she'd been saved.
"You should have let me die."
Dadbeh dipped the cloth it in a bowl of water held by an old woman. He spoke to her in Kemet, and then placed it back on Gita's forehead.
"For a few days we thought you would die," Dadbeh said. He gestured to several small children who huddled around them, their brown eyes wide with curiosity. "Bitaneth and Ineni found you in the process of being fed upon by a vulture. They were certain you were dead, but Menwi said your wound wasn't fatal; that you only needed help."
He pointed to the wrinkled old woman, who grinned at Gita with her jagged teeth, man
y of them missing. She wore the colorful sewn robe of a Kemet trader, one which had been torn and hastily patched.
"Thank you," Gita said, even though she didn't really mean it. In the song, it had been peaceful. In the song, there hadn't been any pain. In the song, that ever-present sense of hunger had receded, and in its place there had been a sense of fulfillment, of being loved, of mattering to somebody other than her poor, long lost mother.
She stared up at the woven linen ceiling of the low tent, little more than a tarp stretched over a central stake. It was a trader's tent; the kind which could be packed up as they moved from village to village in their great, circuitous trading routes which carried them up one great river and down the other. The Kemet traders were friends with all tribes, and while they carried news from one village to another, they were also notoriously tight-lipped about passing along information which might earn them the enmity of their trading partners.
The old woman spoke to Dadbeh at length in Kemet, of which Gita understood only a little. The old woman snorted and then punched Dadbeh in the arm. Dadbeh gave her a lopsided grin, never handsome, but always comical and earnest.
"She wants to change your dressings," Dadbeh said. "She said I must leave so I don't catch sight of your breasts. I told her you were flat-chested, so it wasn't like I would see anything."
"You … are a goat's behind," Gita said. She gave him a weak grin. "Go on. Get out of here."
Dadbeh's smile disappeared.
"What happened to you? Did the villagers do this to you?"
Gita swallowed, wondering how much she should tell him. Nothing. She would tell him nothing.
"I cut myself and it became infected," Gita said. "Once Mikhail got better, they didn't need me anymore, so I left. I got sick of people blaming me for something I didn't do."
Sword of the Gods: Agents of Ki (Sword of the Gods Saga) Page 70
