Wednesday, 1 November 2017

Short Story: For Shits and Battles

‘In real life, the hardest aspect of the battle between good and evil is determining which is which’. This line seemed unnecessarily blurred as I looked down into the valley at the apparently peaceful Loris settlement. The only thing the Loris had apparently done wrong was entertain the other side of this conflict – The Auto-Fae—in some trade concerns, but it wasn’t my job to think and yes, life wasn’t fair, else I wouldn’t be here.

The reason for my continued existence stomped up (Come on, resist that urge to prostrate yourself at his feet) I allowed myself an insubordinate smirk.

There was a squelch as the Saurian Commander Syf Taylon stopped at my side and I lazily glanced down at the mess he had landed his hoof in.

“It’s a fine day for a battle, Earth-meat, is it not?”

“It would be if the place didn’t stink worse than a Largon’s asshole. By the way You are standing in a shite, you fecalescent twat.” The commander was as well versed in modern Earth basic as he was in battle tactics, meaning he was largely ignorant of …everything, especially insults. I often passed my indentured time having fun at his expense.

He looked at me in that lopsided way of his, one green eye rolling independent of the other towards me. His leathery grey cheek twitched, and the spines jutting from his head quivered in puzzlement. “Your words make tiny sense slave, speak plain or speak never!”

I pointed and my master, this porcupine, rhinoceros from hell, looked down. He quivered, this time in rage, his grey hide taking on that telling green tinge that always accompanied inevitable and idiotically rash action.

He bent his leg up, strings of green mucus stretched between ground and hoof. “I will not stand this! This crime must be paid.”

“You mean punished?”

“That’s what I said, are your ears gone? Analyse those leavings, now!”

“I’m pretty sure it’s of Loris origin.” I said, looking nonchalantly at the bovinesque looking pat, not bothering to take out the scanner.

“What are these Loris? Heathen peoples?”

“Would you rather attack only civilized races who use plumbing, sir? If that’s the case we can always pack up and go home.”

“What! And leave unsatisfied, fool! We attack, now!”

“But what about strategy? Loris may have more stomachs than brains, but after trading with Auto-Fae, it is possible they may have some nice hardware behind those quaint castle walls. Perhaps some Blaster Cannons tied to their primitive hooved mits?” smirking as I glance at my commander’s own physiology. "Or worse still, Plasma mortars."

“Even the best Strategy cannot hold back the trickle that is our Saurian battalion,” He announced proudly.

I cringed as he pulled his two ballistic sabres from their ceremonial sheaves, the blades hummed as he raised them over his head. (They were pretty, glowing like twin meteors, giving off a sweet but deadly heat).

I drew my standard (boring) pistol and looked down at it, giving it a resigned and apologetic shrug.

Syf Taylon bellowed, the rest of the Saurian’s lined up until they created a mortar-enticing grey wall. The Loris would have to have their heads up their pat-planting derrieres not to see us coming. If this went badly (which was highly likely at this point) I would have to somehow keep this slug-for-brains commander alive, it was my job after all-- on pain of death -- and I was uncomfortable with both pain and death.

A memory rose up ‘Jeffrey shade, for your crimes or promoting independence, you shall be indentured to the Saurian battalion as bodyguard to Commander Syf Taylon for a time of no less than 15 cycles.’ I pushed it back down. I wasn’t a fan of our great and mighty Galactic Dominion, but even less fond of the enemy Auto-Fae. Both sides desired the galaxy to consist of automatons, the only difference was being whether they were still technically organic or not. At least the Galactic Dominion would allow me to keep my squishy important parts.

The Saurian charge began, I joined the Saurian stampede toward the stone walls and wondered what would happen once we got there. Saurian’s may be hard-headed, but that rock looked harder and slightly denser- which was really saying something.

Hell rained down, as I expected. Auto-Fae Plasma Mortars melted through our Saurian lines
My bodyguard reflexes kicked in. My life was important to me, which unfortunately meant Syf's was too. I reached for him, He shouldered me back, advancing until (thank god) he sprained his fetlock in a varmint burrow.

I half-carried him back struggling through the sea of fleeing and wounded Saurian’s, humming an old Whitney Houston tune, grateful for one thing- that I couldn’t possibly get blamed for this particular shit storm. Could I?