Tale of the Spinward March: The Great Khan (Tales of the Spinward March Book 1)

by David Winnie

  “Why would Salaam be carrying several millions of this…Thembrodium in his body?” Angkor asked.

  “As much as one third an ounce, sir. A fortune, yes,” Gebow smiled, “But that is not the big surprise. Watch.”

  The arm moved above the cadaver’s open mouth and peered inside. The holo reformatted, focusing on the soft palate. The image focused inward into the tissue, revealing an odd cube, its corners rounded off. Several of the grey strands connected to the box. “Here’s the big surprise, Doctor,” said Theodore with pride. “The ganglion cluster. It is connected to Thembrodium strands into his cerebral cortex and throughout his nervous system.”

  “To what ends, Doctor?” asked Angkor. “What does this achieve?”

  “If I want to send a low watt signal,” Doctor Gebow explained, “I need a big antenna. With antennae, bigger is always better; the bigger it is, the more sensitive. Conversely, if I want to receive a low watt signal, the same principle applies. A low watt signal needs a large antenna to be received. What has happened here to subject S is: he has a transmitter that uses his body as an antenna. He broadcasted and received using this micro transmitter.”

  “I presented this information to our geneticists with the chemical composition,” Elian said. “During feeding both in vitro and early childhood, we can replicate this process in the heirs. Resulting in…”

  “Telepathy,” answered Angkor.

  “Exactly,” Elian said, “The first generation will be extremely primitive, perhaps reading emotions or tactile sensations. But we believe that within five generations, they will be able to communicate with each other with a simple thought. Perhaps two or three generations beyond that, read other beings’ minds, perhaps even controlling other bodies. A few generations later, telekinetics.”

  “The superior being,” whispered Angkor. “Homo Sapiens’ replacement, Homo Superior.”

  “Exactly, my Khan,” said Elian. “And the sequence will find its way into the population slowly, from the less superior heirs. Eventually, perhaps as few as six or seven thousand years, the whole of our species will have this talent.

  “This is the gateway to your Empire’s rule of a hundred thousand years.”

  Chapter 32

  May 3083 A.D.

  The Kurultai Council was in an uproar!

  The gathering in the great hall of Ulaan Baatar had been guardian of the Mongol Empire for three millennia. In ancient times, the Council would meet around a great fire on the steppe, no one sitting higher than any other, not even the Khan. Eventually, halls of various types were built, each with the basic layout, no one leader seated above another. In 2883 A.D. Soushui Khan from the Oirats had constructed this hall. She had read the stories of the Council meeting on the open steppe and was determined to return to that part of the ancient ways.

  The building was erected on the outskirts of the city. The low walls barely concealed the steppe beyond. The sweeping roof was retractable, so the Council could meet under open skies as their ancestors had. It was closed only on the coldest of nights.

  A great fire pit centered the meeting place. Circling around the pit were simple wooden chairs for the chieftains of the various tribes of Mongolia. As in ancient times, Soushui Khan had decreed, none shall ever be seated above another.

  This night, one hundred chieftains from the greater and lesser tribes, gathered around the fire. Angkor Khan, Headman of the Khalkha and Leader of them all, had come to them with a request.

  Over those centuries, there had been much asked of them, all for the greater good of Mongolia. For the last half century, Tenzing and his son Angkor had asked even more of the Council, always for the greater good of the people of Mongolia and the Terran Empire.

  But this, this struck at the heart of Mongolian traditions, whether those of the Khalkha, Buryat, Oirats or any one of the dozen smaller tribes represented by the Council.

  Tradition demanded at the age of eighteen, the new warriors of the tribe appear before their Council and declare themselves adults and warriors. It would also be the time the Khan would anoint his successor, either Crown Prince or Princess.

  Historically, the Khan presented a single child. On a dozen occasions, twins were presented. In an extraordinary event in the twenty fifth century, a set of triplets became adults on the same day. That Angkor Khan had eight grandchildren claiming their rightful place amongst the warriors of the Empire was unheard of. The Council struggled with the sheer number, but conceded the Khan would be allowed to accept all the heirs as adults in the same ceremony. What they argued was Angkor’s decision to allow the head of the monastery at the Keep to announce the future Khan.

  Seraht, Headsman of the Oirat, was the most vocal. “For three thousand years, the first amongst us has stood before the Council and received our approval before we announced the divinity of the Crown Heir,” he argued. “Even your father presented you to us for approval before he told the world. Now you would have us break this tradition?”

  “My predecessor, the Great Genghis Khan, crowned his son before he presented him to this Council,” responded Angkor. “In times past, it has been clear to all the world who the heir would be before coming to this august body. Always we have placed our faith in the Khutu Khtu, the embodiment of the living Buddha, to guide us. Indeed, my grandchildren have lived their entire lives under the tutelage of Master Nom Ng, Master Bonze of the Keep, recently of the Temple of Angkor wat.

  “Each of these children were designed and created by the very virtues and requirements you, the Kurultai Council, demanded of the new Khan. Each has been forged, by education, meditation and actions in preparation for becoming new leader of this great Empire. We have, all of us, worked so hard and sacrificed so much, to achieve this Empire. Do we decide that our decision twenty years ago is no longer valid? Are we to question the wisdom of the servants we entrusted with this holy task? Do we now render the sacrifice…the very lives sacrificed, for this cause? To throw their lives away for nothing, because we fear to change that which is traditional for that which is best?”

  “My Khan,” stammered Seraht, “our concerns are not about fear…”

  “It is all based on your fear!” thundered Angkor. “You are terrified of losing your place, your position amongst our people. What would they say if they could see you now, the sniveling cowards too frightened of the pathway to the future? Pah! I am through with you. I have come here to announce the decision will be made at the naming ceremony next month. Vote how you will. But if I must, I will pave the road of our Empire’s future with the bones of cowards.”

  June 3083 A.D.

  She and her mate lived here on a tall stone pillar. Most of the year, the hunting was sufficient. But at the start of the hot season, the others would come. They would gather, create a great commotion for many sunrises. Then, they would leave.

  While they were there, the food would come out in abundance. Great piles of garbage would be created; the rodents she, her mate and their young feasted upon would gather and grow fat. They mated and created the hundreds she and her family would need to survive another year.

  The sun had risen. The thermals she would ride began to form. The food would soon be scurrying from their dens to gather trash to feed their young.

  She spread her grey wings and soared into the morning light.

  Angkor wriggled his rump in his saddle.

  “A problem, my Khan?” asked the stable boy.

  “No,” said the Khan, “just getting comfortable.”

  “Of course, my Khan.”

  Angkor gave the stable boy a disapproving glare. His condescending tone annoyed the Khan. True, he didn’t ride near as much as he should. But running an Empire left little time for dalliances such as riding. Still, he had been riding for over seventy years. His bottom hadn’t ever been this uncomfortable. Perhaps he needed a new saddle.

  The other leaders of the tribes, the Oirat, the Buryat and the rest formed with him in the van of the horde. In ancient times, there would be
tens of thousands of warriors following them. But today was a parade, a show for the attendees of the Naadam festival, so there were only a thousand Mongols in this horde.

  Normally, the Khan left this show to the Council to lead. They rotated amongst the headmen for the position of honor. However, the ceremony today would be celebrating the Naming Ceremony of the Khan’s heirs. It would be the first such ceremony in over fifty years, since the current Khan had become a man.

  “My Khan, look.” Seraht, headman of the Oirat pointed. The grey and white Shikra climbed from her home in the stone pylon and winged her way on the hunt. “A good sign.” The other leaders nodded their assent and clapped Angkor on the back, congratulating him for such a potent sign.

  The Khan pulled his sword from his scabbard and raised it high. “Hooo-OOOO!” the horde cried, “Hoooo-OOOO! Hoooo-HOOOO!” On the third cry, Angkor whipped his horse about and galloped through the yurt village surrounding the festival grounds. He led them unerringly through the streets to the pavilion at the center of the temporary city.

  The cries of “Hoooo-HOOOO! Hoooo-HOOOO! Hoooo-HOOOO!” surrounded the horde as they tore through the city as in ancient times. It was a glorious start to the day, horses thundering across the steppe, through the streets, the Khan leading them.

  They gathered on the stage to the cheering crowds, their horses taken away by servants. Angkor swaggered to the edge of the platform, fist on his hips. “I am the Emperor Angkor Khan, son of Tenzing Khan, leader of the Mongol people!” he cried. “Are there any who care to defy me?” His golden robe shone in the sun, the simple crown Sophia had designed still sat proudly on his brow. The crowd answered his challenge with the “Hoooo-HOOOO!” of the Mongol people. Angkor stomped majestically to his simple throne. A mighty clash from a brass gonged silenced the crowd.

  A young Mongol girl, perhaps as old as seven, walked down the aisle formed by the crowd. Her tiny form crossed the vast plaza before the dais wearing the simple clothing of a nomad. She carried a yellow silk pillow with great care. The multitude was silent as she passed, all falling to a knee.

  She positioned herself before the Emperor. “Majesty,” her bird like voice carried across the arena, carried by a concealed microphone, “May I present the Empress, Sophia Marshall?” Angkor removed the silk cloth from the gleaming diadem sitting on the golden pillow. He indicated the throne next to his own. “My Lady,” he said.

  The girl set the pillow on the throne, turning it so the graceful point faced the crowd. She kowtowed to the diadem. In turn, Angkor kowtowed to the small girl. “Thank you, Child,” he whispered to her.

  The spectacle began. Mongols, horsemen of the steppes for centuries, rode in complex patterns on the parade ground before the leaders of Terra. Musicians banged drums, clanged cymbals, blew horns, strummed, stroked and plucked at a variety of stringed instruments.

  A bright spectrum of color splayed across the arena as dancers from around the Empire sang and pranced. The Khan knew many songs and laughed and clapped his hands in time, adding his lusty baritone when a familiar song was sung.

  The ceremony came to a pause. Angkor sprang to his feet and declared, “My friends! Fellow Terrans! Honored members of the Kurultai! Guests and friends from off world! Welcome to our festival. I now declare the Naadam to…”

  “HOLD!”

  The voice was firm, resolved. Angkor smiled proudly. The combined voice of the eight hushed the whole of the assembly as he had hoped.

  The crowd and performers parted as the eight rode down the main venue side by side. Each heir was dressed in a robe similar to Angkor’s, save the colors matched their individual file. Eight powerful chargers carried them, shield in their right hands, a short bow in their left.

  They formed a line at the base of the dais. The boy dressed in black announced, “We are here before our Grandfather and our Grandmother and the whole of the people to claim our position as men and women of the Khalkha tribe and to demand our seats at the warrior’s table!”

  “Men?” roared Angkor. “Women? I see no men or women here! I see children, dressed in adult’s clothes, riding adult’s horses! Begone, go back to your mother and bother us no more.” He girded himself.

  It was a single THUMP! Angkor was not sure where his grandchildren would aim. He had shot between his father’s legs. His grandchildren had outperformed him; a neat circle of arrows had buried themselves in the planks around him.

  Sixteen emerald eyes bored into his. Eight steel barbed war points, aimed at his heart. Each bow arm was straight, unshaking, the bowstrings taught, pulled to the eight cheeks.

  “Who are you?” he demanded. “Who are these men and women demanding my attention?”

  One by one, they lowered their bows and stood high in their stirrups declaring,

  “I am your grandson, Janus Arcadia.”

  “I am your grandson, Keerma Lui.”

  “I am your grandson, Rahnie Lau.”

  “I am your grandson, Pintare Gyn.” “

  I am your granddaughter, Pershma Soi.”

  “I am your granddaughter Gui Ou.”

  “I am your granddaughter, Mea Gehn.”

  “I am your granddaughter, Lily Marshall.”

  “Lily Marshall?” wondered Angkor. No matter, it was her decision. His arms opened. “Welcome grandchildren, though children no more. You are invited to join the warriors at the warrior’s table!

  “But before we breakfast, we have to attend to one more duty.”

  The newly declared men and women mounted the stage and formed a line facing the crowd, arms crossed and chins high.

  “Since ancient times, when the heir achieved his place at the warrior’s table, the Khan would present him to the Kurultai Council for their approval of the new Crown Prince or Princess. Today, we honor the tradition of our ancestors by naming my heir before you, our people and the Kurultai Council for approval. These eight before you were designed and bred to this role even prior to their birth. Each is physically superior, each is astounding in knowledge and morality.

  “Twenty years ago, the Kurultai Council charged the bonzes from the Khmer temple at Angkor wat to create a curriculum to raise my grandchildren to be superior. And, today, these are the finest human beings in existence. It is only right the finest of these eight be named my successor. I call upon the Master bonze of my Keep, Nom Ng, to reveal my successor.”

  The elderly bonze bowed before his old friend and student. For the occasion, he was wearing brilliant marigold robes, with a scarlet sash and a wide brimmed hat matching his red sash. He accepted the sword Angkor proffered. The whole host of priests in the assembly chanted as Ng marched slowly around the eight heirs. The chanting stopped when his raised his hand.

  “My brothers and sisters were charged with making each one of you the Khan. We shouldered this task gratefully, for the order of the Buddha was to achieve enlightenment through perfection. In this, we have succeeded brilliantly! Each of you can become our next great leader. But there is one who stands above, albeit by the slimmest of margins.

  “We have known each of you before you were born. From the time your zygote divided for the first time to this moment, the destiny of the Khan has been set in the stars. We have consulted the Gods and demons, the Erinyes and the Xinhua. We met this morning and arrived at our final decision.”

  He stepped forward and knelt at the feet of the young man wearing blue. He raised the sword and said, “My Khan.”

  His brothers and sisters bowed. The leaders of Terra and the whole of the assembly knelt before the new Crown Prince.

  Janus Arcadia Khan accepted his father’s sword from the bonze, raised it high above his head and uttered his first command. “Rise,” he said.

  Chapter 33

  May 3129

  Dusty roads and fields had existed as early as the seventeenth century A.D. in this part of Occident, further back than when the land was part of the old United States. The country was named for the timeless river, Mississippi, and on Sunda
y the locals still got up early and dressed in their finest before going to church.

  Old Creech arose even earlier. As caretaker of the Duck Crossing Baptist Church, it was up to him to drive the old bus around the parish and pick up the children for Sunday school. Missus Jackson, the Reverend Jackson’s wife, would be waiting for them by eight and would raise holy hell if he didn’t have all the children there on time.

  The bus was a hundred years old if it was a day. Its hydrogen engine rattled and belched, shaking the whole bus. Ancient panels, loosened by a thousand Sunday trips, torn and faded seats repaired hundreds of times by strips of tape and the persistent tap-tap-tap coming from behind the computer module gave the bus character, at least according to the Reverend Jackson.

  Still, every Sunday, Creech climbed into the driver’s seat and enter the start sequence. The bus shuddered and wheezed while the engine turned over. With a loud bang, a blue flame would shoot out of the exhaust pipe. The engine ran unevenly for a few minutes before settling into the uneven purr of an alley cat trying to decide between the moldy cheese and rotted fish carcass it found in the trash bin.

  Creech pushed the gearbox lever, wincing as he did every Sunday when trying to find to forward gear. It clunked into place and he eased onto the dusty road on his rounds.

  His first stop was Wendy Welch, age fourteen. She was a thin girl who sang like a nightingale in the choir. She would lead the other children in hymns as Creech drove about picking them all up.

  “Good morning, Miss Wendy,” he drawled at the pretty girl as she climbed on the bus to take a seat primly in the first seat on the right.

  “Good morning, Mister Creech,” would come her soft reply. “Lovely day.” It could be pouring down rain and the girl would always say it was a lovely day. She would start humming as he drove to the next stop. As the children boarded, she would greet them by name. The bus would pull away and she would start to sing, the children joining in. “The Old Rugged Cross” would be followed by “Jesus Loves the Little Children.”