Four Shorts Read online

  Four Shorts

  In Need of Assistance

  Saving the Unicorn

  Faerie Blues

  Trophy Hunting

  By Chris Andrews

  In need of assistance

  T

  he seedship Antario burst out of hyperspace into the Rathor System, its hull bleeding atmosphere. Alarms rang and the ship shuddered. Jezz powered down the aft thrusters and shut off everything but life support and essential systems. The shuddering rapidly eased. He counted to ten, wiped perspiration from his brow and powered up the reverse thrusters. The ship rocked violently with an explosion, knocking the picture of his wife from the console. Power cut out and the bridge fell into total darkness.

  He panicked for a moment, but emergency power engaged and the essential systems came back on. Jezz ran an analysis. The heart of the ship, its core, had cracked. Unless he found a way to slow Antario down, the Krael would vaporise him.

  He shut off the core and rerouted power from the remaining fuel cells. The ship’s lights dimmed and life support failed, but the reverse thrusters powered up again, this time without shuddering. “Thank God,” he muttered.

  Jezz opened communications. “Seedship Antario requesting permission to dock.”

  The translated response came through. “State your business and cargo, Antario.”

  The Krael didn’t like visitors to Rathor. The quarantined planet supplied most of their bio-medical stocks.

  Jezz touched the comm again. “There was a pirate attack on approach to Naporsicus II. I barely got away. I have a cargo of thirty-thousand drop pods, class one; basic Earth organisms.”

  “Again, state your business, Antario.”

  “Arrogant sods,” he muttered. He hit the comm again. “My business is repairs and refuelling. Life support has failed and the core needs replacement. You’re welcome to scan for confirmation.”

  The communication link went quiet. A drip of perspiration ran down Jezz’s cheek. They could turn him away or even kill him and take the ship. No one would know. The Krael were cunning bastards though. He suspected they’d be considering how to acquire his terraforming cargo legitimately: a plethora of restricted lifeforms they could exploit.

  “Seedship Antario, proceed to quarantine platform 3-QR. Coordinates will follow.”

  His console flashed with docking instructions. He wondered what they were planning; how they'd justify stealing his cargo. The cost of repairs, perhaps, with his signature sealing the deal.

  It took two hours to get his limping wreck into orbit. Jezz double-checked his position – fifteen minutes to dock. Barely enough oxygen.

  The planet before him was beautiful. He found the image of his deceased wife on the floor, picked it up and turned it toward the planet. “You always loved seeing a world from space.”

  He turned the image back toward himself, positioning it carefully on the console. “It took me a decade, but this one’s for you, honey.” He activated the ship’s drop sequence. Three thousand pods released and curved toward Rathor's surface. Jezz disengaged the safeguards and rerouted all power to one of his forward thrusters. It blew, the shock rocking the ship. The lights momentarily dimmed.

  The comm system lit up with, but for the moment he ignored it while he rerouted power away from the blown thruster.

  Just one injection would have saved her, if they’d had the money. He’d sold everything, and borrowed all he could, even begged, but it wasn’t enough. And the Krael had the only cure, supplied from the biomeds grown on the world below.

  "Bastards," he muttered at the comm. He opened communications and faked panic. “Seedship Antario requesting assistance! Please respond!” He cut the ship’s communications and blew another thruster for effect. The ship began listing.

  He wondered how long it would take them to figure it out, though he doubted his motivations would ever surface. Perhaps when they discovered he'd hijacked the ship and damaged it himself. Not that it mattered.

  His monitors tracked the canisters falling through the atmosphere. They burst open, scattering bacteria, spores, algae and every other conceivable earth-type micro-organism to the winds, effectively seeding the planet with essential Earth life. On Rathor, the new organisms would raise oxygen levels, modify the climate, and eventually alter the entire ecosystem. The Krael would need centuries to repair the damage, if it were even possible.

  Antario coasted on, only inertia keeping it in orbit now. Jezz closed his eyes and leaned back into his chair, smiling at the memories his wife's lips on his. It wouldn't be long before they vaporised his ship now, he guessed. They'd figure it out soon.

  Surprisingly, a second volley of canisters launched. He leaned back in his chair, his smile widening, at least for a few more seconds.

  Saving the unicorn

  "A

  re you ready?" Master Thearris asked. "We cannot try this twice."

  "I am," Augustine said.

  "Good luck."

  Augustine nodded thanks. "I will succeed." He activated his staff and the world shimmered. Light blazed painfully; when it cleared Augustine stood before a cave mouth — four-thousand years in the past. He gripped his staff and moved into the magic-hewn granite labyrinth, searching memory for the turns leading to the unicorn's cell.

  If Augustine failed, a handful of people would control almost all magic for the remainder of this world's existence. What power he possessed now had been scraped together over thirty years. The power in his staff had taken generations to accumulate.

  To Augustine fell the task of freeing the last unicorn.

  He walked stealthily, cloaked under a stone illusion, blending with the walls. He hoped he had energy enough to see him to the unicorn's prison.

  Perspiring with the effort of silence, Augustine slipped past several guardians holding hefty bronze-tipped spears. He moved close enough to one man to smell his halitosis.

  Outside the unicorn's cell lay her mate's carcass, horn removed, body decomposing. Augustine turned away and swore a heated oath of vengeance, walking around the carcass to the wooden door.

  His illusion gave out. Fully visible now, he slid the bar from the door and pulled it open quietly.

  The unicorn cowered in the corner, its back whipped and bleeding. Her broken horn would grow back in time, but if she remained here it would be removed again and again to control the magic it passed into the world.

  The unicorn trembled, backing further into the corner. Augustine moved in, forcing her out with his presence. She stopped when she saw her mate's body. As he followed her into the antechamber, a voice boomed: "What are you doing?"

  Despite a lifetime of study, Augustine barely understood the question. He looked up.

  A huge spade-bearded warrior approached, spear lowered. Augustine spoke a cantrip, heart hammering. His staff tingled with activated power.

  The warrior closed. Augustine swung his staff, but the man dodged. The momentum carried his staff into the unicorn’s ribs. A cascade of sparks showered the room, blistering Augustine’s hands. He dropped the staff.

  The unicorn screamed and fell, dead, her fur blackened where the staff struck. Augustine stared, horrified. His staff's glow faded. The world blazed.

  Augustine staggered as his master's office re-formed around him — all hint of arcane knowledge and apparatus gone from the shelves and bench. In their place, unusual devices hummed, and coloured lights blinked.

  "Are you listening?" Thearris asked. The master's robes were gone, replaced by a drab short coat. Augustine's own robes had changed to similar garb.

  "What?"

  "I said, we lost the O'Brien contract. The notice just arrived on the fax."

  Augustine put his hands over his face. "Oh no," he said.

  Faerie Blues

  "S

  o what do we do now?” Brin asked, staring at the smartly-dressed faerie they’d locked in Lennie’s rusty old bird cage.

  The honey they’d used to lure the faerie into the trap was all over the creature, sticking its wings down.

  “Shake it,” Lennie said excitedly, reaching for the cage. “Faerie dust doesn’t just come off by itself.”

  Brin pulled the cage aside. “It’s all sticky. We need to clean it up first.”

  The faerie crossed his arms and glared at the pair until Brin got the hose and sprayed him.

  High-pitched squeals answered the drubbing. Afterward, the faerie picked itself up, still glaring, but now both sodden and sticky. It shook itself, one wing eventually coming unstuck, and then the other.

  “We're going to have to wait for it to dry out now,” Lennie said, completely unimpressed. "And it's still a bit sticky. Maybe you should hose it again?"

  The faerie began looking worried.

  "And risk washing all the faerie-dust away?"

  “It'll make more. Go on, hose it. It’s your fault there was too much honey in there anyway.”

  "Maybe we could give it a bath?"

  The faerie looked really worried now. He reached into a pocket and pulled out a phone. After giving it a shake to make sure it wasn't water-logged, he dialed a number.

  Brin and Lennie stared at each other in surprise.

  "Hey, Tink?" the faerie said. "Peter about? There's a couple of snotty-nosed brats that need some time aboard Captain Hook's ship. Great! See you soon."

  Lennie swallowed.

  "Maybe we should let him go now," Brin said, opening the cage door.

  Trophy Hunting

&nbsp
; "I

  can smell his liver cirrhosis from here. Why can't I eat him? I'll be doing the world a favour."

  "The human world maybe, but it won't make any difference to us."

  "Right now I'm hungry enough to suck the blood from a three-day old corpse. What about her then? She smells healthy. She's beautiful. Sexy. She's got it all."

  "Absolutely not."

  "Why? Because she's young and pretty?"

  "Partly."

  "That makes no sense! I can't take a dying alcoholic and I can't have someone young and healthy. Why?"

  "Just keep looking."

  "I've been looking for an hour. You keep saying no."

  "Because you're looking at the wrong things. Try thinking like a trophy hunter."

  "Trophy hunter? Seriously? Why don't you pick someone for me and explain the reasons when I'm sated?"

  "Him then, but you don't get to eat until you can tell me why I chose him."

  "That's unfair!"

  "You want my protection or not?"

  "Fine. Because he's overweight?"

  "Nothing to do with it."

  "He's in his mid-twenties. Is that it? His age?"

  "Partly."

  "I don't know then! Because he has coffee breath? Because he's wearing a wedding ring? Because his blood smells like last week's vegetable soup? Because his hair's receding? Because he's a serial killer who secretly likes knitting with intestines? I don't know! What?"

  "You got one of them right."

  "I did? Which one?"

  "Figure it out or you don't eat. I've already given you a hint."

  "What was the hint?"

  "Trophy hunting."

  "He's hardly a trophy. Average looks, average build, average height. Maybe smarter than he appears, maybe not. What am I looking for?"

  "I used to hunt elephants for their tusks. The bigger the tusks, the better. There are a lot of elephants being born these days without tusks, and that's a problem for trophy hunters."

  "Even if I cared about elephants and tusks and trophies, he's not any of those things! All that stands out about him is that his blood smells like watered-down piss. He'd be my last pick."

  "Exactly! Do you want a world filled with humans like him?"

  "Eww! Of course not."

  "Then you've got to clean the gene pool occasionally. Get to work."

  Thank you for reading this short collection.

  I hope you enjoyed the stories as much as I loved writing them.

  If you have the time, please leave a brief review somewhere, such as Amazon or Goodreads.

  Reviews are one of the best ways to spread the word about stories you've enjoyed.

  You might also like:

  Book 1 of

  The Noramgaell Saga

  Divine Prey

  A Veil of Gods novel

  by Chris Andrews

  You can read the first seven chapters online:

  http://www.chrisandrews.me/divine-prey/

  Divine Prey is available on Amazon

  and through other online retailers.

  Copyright © 2018 by Chris Andrews

  All Rights Reserved

  No Reproduction without Permission

  These short stories are works of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are a product of the author's imagination.

  Any resemblance to people living or dead, events or locations are entirely coincidental.

  Cover layout by Chris Andrews

 

 

  Chris Andrews, Four Shorts

  Thanks for reading the books on GrayCity.Net