“BIRTH OF PHARAOH” CHAPTER 6

“HALIEN-9”

COPYRIGHT 2025. CORINNE DEVIN SULLIVAN. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

The Training of the oldest days of the universe produced the Na’ Halien. Them who served only good and law meant everything to so many trillions of cities in galaxies everywhere. But, then, things fell. I found myself murdered, for real, but then I burst anew in female form and straddled society, attending all the evening-time soirees, meeting all the big names in the interstellar configuration, and not as the prettiest there.

Yes, it’s true how I was once a damsel, for I have lived before, and, as queen, I was actually enjoying myself because I was dictating this particular one special zone.

I found it easy to stay alert while caressing each sleeve of my gown.

I was the queen, complete with the frontal crumpet, and everything else that goes along with that.

One understands the frontal crumpet to be the overgrowth of fat, plus decaying or rotting skin, that crumples from the tip of one’s chin and courses all the way past your bellybutton, and there is no way around it due to the unique configuration of esophagus and neck cords, and things I can’t remember.

That’s how things grew back in those days inside our humble Halien-9 abodes. Lots of cleaning devices and things because, of course, arms and lizards go everywhere, spreading bits of things every minute. Little mosses and termites and wings and things grow out of control in certain environments. If the children weren’t regularly cleaned with very harsh chemicals they would sprout. An entire family fell asleep after partying and found themselves awake confined in strange flowering things from every part of their torsos, extensions of exotic growth from their bodies filled many rooms. They were trapped and died after several weeks together, in agony. 

The frontal crumpet is obnoxious in many ways. It can grow big. There are dangling ornaments or frills accompanying any queen’s presentation to exult everything. I had a team putting things together each afternoon. It was simply a part of life that doesn’t exist anymore.

Gets really noisy when one eats one’s food.

There was a long list of sacrificial requirements fulfilled en masse leading up to any national holidays. That’s how things are put together. Food was huge, and yet “Eating one’s food often includes eating one’s friends,” they say regularly. It was not a saying I myself had penned. For, arriving to the position of Na’ Halien Queen on Halien-9, I was finding myself mentally forced into training—by my own mind! I have inborn sense of rightness, that sort of thing.

I was not big on partaking of that moon’s gourmet meat dishes, but it’s antisocial not to cannibalize if you lived a while there, or if you were a part of any of a particular society. Being the queen, I was meant to participate but I didn’t except for a few times I was forced. For decades and decades, I had nightmares.

“Pardon me if I enjoy my friends’ real-life company,” I had said often, saving lives.

I was queen, raised and bred with the best of them. Inside my eyes, The Training, with its laws and physical practices and its codes repeated over and over again, was my superior course of thought. With The Na’ Halien Training, it is not only disrespectful but also disenchanting to engage in cannibalism—or whoever. There’s an entire lesson in The Training and it was brought home to me in those days. It came flooding into my mind every time a man or child’s head was staring at me from a serving tray.

My basic focus is upon it being best to keep one’s friends alive, as well as engaging in the idea alongside them of them living another day. These types of ideas seem crucial.

They said, of the eaten, that computers can regurgitate any persona, but then I don’t like the person anymore.

Time moved forward. It was the slave homes that erupted first. Both lies and pestilence took out all of the offbeat Na’ Halien royalty. After those times were annihilated, by command personnel across various space stations, I declared, “It is savvy to become a vegetarian since the day one is born,” and that was always a little inside joke sure to get a laugh from people who had been born and lived on Halien-9 with me.

And yet, I diverse my situation and return mentally again to that time, in my strange castle. In those years, the queens talked a lot with one another. Our shoulders were shriveled with non-exertion, and they hunched the opposite way than the human shoulder. Our legs didn’t split until slightly before the knees, or whatever they were thought of midway down the legs. We kept up. We talked, always with each other.

All those glorious days.

Any rate, today I call him Slave because there, up on Halien-9, he made an impression as one. 

I remember the first time we bumped paths. Before that night got started, I watched as he and the others were presented to me at my table. The procession that night was god-awful. Alll the creatures who performed were resentful. Then the slaves were terrible with their irritation. They snarled. I marked the time with my foot.

Tables stretched in front of me. It was true beauty, flowers and frills and all.

The night was lit by old-fashioned lamps that were strung by pure magic from vapor spirits who were brought in just for us, though one of them had a real jin inside. He kept sparking and pranking as the little gold container floated through the halls. The jin was able to be seen in real-life, that was all.

The guards, at meals and parties, followed my law about dietary concerns, but there were also distinguished visitors, off-planet guests from far and wide, and they couldn’t care less. They just hauled in financial contributions of boys and girls to be slaughtered and got started right that night, to the night’s glory, and that was that. I didn’t fight, which was me against The Training, internally. I felt it was best to present to our own “company neutrality” concerning human waste and feeding.

That night, while waiting in the afterglow, I remember the frontal crumpet well because when The Slave launched into the morbid shed where the feast was prepared, he was fairly alive. And I felt constricted, to say the very least, about my personal duties and things that night.

Our meeting happened fairly soon after the well-planned event began. Ever after, I blame that damned physique for my retarded response.

“Look at you,” his voice sneered in the cold night.

Of course, I responded, “I bet you fuck around a lot, don’t you?”

“I tell you something that I do a lot of,” he said, which I remember feeling strange coming from a man who had been presented to thousands, minutes ago, as a heady Slave.

With his words, he launched. His cold blade found my throat and, in a flash, I was done.

Silence.

Air.

The cold wind blew in from the aftermath of the hurry.

Not that I mind being proven a girl, but he really made a show of calling me lazy, too.

The disgusting show over, it was, in the end, how I remembered everything. In the moment of pain, I recalled all the scales and positions and glances that I needed from my old training days, and, frankly, the ordeal helped me in the long run and I don’t mind ever saying it is so.

Now, this is why The Slave doesn’t talk to me anymore: It had been ages since I’d swung a sword by the time we had our awful get-along that night, much less conjured Emerald Team Green—frankly, a lame sort of name but, still, ETG was my latest mirage of war-time mind and matter. It was sort of my collage. It was based upon significant elements of The Training mixed together with pure living feminine-style. It was a collection of stardust and sandstorm wizarding shackles chained together for an entire army if I felt besieged enough to say, as they say, “bring it on”.

ETG was fun.

The more The Slave and his friends clamored for blood, and took it everywhere they found it, the more all the pompous speeches about dignity and friendship and honor—everything else I’d learnt so well as poetry in youth—it all returned, and so I spoke with that in mind. And I was lively every time from that point moving forward, until now, it seems.

“This fighting spirit I contain, well, with it I spit a cold shower of lightning turds up inside the anal chambers of everything storming my regime,” I said to him, close to the sunset of the White Queen’s reign (a dame we both scarcely knew all that much about).

But, in our haste, everything went ka-blamy.

And that, as they often chant in unison in the Ever World, is that.

Oh, life was so awful, then.

I felt so awful.

Everything was gone that I had lived for.

After that, I found out about the Great Lord of All, and I’ve been his man-chump since who, yet, is strong.

It’s sad how often I remember him. Tonight, here on the Bonne Valle Quatra, healing inside a small tube, everything reminds me of everything grand I once did long before I ever locked eyes and mind with the Slave. Of course, I am reminded of whatever happened after that, as well.  

My eyes are sutured shut in order to protect some special nutrient in there.

Hello, again.

I am lost in my memories.

A full month passes inside the medic’s tube.

TO CONTINUE THE ADVENTURE CLICK ON CHAPTER SEVEN: “NYERA IS GONE” FROM THE RENEYT HOMEPAGE!