Sarah was in a rush. She wasn't particularly late but she liked to get things done early. Today she had decided to shop for her oldest grandson's birthday and something for her friend's 40th wedding anniversary. She paused for a moment, if only her marriage had lasted that long. It had finally fallen apart after 23 years, but had been broken for a lot longer. Sarah shook her head then carried on getting ready, this was no time for regrets, beside she had a good life now, many friends, lots of grand children, all sorts of things to keep her occupied.
The aerobics twice a week really helped to keep her in shape, then there was the regular practice sessions at the club. She picked up her purse, pulled on a light jacket and left. Two minutes later she was back, she ran effortlessly up the stairs, picked up her cheque book and jogged back down. Who said we slow down has we get older, she thought to herself. Half way across the hall she saw a shadow approaching the door. It was too late for the milkman, and the postman had already been. Sarah hoped who ever it was wouldn't stay long, she had a full day planned.
The shadow grew larger, suddenly a strange man lurched in through the open door, slamming it shut behind him. A scream died in her throat as the blade of a large knife glinted in the early sunlight. The man was over six feet tall, badly shaven with small brown eyes. He was wearing grey overalls and dirty leather boots with the steel toe-caps showing through. "Aw right, Granny!" the man yelled, "don't panic, I just want to stay 'ere for a bit, 'til the 'eat dies down, know what I mean?"
He winked at her, turned and locked the door, removed the key then dropped it into a ripped pocket. "Anybody else 'ere then? No granddad or home help or nufink?" Sarah tried to swallow, she was absolutely numb with fear, her mind had frozen in dread. She had seen news items often enough, but had always sworn she would give the thugs a good hiding. Now, faced with reality her nerves let her down. Sarah jumped as the man came closer, bending to stare into her face. She reeled as the man's foul breath beat across her face. Every muscle in her body tensed as if expecting a blow. He smiled a leering smile.
"Say, granny, anyone else in the house?" He said it with slow, exaggerated lip movements. "A bit deaf are we? Never mind." Sarah managed to stutter out a soft "no, j-just me." "Don't mind if I 'ave a look do you, naa, course not." His speech was rough and quick, all the words seemed to jumble together, making it sound like "donmin difiavalook dya." The man pushed past leaving a terrible smell of stale sweat and nicotine on her jacket.
Sarah found herself holding her clothes together at the front, hugging them to her as if to provide some kind of protection, like a small child hiding under the sheets. She realised with a start that she had seen rape victims in films do this... that thought was quickly locked away in the back of her mind. Think about something else Sarah, she whispered. The banging of cupboard doors startled her, reflexively the grip tightened. She forced herself to try and do something, anything to get out of here. Her eyes fell on the phone on the hall table. She began to tremble as the adrenalin kicked in. Her heart rate soared, she could feel the blood pumping, thumping in her head. Her body was finely balanced, adrenalin saying "go, go now, pick up the phone, quick, quick before he comes back!" But fear, ever present fear, said "no, don't touch that, don't, he'll catch you and you'll die!" A loud voice made her jump again, this time she let out a short scream. Immediately a massive grimy hand clamped across her mouth, nose and her left eye. She couldn't breath.
Her eye was pulled out of focus. The taste of something bitter was crammed into her mouth. Her mind swirled at this latest onslaught. She fought for breath, for control. The room around her faded, went black.
Sarah was laying down somewhere soft, she could hear voices, men and women talking. She opened her eyes slowly. There seemed to be a ledge at a strange angle on the opposite wall. Things looked familiar yet odd, as though seen from a new viewpoint. Everything came back to her with a start, the man, the knife, she had fainted. The voices made sense to her now, it was the television, she had landed at the bottom of the stairs with her head against the bottom step. The ledge was the lounge door frame. The bastard! she suddenly thought, he's left me where I fell!
A rage built up inside her, this man is getting out of my house. She pulled herself to her feet, checked herself over, no injuries thanks to a thick carpet. Sarah marched into the lounge. The man was sat in her favourite chair with his feet on her coffee table. One thick, dirty toe poked through a woolly sock badly in need of a wash. The smell was overpowering, add foot odour to body odour to bad breath.
Sarah, usually very clean and tidy was even more irritated. But her voice caught in her throat as she tried to speak. The man turned around. "Hello gran, awright are ya? Thought you'd dropped dead for a bit." The man pulled the knife from the arm of the chair and jabbed it back in. The sound of splintering wood could be heard above the sound of the T.V. "I'll just be staying for a while, two or three days that's all."
He turned round suddenly and thrust out his hand, "my names Barry, most people call me Bull, don't know why, hah!" He laughed loudly.
Sarah looked down at the hand, large, dirty, covered in cuts and bruises. There was no way she was shaking that. Her hands clutched nervously at her clothes again, she forced herself to stop. Instead she put them in the pockets of the jacket she was still wearing. Barry looked at her face then back at his hand, "Oh yeah, sorry, I had a bit of bovver, they 'ad me locked up see. Me! wouldn't hurt a fly, flies are awright, now coppers and screws that's anuver story, hah!" His raucous laugh filled the room, making Sarah shudder. Barry turned back to the television.
"Might as well sit down gran, gonna be a long day, don't wanna tire ya self now." He took a deep drink from a wine bottle, dribbling white wine down his chin. "Your phones don't seem to work any more either, and all the doors are locked and I've got the keys." He turned around to look at Sarah, "no trouble from you, no trouble from me, understand?" "Yes, no trouble, I'll do as you ask. I'll just go to my room if you don't mind." Sarah tried to keep the nervous sound out of her voice but ended up sounding like a frightened school girl.
One more reason to hate this...this thug. She reached the top of the stairs practically running, went through her bedroom door and closed it, leaning against it as though it might hold off an army. This was her sanctuary, out of his sight, sound and smell. The sound of footsteps on the stairs suddenly chilled her, another wall in her mental defenses crashed down. Barry looked in the other rooms then forced his way into hers. "Just thought I'd better check this room gran, for anything dangerous ya know, dobermuns and oozies and gun-toting granddads! hah!" He wandered slowly around the room looking under the bed, in the wardrobe, in the pots on her dressing table.
He picked up a pair of tracksuit trousers, "what you need these for then? You couldn't run up a pair'a curt-uns, nevamind a race, hah! Barry looked up at the top of the wardrobe, Sarah's heart missed a beat, which was racing so didn't really mind. He pointed to a box, "what's that then?" The box was about 30 inches long, ten inches square at the ends and had the letters
N.A.S. stencilled on the side. "No, don't tell me, it's...Nitting And...Stuff, right?" "Knitting is spelt with a 'K' actually, but no it isn't..." "I don' care how ya spell it." He leaned right over Sarah, pulling the knife from his belt, "You give me any trouble and you'll be wanting to knit yaself a bullet proof vest, O.K?" he punctuated each word with a tap of the knife blade on her shoulder. Sarah shrunk back further with every tap until she almost fell onto the bed.
She didn't know how long she sat on the edge of her bed. He had been to raid the wine rack in the kitchen at least four times, once dropping something. The crashing of the glass seemed symbolic of the state of her nerves. It had got dark at some time, somehow the darkness fitted in with the situation. The dull orange glow of a lamp-post shining through her window had made her think of the neighbours. They kept pretty much to themselves mostly, but someone may have seen something. Perhaps they had, perhaps even now armed police dressed in black with their hats on back-to-front lay in wait. One twitch of the curtain, one show of his ugly face and bang! It would ruin the carpet of course, but she could afford a new one.
Sarah was amazed at this turn of her mind to practicalities, slightly sickened by how quickly one comes to accept violence as an everyday item. But it had made her mind up, an English woman's home is her castle! It was high time she made a stand. Eventually the sound of snoring rose up through the floor, mixing with the sounds of some television thriller. Sarah stood quietly, still clutching the jacket she had been wearing all day. She forced her hands to relax, reaching up for the box on top of the wardrobe. This was going to be her anchor, her life line to sanity and safety.
As quickly as she could Sarah worked, nimble fingers assembling the familiar parts by the dull light of the lamp post. When she had finished she put the box back exactly as it had been. She pulled the quilt back over the bed, checking to see if anything showed. When she was satisfied all was smooth she sat down in the dresser chair to wait. Sarah awoke with a start, a faint noise getting closer rousing her from a light sleep. Suddenly she knew what the noise was. Before she could react there was a loud crash from downstairs followed by several bottles smashing. A loud roar joined the other sounds, shaking her brain. Sarah grabbed the quilt, flung it off the bed and fumbled with what lay underneath. Loud stamps thundered on the stairs, the sound of the siren screeched in her head, closer, ever closer. He tripped at the top of the stairs, still a little drunk.
He was shouting, swearing, promising vengeance. She fumbled, her hands sweaty, she dropped the most important part. The siren was outside the house, inside the house, echoing in her head. The roar a continuous roar. The bedroom door shattered open. A waft of sickly odours and vapours washed over her, turning her stomach. The man stood for a second regaining his balance, catching his breath. The knife glinted in the orange light from the street as he stepped through the remains of the door.
Sarah was angry. Very angry, he had wrecked her home, polluted it with his filth. Then he had the nerve to come into her own room and threaten her. She let the anger rise, so far but not too far. Something at the back of her mind took over, some inner strength, feet shoulder width apart, relaxed arms, breath in... A strange twanging sound slipped through the cacophony, closely followed by a dull thud.
"I'm gonna rip..." The thug's words were cut off as a searing bolt of pain pierced his chest. The burning agony drove deep, sending shock waves of heat through his whole rib cage. He looked down towards the pain, but his small brain couldn't grasp what he saw. To him it looked like an arrow! He looked to Sarah for help. She stood in the semi-darkness still holding the take-apart composite bow. She walked slowly towards him as he retreated backwards onto the landing, stopping a few feet away as he slumped against the stair rail. Slowly she spoke three words, "Northwood Archery Society." He slipped to the carpet as the siren faded into the dawn.
- Copyright Steve Dean
Showing posts with label Short Stories. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Short Stories. Show all posts
The Other Four
A wasp the size of a person's fist buzzed noisily across a patchy grey sky. It didn't notice itself being observed from below by an alien creature. Julia wouldn't have thought of herself as an alien, but she certainly wasn't a native of this planet. Neither was in any danger from the other, Julia was there to observe and catalogue, the wasp was there to collect nectar and had no sting. The wasp disappeared out of site as all five feet ten of Julia rose from the thick carpet of greenish leaves. Looking around she could see fevered activity in all directions. Insects of every kind leaped from flower to flower grasping at the nectar, small furry things chased around stuffing enormous cheeks with anything remotely edible. Night was coming and all must prepare.
Julia walked calmly back towards the bubble she called home. The bubble was tethered by a small stream a few miles away. Julia had lived in the bubble on and off for several years. It wasn't always here of course, and wouldn't be for much longer. Her duty tour as cartographer and biologist almost up, she was due to be picked up and taken back to the main settlement half a continent away. The Sun was already low in the sky, but wouldn't set for several days yet. A "day" on this planet was about 53 earth days long, about half of which was actually dark. She skipped down a boulder strewn slope to the bubble, low gravity and her muscular physique made easy work of it. A small hatch on one side of the bubble opened as she approached, she climbed in and it closed behind her.
Although it was bubble shaped it was actually very tough and air tight to several atmospheres. Inside it was exactly the same temperature as the outside, but without the cooling breeze. Julia stripped off a layer of clothing, tied back her long black hair and sat on a small stool beside her small comms unit. After a while it spoke in a soft voice," You have one message...'pick-up delayed, tropical storms over main base'...message ends".
Julia looked out of the bubble towards the coming night. A cold shiver ran down her back. Her hands slowly clenched until her nails dug into her palms. Her voice was quiet and wavering as she spoke, "oh great! Just get here before dark will you." * * *
Laying on the bed looking up into the cloudy sky, Julia saw movement out of her left eye, but when she turned to look it seemed to move with her. She lay as still as she could and pretended to close her eyes. A black shape like a hand crept slowly up the side of the bubble. When she opened her eyes fully it vanished, as though it had never been. Julia tried to settle down to sleep again. A few moments later there came a tapping sound from somewhere above. Opening her eyes slowly she caught site of a black star shape darting away into the vegetation. She was intrigued, and although good sense put in an appearance it quickly left. She rolled slowly off her bed and padded across to the hatch. There was a slight pop as it opened, with the usual rush of scented blooms. Their perfume was very strong today, almost intoxicating. Quietly she stepped on to the flat rock that was her doorstep, senses alert for any sight or sound.
Her eyes locked on to the place where the black star had gone, she crept slowly forward. The star had disappeared into a thick prickly bush with feathery leafs. Carefully Julia pulled a couple of the branches apart and peered in. At first she saw nothing, then the black thing was there in front of her. It did look like a hand, not so much black, more a patch of void.
The hand began to grow and swell, pushing aside the undergrowth, crushing it like match wood. Julia quickly stepped back, suddenly afraid, but the hand followed getting bigger and wider as it came. She could now see shapes within the black, swirling masses of darkness, solid writhing creatures made from shadow itself. She turned and ran towards the bubble, stumbling in her mad dash to safety. But the hand grabbed her as she fought to stay on her feet, wrapping its cold dark fingers around her naked body. All sound ceased, her mind seemed to fill with a pulsing black emptiness. The palm of the hand started to sweat against her back, a sticky repulsive wetness. The fingers pressed cold against her chest and stomach, far colder than she had ever felt before, the coldness of space. The index finger began to move up her neck towards her mouth. She tried to scream, but nothing came out. The breath was being crushed from her body. The tip of the finger forced itself against her face. A great rush of panic crashed through her as her senses failed. Her arms and legs thrashed wildly, death throes of an endangered soul. Again she opened her mouth to scream for help, but the dark void of the finger flowed between her teeth and began to pour into her throat. She choked, heaved; her body went into spasms.
- Copyright Steve Dean
Julia walked calmly back towards the bubble she called home. The bubble was tethered by a small stream a few miles away. Julia had lived in the bubble on and off for several years. It wasn't always here of course, and wouldn't be for much longer. Her duty tour as cartographer and biologist almost up, she was due to be picked up and taken back to the main settlement half a continent away. The Sun was already low in the sky, but wouldn't set for several days yet. A "day" on this planet was about 53 earth days long, about half of which was actually dark. She skipped down a boulder strewn slope to the bubble, low gravity and her muscular physique made easy work of it. A small hatch on one side of the bubble opened as she approached, she climbed in and it closed behind her.
Although it was bubble shaped it was actually very tough and air tight to several atmospheres. Inside it was exactly the same temperature as the outside, but without the cooling breeze. Julia stripped off a layer of clothing, tied back her long black hair and sat on a small stool beside her small comms unit. After a while it spoke in a soft voice," You have one message...'pick-up delayed, tropical storms over main base'...message ends".
Julia looked out of the bubble towards the coming night. A cold shiver ran down her back. Her hands slowly clenched until her nails dug into her palms. Her voice was quiet and wavering as she spoke, "oh great! Just get here before dark will you." * * *
Laying on the bed looking up into the cloudy sky, Julia saw movement out of her left eye, but when she turned to look it seemed to move with her. She lay as still as she could and pretended to close her eyes. A black shape like a hand crept slowly up the side of the bubble. When she opened her eyes fully it vanished, as though it had never been. Julia tried to settle down to sleep again. A few moments later there came a tapping sound from somewhere above. Opening her eyes slowly she caught site of a black star shape darting away into the vegetation. She was intrigued, and although good sense put in an appearance it quickly left. She rolled slowly off her bed and padded across to the hatch. There was a slight pop as it opened, with the usual rush of scented blooms. Their perfume was very strong today, almost intoxicating. Quietly she stepped on to the flat rock that was her doorstep, senses alert for any sight or sound.
Her eyes locked on to the place where the black star had gone, she crept slowly forward. The star had disappeared into a thick prickly bush with feathery leafs. Carefully Julia pulled a couple of the branches apart and peered in. At first she saw nothing, then the black thing was there in front of her. It did look like a hand, not so much black, more a patch of void.
The hand began to grow and swell, pushing aside the undergrowth, crushing it like match wood. Julia quickly stepped back, suddenly afraid, but the hand followed getting bigger and wider as it came. She could now see shapes within the black, swirling masses of darkness, solid writhing creatures made from shadow itself. She turned and ran towards the bubble, stumbling in her mad dash to safety. But the hand grabbed her as she fought to stay on her feet, wrapping its cold dark fingers around her naked body. All sound ceased, her mind seemed to fill with a pulsing black emptiness. The palm of the hand started to sweat against her back, a sticky repulsive wetness. The fingers pressed cold against her chest and stomach, far colder than she had ever felt before, the coldness of space. The index finger began to move up her neck towards her mouth. She tried to scream, but nothing came out. The breath was being crushed from her body. The tip of the finger forced itself against her face. A great rush of panic crashed through her as her senses failed. Her arms and legs thrashed wildly, death throes of an endangered soul. Again she opened her mouth to scream for help, but the dark void of the finger flowed between her teeth and began to pour into her throat. She choked, heaved; her body went into spasms.
- Copyright Steve Dean
The Idiot Stick
The light streaming in through the open door at the front of the cave woke the boy. After several hours of trying to sleep, with every little noise startling him, he had finally dozed off. The mage CulluC walked in through the door and slammed it shut behind him, he wasn't in a good mood. Last night CulluC had attempted a very difficult spell, it was Phlay's inexperience that had ruined the spell and the mage wasn't going to forget.
"Wake up flea! drag your self out of your pit, we've got work to do." CulluC strode up to the rickety cot and kicked it, setting it creaking from side to side. The boy pulled the thin blanket over his head and mumbled "It's Phlay not flea". The wizard, who had turned away shouted over his shoulder,"Did you say something, boy!".
"No master, just clearing my throat". CulluC disappeared into his quarters behind a crude wooden wall opposite his dark corner. Phlay had never been in that part of the cave, he wasn't allowed. That was one thing CulluC had stressed when he had first arrived here, but since the wizard had changed he wouldn't dare anyway.
Although he was very tired he managed to get out of bed and get dressed fairly quickly. He was just ready when CulluC emerged, "Right boy, go down to the stream and fetch me some cold water.
o...you...understand? Not warm from the puddles, cold from the bottom of the stream. Is that simple enough for you?" With those few quick instructions he hit Phlay on the head, pushed a leather bucket into his arms, put one hand on his head and guided him out of the door. The door slammed shut behind him. Phlay tottered back up the hill a few minutes later with the heavy bucket sloshing icy water down his leg.
Glancing at the sun to check the time, a memory suddenly appeared in his head and he was taken back to his first days here as CulluC's apprentice.
"Now young man", CulluC had said."Your father is a farmer, right?" Phlay nodded in agreement, he was still too awe struck to speak much. Imagine, him little Phlay being trained to be a wizard of all things.
"So he needs to know the seasons so he can plant his crops, do you see?" Phlay nodded eagerly. "But", CulluC held up a finger for dramatic effect. "The seasons take weeks to change, see? Then again there are Blacksmiths, when it's light they get up, when it's dark they go to bed. They don't care what season it is, just as long as people bring in the horses and what not." CulluC leaned closer to Phlay and whispered "But me and thee, my little flea, need to know the time you see?" CulluC straightened up and laughed a jolly laugh.
"It's the magic you see, no good just boiling a cauldron full of stuff till it tastes right, like your mum's stew. We've got to know how long it's been there. Not only that, but what time of day or night as well." He suddenly looked Phlay straight in the eye, "How do you know it's midnight?" Phlay looked at his boots until CulluC ruffled his hair, "Don't worry yourself my little flea, all will become clear" and he tapped the side of his nose, a huge grin on his face.
CulluC had been so kind at first. Not now though, not since he came home from one of his trips wearing that ring. Phlay shivered, not only from the cold.
"About time too!" shouted CulluC as he fumbled the door open. He snatched the now half empty bucket out of Phlay's hand and carried it to the workbench, gruffly he shouted "Go cut some firewood, no, go cut lots of firewood, big thick pieces." Phlay lifted the heavy axe from its place by the door and left without saying a word. Chopping wood wasn't exactly easy but it kept him out of the cave for a while.
The nearest trees of any size, apart from the old Hazel that grew up one side of the cave, were quite a distance away. A dark wood grew at the top of the long valley. To reach the cave from the west meant passing through this thick tangle of trees, very few bothered. Phlay stopped on the edge of the wood and looked around. He kept telling himself he was a wizard, the things hiding in the gloom should be afraid of him, not the other way around.
He got to work quickly, hacking at a tree he had felled a few days ago. Phlay was a pretty skilled axeman for his years and soon had a large pile of logs without too much trouble. Of course ,thought Phlay, CulluC could have cut twice as much in half the time with a spell, but he didn't do menial work these days. At least getting the wood up the hill was no problem, his master had taught him a few things, fairly simple stuff but they made his life easier.
Phlay pulled a long feather from his inside pocket. Then he looked around for some kind of crawling insect. He pulled some bark away from one of the logs, underneath were several fat, white grubs. Holding the feather in one hand, the grub in the other he began to chant. As the last syllable of the chant left his tongue he flicked the grub into the log pile with the feather. A tiny streak of yellow light flashed briefly behind the grub which disappeared between the logs. A second or two later the logs began to move, shaking at first then rising up like a long snake. Phlay concentrated on forming a picture of the cave in his mind, then he issued a command to the log snake, "Home!"
One by one the lengths of wood joined nose to tail as the leader slithered up the hill. Phlay walked proudly beside the strange beast, this was easily the largest amount of wood he had ever managed to move in one go. Phlay opened the cave door and began shepherding the wood towards the fire place. On hearing the noise CulluC turned from his workbench. He suddenly stood up, knocking his stool over. He shouted something and pointed his finger at the head of the wooden snake.
A bolt of blue lightening blasted from his finger and smashed the first four logs to kindling. Phlay stumbled back against the door in fright, scattering the now lifeless logs. The mage stormed up to Phlay and grabbed his arms. The grip was so tight Phlay cried out, but CulluC didn't seem to hear. "I...!" CulluC's face was a mask of anger, his eyes burning with some inner fire, "...am the mage around here, until I say you are ready, you can keep what you have learned inside your thick skull! Understand!"
"Y...Yes, master, but I am supposed to be your apprentice".
"Apprentice! You are nothing but an idle, butterfingered feather brained simpleton! A flea sent to torment me! Why I ever chose you I'll never know, I'd send you back to your family but they wouldn't want you!" Phlay felt a hot tear roll down his cheek, before he could stop himself he had shouted out, "At least I have a family, not even a dog would stay around you for long!" CulluC threw Phlay to the ground, his staff flew to his hand as he lifted his arm, but instead of striking, he stopped as if in thought.
"Let's see how you get on as a dog shall we." CulluC laughed loudly as he tapped Phlay's hands. Slowly Phlay lowered the hands he had held over his head for protection. He felt them tingle and itch, then grow hot. His finger bones began to writhe and crack, becoming shorter and wider, sending waves of pain along his wrists. He stared at his hands in horror as they blackened and shrank, looked on in terror as short claws sprouted from the tip of each finger. Phlay found himself unable to look away, for now instead of hands he had paws!
- Copyright Steve Dean
"Wake up flea! drag your self out of your pit, we've got work to do." CulluC strode up to the rickety cot and kicked it, setting it creaking from side to side. The boy pulled the thin blanket over his head and mumbled "It's Phlay not flea". The wizard, who had turned away shouted over his shoulder,"Did you say something, boy!".
"No master, just clearing my throat". CulluC disappeared into his quarters behind a crude wooden wall opposite his dark corner. Phlay had never been in that part of the cave, he wasn't allowed. That was one thing CulluC had stressed when he had first arrived here, but since the wizard had changed he wouldn't dare anyway.
Although he was very tired he managed to get out of bed and get dressed fairly quickly. He was just ready when CulluC emerged, "Right boy, go down to the stream and fetch me some cold water.
o...you...understand? Not warm from the puddles, cold from the bottom of the stream. Is that simple enough for you?" With those few quick instructions he hit Phlay on the head, pushed a leather bucket into his arms, put one hand on his head and guided him out of the door. The door slammed shut behind him. Phlay tottered back up the hill a few minutes later with the heavy bucket sloshing icy water down his leg.
Glancing at the sun to check the time, a memory suddenly appeared in his head and he was taken back to his first days here as CulluC's apprentice.
"Now young man", CulluC had said."Your father is a farmer, right?" Phlay nodded in agreement, he was still too awe struck to speak much. Imagine, him little Phlay being trained to be a wizard of all things.
"So he needs to know the seasons so he can plant his crops, do you see?" Phlay nodded eagerly. "But", CulluC held up a finger for dramatic effect. "The seasons take weeks to change, see? Then again there are Blacksmiths, when it's light they get up, when it's dark they go to bed. They don't care what season it is, just as long as people bring in the horses and what not." CulluC leaned closer to Phlay and whispered "But me and thee, my little flea, need to know the time you see?" CulluC straightened up and laughed a jolly laugh.
"It's the magic you see, no good just boiling a cauldron full of stuff till it tastes right, like your mum's stew. We've got to know how long it's been there. Not only that, but what time of day or night as well." He suddenly looked Phlay straight in the eye, "How do you know it's midnight?" Phlay looked at his boots until CulluC ruffled his hair, "Don't worry yourself my little flea, all will become clear" and he tapped the side of his nose, a huge grin on his face.
CulluC had been so kind at first. Not now though, not since he came home from one of his trips wearing that ring. Phlay shivered, not only from the cold.
"About time too!" shouted CulluC as he fumbled the door open. He snatched the now half empty bucket out of Phlay's hand and carried it to the workbench, gruffly he shouted "Go cut some firewood, no, go cut lots of firewood, big thick pieces." Phlay lifted the heavy axe from its place by the door and left without saying a word. Chopping wood wasn't exactly easy but it kept him out of the cave for a while.
The nearest trees of any size, apart from the old Hazel that grew up one side of the cave, were quite a distance away. A dark wood grew at the top of the long valley. To reach the cave from the west meant passing through this thick tangle of trees, very few bothered. Phlay stopped on the edge of the wood and looked around. He kept telling himself he was a wizard, the things hiding in the gloom should be afraid of him, not the other way around.
He got to work quickly, hacking at a tree he had felled a few days ago. Phlay was a pretty skilled axeman for his years and soon had a large pile of logs without too much trouble. Of course ,thought Phlay, CulluC could have cut twice as much in half the time with a spell, but he didn't do menial work these days. At least getting the wood up the hill was no problem, his master had taught him a few things, fairly simple stuff but they made his life easier.
Phlay pulled a long feather from his inside pocket. Then he looked around for some kind of crawling insect. He pulled some bark away from one of the logs, underneath were several fat, white grubs. Holding the feather in one hand, the grub in the other he began to chant. As the last syllable of the chant left his tongue he flicked the grub into the log pile with the feather. A tiny streak of yellow light flashed briefly behind the grub which disappeared between the logs. A second or two later the logs began to move, shaking at first then rising up like a long snake. Phlay concentrated on forming a picture of the cave in his mind, then he issued a command to the log snake, "Home!"
One by one the lengths of wood joined nose to tail as the leader slithered up the hill. Phlay walked proudly beside the strange beast, this was easily the largest amount of wood he had ever managed to move in one go. Phlay opened the cave door and began shepherding the wood towards the fire place. On hearing the noise CulluC turned from his workbench. He suddenly stood up, knocking his stool over. He shouted something and pointed his finger at the head of the wooden snake.
A bolt of blue lightening blasted from his finger and smashed the first four logs to kindling. Phlay stumbled back against the door in fright, scattering the now lifeless logs. The mage stormed up to Phlay and grabbed his arms. The grip was so tight Phlay cried out, but CulluC didn't seem to hear. "I...!" CulluC's face was a mask of anger, his eyes burning with some inner fire, "...am the mage around here, until I say you are ready, you can keep what you have learned inside your thick skull! Understand!"
"Y...Yes, master, but I am supposed to be your apprentice".
"Apprentice! You are nothing but an idle, butterfingered feather brained simpleton! A flea sent to torment me! Why I ever chose you I'll never know, I'd send you back to your family but they wouldn't want you!" Phlay felt a hot tear roll down his cheek, before he could stop himself he had shouted out, "At least I have a family, not even a dog would stay around you for long!" CulluC threw Phlay to the ground, his staff flew to his hand as he lifted his arm, but instead of striking, he stopped as if in thought.
"Let's see how you get on as a dog shall we." CulluC laughed loudly as he tapped Phlay's hands. Slowly Phlay lowered the hands he had held over his head for protection. He felt them tingle and itch, then grow hot. His finger bones began to writhe and crack, becoming shorter and wider, sending waves of pain along his wrists. He stared at his hands in horror as they blackened and shrank, looked on in terror as short claws sprouted from the tip of each finger. Phlay found himself unable to look away, for now instead of hands he had paws!
- Copyright Steve Dean
The Green Belt
"There! what was that? No, back a bit, bit more, there!" Two tall figures peered into a small stone bowl half filled with amber liquid. The man was pointing at an image which seemed to float just above the surface.
"No, no good, sorry! Thought we had something then, snake skin armour and a bent stick are no good for what we need."
The woman sighed "This could take weeks at the rate we're going." She rubbed her fingers across a line of polished stones set into the side of the bowl and the image moved on.
"Let's take a bit of a breather shall we," said the man hopefully, "We've been at this for hours."
"No, not just yet, we'll try a bit longer, his majesty wouldn't like it if we failed him."
"We haven't let him down yet, have we? Anyway what gratitude does he give us, ay? None that's what! Not even a thank you note or a bunch of chrysanthanumanums."
"Yes dear, but it's not just for him this time is it? The whole town has been challenged and it's up to us to provide a champion."
"And that's another thing." The tall figure stood up straight, pushed his long wavy hair out of his face and began pacing the darkened room.
Where is the mighty Thaw Axe, defender of the Gods, right hand man to kings, etc. Off galivanting I'll be bound. When did you and me get to vant our gallis ay? A long time ago, that's when."
"Wedgil do stop pacing dear, you'll ruin the glyphs, let's just get this out of the way shall we." She gave the man a sweet smile.
"Yes my little kumquat, you're right as usual." Wedgil assumed a martyred expression. "Let's get on with it."
"He's at it again dear, making those funny noises in the conservatory, I can hear him from here with the window open, I wish that woman at number twenty seven would cut that tree down a bit, I could see him properly then." From the back of the room the sound of knitting needles stopped.
"I wish you would come away from that window Kenneth, I dread to think what the neighbours are making of it. They can see you, you know."
"I'm not doing any harm dear, I am just a naturally curious individual," Kenneth pushed his glasses further up his nose, looked wistfully towards the ceiling and declared, "I care for my fellow man."
"Yes dear, that's all very well, but do you have to use those step ladders in the house?"
Kenneth ignored the last comment and carried on, "He seems to be wearing some kind of white suit, and he keeps throwing his hands in the air and shouting, you don't think it could be that American bunch, the Du Lux Clan, or whatever they are called?" The sound of knitting needles started up again, "Aren't they the ones who paint themselves white and wear silly hats?"
"No dear, you're thinking of the Masons."
"What, Audrey and Cyril Mason from the corner shop? Well I never did!"
"No dear."
"Perhaps if we adjust the seaweed a bit we can get a narrower search pattern, what do think, Pol?"
"It's worth a try, but we're straining the goat's bladder as it is, if that goes we'll be out of action for hours."
"We'll just have to risk it, that's seven of those funny green men in half an hour, did you see those little metal tubes they had? What use would they be against a sodding great man- mountain?"
"Well Wedg, if we don't summon a warrior soon it's the end of the road for us and everybody in town, we just lose by default if we don't even field a champion." Wedgil scowled, then forcefully grabbed the seaweed and began squeezing. The image in the bowl started to whirl, the water began to steam slightly under the increased magical field.
"Careful Wedg, not too fast, things are hotting up. There what was that?" Poleyela pointed into the image suddenly, catching Wedgil off balance, he stumbled, reaching out a hand to steady himself his fingernails brushed against the internal organ of a sheep like animal, which immediately began to leak a blue liquid.
"Oh no! Quick activate the catcher," Pol yelled in a rather shrill voice. Wedgil hesitated for a moment then stamped down on a wooden peddle beneath the plinth, which, via a thin piece of catgut, released a mauve powder into the air above the liquid.
A moment's silence was followed by a thunderous crash. About 8 cubits away on a raised platform a ring of red fire had leapt up then dropped back to a steady blue flame.
"Right. That's that then, let's wait and see what we get."
"Got, see what we have GOT," corrected Pol.
"Yes, sorry this instantaneous calling always gets me confused." Wedgil looked at Poleyela and slapped his hands against his stout belly. "Shall we go out for lunch or eat here?
I've heard there's a pretty good Greek restaurant near the market."
"Yes, that sounds good, a nice skin of wine as well, we need to relax." Wedgil grinned, "I should marry you one day you know, you think just like me." Poleyela smiled wisely, took his arm and together they walked out of the Lab.
"Look left, one two, turn head right one two, forward... damn! Always forget the Tettsui Uchi, start again...". Stuart Bramley was practising the ancient art of Shotokan Karate. Sometimes he would practise the art on the lawn, turning his body into a steel killing machine, but today it was raining so he was in the conservatory. There wasn't a lot of room, what with the wicker effect plastic furniture and the banana plant, but it was better than getting his pure white, immaculately ironed Karate suit, or 'Gi', dirty. Sometimes he would pretend to be Bruce Lee (who actually did Kung Fu, but hell, it was his fantasy) kicking and chopping in a way that would have sent his wife into hysterics.
He was a slightly built man, with thining hair, a rather weak moustache his wife made him grow, large feet and no dress sense. Today he was serious, Saturday was gradings day, the day he went from green belt to purple, if he practised enough. He was just about to execute a rather tricky Hiza Geri Uchi with Kiai when he suddenly smelt burning. Looking down he saw a thin flame run in a circle around him, the tiled floor of the conservatory turned into a stone one covered in strange symbols. As the sound and everything around him faded away, he thought he heard a rather piercing voice shout "Kenneth! Put that camera down!"
It wasn't as if it was particularly horrible being mentally ill, it was just, well, disappointing. Melanie will be so upset when she finds out, he thought. He knew he wasn't dreaming because he hadn't been asleep. He had come to the conclusion that the last Kiai or shout he did had ruptured a blood vessel in his brain causing a temporary, he hoped, mental episode. How else could you account for suddenly being ripped from the safety of one,s own conservatory and being sent hurtling through a dark void?
Stuart practised a few Mawashi Geris then sat down on the surprisingly warm floor. Perhaps I ought to make the most of it he thought, Melanie always said that he needed to broaden his horizons, Wargaming and Karate are not the only things in life she would say, frequently. "Well, new experiences broaden the mind, so here I go, if only in a metaphysical sense." He said out loud.
What felt like several hours later he was woken by the sound of strange voices, he didn't know the language but he knew they were drunk, that translates every time.
- Copyright Steve Dean
"No, no good, sorry! Thought we had something then, snake skin armour and a bent stick are no good for what we need."
The woman sighed "This could take weeks at the rate we're going." She rubbed her fingers across a line of polished stones set into the side of the bowl and the image moved on.
"Let's take a bit of a breather shall we," said the man hopefully, "We've been at this for hours."
"No, not just yet, we'll try a bit longer, his majesty wouldn't like it if we failed him."
"We haven't let him down yet, have we? Anyway what gratitude does he give us, ay? None that's what! Not even a thank you note or a bunch of chrysanthanumanums."
"Yes dear, but it's not just for him this time is it? The whole town has been challenged and it's up to us to provide a champion."
"And that's another thing." The tall figure stood up straight, pushed his long wavy hair out of his face and began pacing the darkened room.
Where is the mighty Thaw Axe, defender of the Gods, right hand man to kings, etc. Off galivanting I'll be bound. When did you and me get to vant our gallis ay? A long time ago, that's when."
"Wedgil do stop pacing dear, you'll ruin the glyphs, let's just get this out of the way shall we." She gave the man a sweet smile.
"Yes my little kumquat, you're right as usual." Wedgil assumed a martyred expression. "Let's get on with it."
"He's at it again dear, making those funny noises in the conservatory, I can hear him from here with the window open, I wish that woman at number twenty seven would cut that tree down a bit, I could see him properly then." From the back of the room the sound of knitting needles stopped.
"I wish you would come away from that window Kenneth, I dread to think what the neighbours are making of it. They can see you, you know."
"I'm not doing any harm dear, I am just a naturally curious individual," Kenneth pushed his glasses further up his nose, looked wistfully towards the ceiling and declared, "I care for my fellow man."
"Yes dear, that's all very well, but do you have to use those step ladders in the house?"
Kenneth ignored the last comment and carried on, "He seems to be wearing some kind of white suit, and he keeps throwing his hands in the air and shouting, you don't think it could be that American bunch, the Du Lux Clan, or whatever they are called?" The sound of knitting needles started up again, "Aren't they the ones who paint themselves white and wear silly hats?"
"No dear, you're thinking of the Masons."
"What, Audrey and Cyril Mason from the corner shop? Well I never did!"
"No dear."
"Perhaps if we adjust the seaweed a bit we can get a narrower search pattern, what do think, Pol?"
"It's worth a try, but we're straining the goat's bladder as it is, if that goes we'll be out of action for hours."
"We'll just have to risk it, that's seven of those funny green men in half an hour, did you see those little metal tubes they had? What use would they be against a sodding great man- mountain?"
"Well Wedg, if we don't summon a warrior soon it's the end of the road for us and everybody in town, we just lose by default if we don't even field a champion." Wedgil scowled, then forcefully grabbed the seaweed and began squeezing. The image in the bowl started to whirl, the water began to steam slightly under the increased magical field.
"Careful Wedg, not too fast, things are hotting up. There what was that?" Poleyela pointed into the image suddenly, catching Wedgil off balance, he stumbled, reaching out a hand to steady himself his fingernails brushed against the internal organ of a sheep like animal, which immediately began to leak a blue liquid.
"Oh no! Quick activate the catcher," Pol yelled in a rather shrill voice. Wedgil hesitated for a moment then stamped down on a wooden peddle beneath the plinth, which, via a thin piece of catgut, released a mauve powder into the air above the liquid.
A moment's silence was followed by a thunderous crash. About 8 cubits away on a raised platform a ring of red fire had leapt up then dropped back to a steady blue flame.
"Right. That's that then, let's wait and see what we get."
"Got, see what we have GOT," corrected Pol.
"Yes, sorry this instantaneous calling always gets me confused." Wedgil looked at Poleyela and slapped his hands against his stout belly. "Shall we go out for lunch or eat here?
I've heard there's a pretty good Greek restaurant near the market."
"Yes, that sounds good, a nice skin of wine as well, we need to relax." Wedgil grinned, "I should marry you one day you know, you think just like me." Poleyela smiled wisely, took his arm and together they walked out of the Lab.
"Look left, one two, turn head right one two, forward... damn! Always forget the Tettsui Uchi, start again...". Stuart Bramley was practising the ancient art of Shotokan Karate. Sometimes he would practise the art on the lawn, turning his body into a steel killing machine, but today it was raining so he was in the conservatory. There wasn't a lot of room, what with the wicker effect plastic furniture and the banana plant, but it was better than getting his pure white, immaculately ironed Karate suit, or 'Gi', dirty. Sometimes he would pretend to be Bruce Lee (who actually did Kung Fu, but hell, it was his fantasy) kicking and chopping in a way that would have sent his wife into hysterics.
He was a slightly built man, with thining hair, a rather weak moustache his wife made him grow, large feet and no dress sense. Today he was serious, Saturday was gradings day, the day he went from green belt to purple, if he practised enough. He was just about to execute a rather tricky Hiza Geri Uchi with Kiai when he suddenly smelt burning. Looking down he saw a thin flame run in a circle around him, the tiled floor of the conservatory turned into a stone one covered in strange symbols. As the sound and everything around him faded away, he thought he heard a rather piercing voice shout "Kenneth! Put that camera down!"
It wasn't as if it was particularly horrible being mentally ill, it was just, well, disappointing. Melanie will be so upset when she finds out, he thought. He knew he wasn't dreaming because he hadn't been asleep. He had come to the conclusion that the last Kiai or shout he did had ruptured a blood vessel in his brain causing a temporary, he hoped, mental episode. How else could you account for suddenly being ripped from the safety of one,s own conservatory and being sent hurtling through a dark void?
Stuart practised a few Mawashi Geris then sat down on the surprisingly warm floor. Perhaps I ought to make the most of it he thought, Melanie always said that he needed to broaden his horizons, Wargaming and Karate are not the only things in life she would say, frequently. "Well, new experiences broaden the mind, so here I go, if only in a metaphysical sense." He said out loud.
What felt like several hours later he was woken by the sound of strange voices, he didn't know the language but he knew they were drunk, that translates every time.
- Copyright Steve Dean
Statues, Cylinders and Suits
A small grey cylinder came hurtling through the atmosphere of a modest blue and green planet. It was just big enough to contain a normal sized adult male, which was a good thing because that's what was in it. An advanced technology had constructed it (The cylinder, not the adult male) in such a cunning fashion, that it didn't need either bulky heat shields or large parachutes.
Neither was it noticed on any radar or scanning device, but this was because nobody was looking rather than because of any fancy cloaking mechanism. The cylinder finally came to rest on the banks of the picturesque River Trent, settling gently into a deep crater it had produced on impact.
Pheelix Pandolo was not a happy man. This wasn't his first ride in an Intrusion Pod by any means, but it was certainly the worst. The landing had been far too hard, he had felt the bones in his back shunt together like primitive train carriages. The operator had assured him that these new Pods were great. "Like riding in a babies bed." Uh! like riding in a deep core bomb more like.
It was also far too hot in here, he was sure his shoes were on fire, and his sex, or whatever they were called. These primitives certainly had some strange ideas when it came to clothes. What's wrong with a single piece suit you climb into in the morning and throw away at night? On top of that he was pretty certain the Pod was actually visible! It should have moulded itself to resemble a common local feature, a tree say, or a phoon[sic] box, seamlessly blending in with its surroundings. From in here it still looked like a Pod.
Pheelix fumbled for the release lever and couldn't find it.
"Flnk!" he shouted, then remembered that this was a covert operation.
"Oops" he whispered. Pheelix looked around for a release lever or button or something. Just in front of his face he noticed a sign embossed into the cylinder metal. It seemed to be the instructions.
1) Please remain still until the pod has come to a complete stop.Failing to observe this precaution will invalidate your guarantee and is dangerous to your health.
2) Do not attempt to adjust the support cradle, it has been expertly fitted around your body by trained staff for your comfort and convenience.
3) On stopping the door will automatically open. If the door fails to open please refer to the user manual. The user manual is available at all major book shops for your comfort and convenience.
"Oh flnk", Pheelix said in a loud whisper. "Flnk" was quite a naughty word back home, not as bad as "yb" but still fairly offensive.
4) On returning to the Pod please close the door and fasten the support cradle. Then press the small blue button. On no account should you press the large red button. He looked around, sure enough on one side, where his elbow rested was a large red button. Further down, below knee level, was a small blue button.
5) This pod should give days of pleasure to you and your family. If it fails to please simply post it back to us for a free replacement. The address can be found on page 904 of the user manual. The user manual is available at all major book shops for your comfort and convenience. Underneath was a sticky label which read; "This mark 6f Pod remains the property of the Security Union of Member Planets. If found please return to your nearest S.U.M.P. station."
Pheelix stood very still for a few moments and collected his thoughts. Most of them had crash landed into his stomach on impact. First, and most important, he was still alive. For the moment at least. Second, the Pod didn't seem too damaged and was probably capable of getting him off this planet. Fourth, The secret mission he was on was very important and would show his bosses he wasn't past it.
"Now, if I can just get the door open," he groaned, as he pushed hard against it. It was actually unlocked, just not open enough to let in the light. The door shot open, banged against the metal side of the Pod and swung back towards him, giving him a brief glimpse of daylight before crashing into his head. Pheelix's skull cannoned back into the webbing of the cradle then bounced forwards smashing his forehead into the door.
Although there were a few unkind people who would have said, and laid large bets, that pheelix's head was the harder of the two, this proved not to be the case. The door boomed on its hinge and moved very slightly. Pheelix's head did the same. He stood dazed for some time. The thoughts that had been rescued from his digestive juices, and thought themselves safe, were now ricocheting around his skull popping tiny light bulbs as they went.
After a few minutes the emergency medication that had been patrolling his body, waiting for just such a moment, went into action. The chemical cocktail, encapsulated in microscopic trauma wrap, soothed his head, calmed his heart and paid him some compliments to boost his ego. The door needed, and received, no further attention.
Barely three hours later, when everything had settled down, Pheelix decided it was time to complete the mission. He checked his disguise; Three piece suit, dark blue silk tie, brightly polished shoes, black sex; he was sure they were called that but it didn't sound quite right. And a large green and white striped umbrella, perfect! It had all been made to match the exact time period and conditions by experts. No small detail was over looked, from the small plastic nose in his button hole, to the motif of two copulating crocodiles on his shirt pocket. Yes, he could walk among humans and be completely ignored.
Pheelix pushed open the door and stepped proudly out of the Pod, protected in a cocoon of superior technology. On contact with reality the cocoon shattered into a million pieces. He stood tall, shoulders back with an inane grin clamped across his face. In front of him stretched a wide grassy embankment beside a brown river. The sun was shining high in the sky. Humans walked, ran or lounged on the grass in short trous, their hairy legs akimbo, in bright shirts of different colours with no sleeves, in skimpy bits of cloth that barely covered their significant parts. But not one of them, not a single one was wearing the same as him.
The people stopped staring at the man with the woolly jumper and anorak and turned towards him. There was nothing for it but to bluff it out. He had maintained his proud stance, although the grin had long since retired to the coast. Pheelix turned to check the Pod then stepped lightly along the embankment towards the rendezvous point. He had taken only five paces when his posture finally cracked, hit by the image that had only now reached the end of his optic nerves.
The Pod had formed into a statue similar to one near by. Similar but for one small detail. It was a likeness of a famous general from the clean linen blockade of the crab nebula. He was standing bravely, weapon in hand looking into the distance. Much like any other heroic statue. Unfortunately General Airryng Kku Bbudd had his eyes on stalks, and there were four of them."They won't look if I don't," thought Pheelix, he didn't believe it but what else could he do? He turned away.
Moving in the way people move when they think they are being casual, Pheelix once again set off. Hanging the umbrella on his arm, he walked to the place his instruments said the matrix would form. Or where he hoped it would. He was no longer sure the scientists had got anything right. Then there was the umbrella. Of course it wasn't a real umbrella, that was just a convenient shape to hide the Matrix gun in. The gun or Ground Inititiation Zero Matrix Obliterator or G.I.Z.M.O. would cause the matrix to become unstable and leak harmlessly into the ground.
A few more steps and several more stares brought him to the exact spot. A wrist watch like affair throbbed wildly on his wrist the moment he was correctly positioned. Pheelix found himself standing three steps down on the concrete embankment, looking over the river. There was a slight smell of rotting fish and he was standing in the bodily waste of some aquatic bird. One of the birds, a big white thing, was eyeing him suspiciously with an orange eye.
Pheelix stood still for several minutes, waiting for the big event. He could hear people going past behind him, giggling and making comments. The bird looked, but said nothing. Pheelix kept his thoughts on the task in hand. Gripping the gizmo tighter he thought of the matrix and its creators.
Many light years away, right across the galaxy, lay a small planet. It wasn't very rich in minerals or metals, the people weren't very creative or artistic, but it was well populated with megalomaniacs. It seems they had bought some experimental weaponry from someone (mentioning no names, thought Pheelix). It turned out that one of these weapons could project a force matrix across vast expanses of space and form matter, to their specification, from local materials.
For instance, it could be aimed at this spot and draw up some of the concrete to make a fine piece of sculpture. To Pheelix's knowledge it had never been used for this purpose. What it was usually used for was explosives, particularly of the atomic kind. The weapon had been pointed at several member planets of the Security Union, but superior technology had defeated it. Actually it was a large mirror, strapped to the back of a truck, but don't tell anybody.
The megalos had then turned their attention to other more distant planets. Because they were further away the beam had to be followed then overtaken when its destination became apparent. The time limits involved prevented the use of the large mirrors, so the gizmo was developed. Strange how the scientists knew exactly how to stop the beams wasn't it?
Suddenly, the thing that looked like a wrist watch pulsed. Pheelix looked up and tried to focus about five feet away. He knew from experience that this was usually how close the scanning devices placed him. A few moments later a swirling point of light formed almost exactly on target. It was spinning, slowly at first, then picking up speed. The point got brighter and brighter, almost forming into a solid mass.
Pheelix flipped a switch under the handle of the gizmo. The umbrella tip began to glow a dull orange. His timing had to be just right. Too early and he would be blasted apart by the beam. Too late and the bomb would detonate, and he'd be blasted apart by that. "That's a cheery thought," thought Pheelix. Carefully he lifted the gizmo and pointed it at the swirling mass just in front of him. At what he judged to be the exact moment he pressed a second button whilst simultaneously, and at the same time, thrusting the gizmo into the mass. A thin silver wire fired from the gizmo whizzed passed his ear and stuck into the grassy embankment, missing a cola tin and a half naked student by inches. The beam of force flashed brightly, discharging down the wire to earth with a sharp crack, burning the wire to vapour. A second flash seemed to explode into the sky, following the line of the beam back out of the atmosphere and on in to space. Pheelix smiled to himself. The operator was in for a nasty shock when the feedback finally reached the other end.
Of course, none of the people had seen anything unusual. Only a man in a three piece suit pointing a large green and white striped umbrella at the swans. Sort of thing you see everyday. Certainly around here anyway. All the good bits had taken place too far out of the human visual spectrum. Pheelix, not being from around these parts, had slightly different eyes.
Pheelix casually turned around and headed back for the intrusion Pod. No one paid much attention now. The men were watching a young woman trying to re-fasten her bikini so she could turn over. The women where watching a fat woman, already beetroot red, trying to catch more sun. Pheelix watched with interest. He could relax a little now, he couldn't leave until it was dark anyway. Since they had blown seven tenths of the atmosphere away on his planet, it had brought a whole new meaning to the word sunburn. Fry eggs on rocks? You could cook chips out there!
Pheelix smiled inside, which illustrated nicely how alien he was. Another job well done. More proof that he wasn't over the hill just yet. Saved all these people from certain and squashy death. They'd never know though, at least not for a while yet, when they could send ships further than the moon. That was only a trip to the corner shop to buy a newspaper, in space terms. Don't even need to change out of your slippers for that.
He walked up to the intrusion pod and stepped in. A shimmer field around the pod created the optical illusion of Pheelix going behind the statue, not into it. But the technology was wasted, only a small boy called Tobias and his teddy "Teddy" even noticed, and he was only three. Later, at school he would write a story on what he saw and be complimented for his wonderful imagination. A couple of dogs were looking in that direction but they tend not to pay much attention to humans unless they have big pointy sticks or large pieces of meat.
Later that night a loud swooshing noise followed by a sonic boom was heard over the river. If you had been there you may have seen a brief orange glow. If you had been near the Pod you would have heard "Ohhh shiiiiii..."
- Copyright Steve Dean
Neither was it noticed on any radar or scanning device, but this was because nobody was looking rather than because of any fancy cloaking mechanism. The cylinder finally came to rest on the banks of the picturesque River Trent, settling gently into a deep crater it had produced on impact.
Pheelix Pandolo was not a happy man. This wasn't his first ride in an Intrusion Pod by any means, but it was certainly the worst. The landing had been far too hard, he had felt the bones in his back shunt together like primitive train carriages. The operator had assured him that these new Pods were great. "Like riding in a babies bed." Uh! like riding in a deep core bomb more like.
It was also far too hot in here, he was sure his shoes were on fire, and his sex, or whatever they were called. These primitives certainly had some strange ideas when it came to clothes. What's wrong with a single piece suit you climb into in the morning and throw away at night? On top of that he was pretty certain the Pod was actually visible! It should have moulded itself to resemble a common local feature, a tree say, or a phoon[sic] box, seamlessly blending in with its surroundings. From in here it still looked like a Pod.
Pheelix fumbled for the release lever and couldn't find it.
"Flnk!" he shouted, then remembered that this was a covert operation.
"Oops" he whispered. Pheelix looked around for a release lever or button or something. Just in front of his face he noticed a sign embossed into the cylinder metal. It seemed to be the instructions.
1) Please remain still until the pod has come to a complete stop.Failing to observe this precaution will invalidate your guarantee and is dangerous to your health.
2) Do not attempt to adjust the support cradle, it has been expertly fitted around your body by trained staff for your comfort and convenience.
3) On stopping the door will automatically open. If the door fails to open please refer to the user manual. The user manual is available at all major book shops for your comfort and convenience.
"Oh flnk", Pheelix said in a loud whisper. "Flnk" was quite a naughty word back home, not as bad as "yb" but still fairly offensive.
4) On returning to the Pod please close the door and fasten the support cradle. Then press the small blue button. On no account should you press the large red button. He looked around, sure enough on one side, where his elbow rested was a large red button. Further down, below knee level, was a small blue button.
5) This pod should give days of pleasure to you and your family. If it fails to please simply post it back to us for a free replacement. The address can be found on page 904 of the user manual. The user manual is available at all major book shops for your comfort and convenience. Underneath was a sticky label which read; "This mark 6f Pod remains the property of the Security Union of Member Planets. If found please return to your nearest S.U.M.P. station."
Pheelix stood very still for a few moments and collected his thoughts. Most of them had crash landed into his stomach on impact. First, and most important, he was still alive. For the moment at least. Second, the Pod didn't seem too damaged and was probably capable of getting him off this planet. Fourth, The secret mission he was on was very important and would show his bosses he wasn't past it.
"Now, if I can just get the door open," he groaned, as he pushed hard against it. It was actually unlocked, just not open enough to let in the light. The door shot open, banged against the metal side of the Pod and swung back towards him, giving him a brief glimpse of daylight before crashing into his head. Pheelix's skull cannoned back into the webbing of the cradle then bounced forwards smashing his forehead into the door.
Although there were a few unkind people who would have said, and laid large bets, that pheelix's head was the harder of the two, this proved not to be the case. The door boomed on its hinge and moved very slightly. Pheelix's head did the same. He stood dazed for some time. The thoughts that had been rescued from his digestive juices, and thought themselves safe, were now ricocheting around his skull popping tiny light bulbs as they went.
After a few minutes the emergency medication that had been patrolling his body, waiting for just such a moment, went into action. The chemical cocktail, encapsulated in microscopic trauma wrap, soothed his head, calmed his heart and paid him some compliments to boost his ego. The door needed, and received, no further attention.
Barely three hours later, when everything had settled down, Pheelix decided it was time to complete the mission. He checked his disguise; Three piece suit, dark blue silk tie, brightly polished shoes, black sex; he was sure they were called that but it didn't sound quite right. And a large green and white striped umbrella, perfect! It had all been made to match the exact time period and conditions by experts. No small detail was over looked, from the small plastic nose in his button hole, to the motif of two copulating crocodiles on his shirt pocket. Yes, he could walk among humans and be completely ignored.
Pheelix pushed open the door and stepped proudly out of the Pod, protected in a cocoon of superior technology. On contact with reality the cocoon shattered into a million pieces. He stood tall, shoulders back with an inane grin clamped across his face. In front of him stretched a wide grassy embankment beside a brown river. The sun was shining high in the sky. Humans walked, ran or lounged on the grass in short trous, their hairy legs akimbo, in bright shirts of different colours with no sleeves, in skimpy bits of cloth that barely covered their significant parts. But not one of them, not a single one was wearing the same as him.
The people stopped staring at the man with the woolly jumper and anorak and turned towards him. There was nothing for it but to bluff it out. He had maintained his proud stance, although the grin had long since retired to the coast. Pheelix turned to check the Pod then stepped lightly along the embankment towards the rendezvous point. He had taken only five paces when his posture finally cracked, hit by the image that had only now reached the end of his optic nerves.
The Pod had formed into a statue similar to one near by. Similar but for one small detail. It was a likeness of a famous general from the clean linen blockade of the crab nebula. He was standing bravely, weapon in hand looking into the distance. Much like any other heroic statue. Unfortunately General Airryng Kku Bbudd had his eyes on stalks, and there were four of them."They won't look if I don't," thought Pheelix, he didn't believe it but what else could he do? He turned away.
Moving in the way people move when they think they are being casual, Pheelix once again set off. Hanging the umbrella on his arm, he walked to the place his instruments said the matrix would form. Or where he hoped it would. He was no longer sure the scientists had got anything right. Then there was the umbrella. Of course it wasn't a real umbrella, that was just a convenient shape to hide the Matrix gun in. The gun or Ground Inititiation Zero Matrix Obliterator or G.I.Z.M.O. would cause the matrix to become unstable and leak harmlessly into the ground.
A few more steps and several more stares brought him to the exact spot. A wrist watch like affair throbbed wildly on his wrist the moment he was correctly positioned. Pheelix found himself standing three steps down on the concrete embankment, looking over the river. There was a slight smell of rotting fish and he was standing in the bodily waste of some aquatic bird. One of the birds, a big white thing, was eyeing him suspiciously with an orange eye.
Pheelix stood still for several minutes, waiting for the big event. He could hear people going past behind him, giggling and making comments. The bird looked, but said nothing. Pheelix kept his thoughts on the task in hand. Gripping the gizmo tighter he thought of the matrix and its creators.
Many light years away, right across the galaxy, lay a small planet. It wasn't very rich in minerals or metals, the people weren't very creative or artistic, but it was well populated with megalomaniacs. It seems they had bought some experimental weaponry from someone (mentioning no names, thought Pheelix). It turned out that one of these weapons could project a force matrix across vast expanses of space and form matter, to their specification, from local materials.
For instance, it could be aimed at this spot and draw up some of the concrete to make a fine piece of sculpture. To Pheelix's knowledge it had never been used for this purpose. What it was usually used for was explosives, particularly of the atomic kind. The weapon had been pointed at several member planets of the Security Union, but superior technology had defeated it. Actually it was a large mirror, strapped to the back of a truck, but don't tell anybody.
The megalos had then turned their attention to other more distant planets. Because they were further away the beam had to be followed then overtaken when its destination became apparent. The time limits involved prevented the use of the large mirrors, so the gizmo was developed. Strange how the scientists knew exactly how to stop the beams wasn't it?
Suddenly, the thing that looked like a wrist watch pulsed. Pheelix looked up and tried to focus about five feet away. He knew from experience that this was usually how close the scanning devices placed him. A few moments later a swirling point of light formed almost exactly on target. It was spinning, slowly at first, then picking up speed. The point got brighter and brighter, almost forming into a solid mass.
Pheelix flipped a switch under the handle of the gizmo. The umbrella tip began to glow a dull orange. His timing had to be just right. Too early and he would be blasted apart by the beam. Too late and the bomb would detonate, and he'd be blasted apart by that. "That's a cheery thought," thought Pheelix. Carefully he lifted the gizmo and pointed it at the swirling mass just in front of him. At what he judged to be the exact moment he pressed a second button whilst simultaneously, and at the same time, thrusting the gizmo into the mass. A thin silver wire fired from the gizmo whizzed passed his ear and stuck into the grassy embankment, missing a cola tin and a half naked student by inches. The beam of force flashed brightly, discharging down the wire to earth with a sharp crack, burning the wire to vapour. A second flash seemed to explode into the sky, following the line of the beam back out of the atmosphere and on in to space. Pheelix smiled to himself. The operator was in for a nasty shock when the feedback finally reached the other end.
Of course, none of the people had seen anything unusual. Only a man in a three piece suit pointing a large green and white striped umbrella at the swans. Sort of thing you see everyday. Certainly around here anyway. All the good bits had taken place too far out of the human visual spectrum. Pheelix, not being from around these parts, had slightly different eyes.
Pheelix casually turned around and headed back for the intrusion Pod. No one paid much attention now. The men were watching a young woman trying to re-fasten her bikini so she could turn over. The women where watching a fat woman, already beetroot red, trying to catch more sun. Pheelix watched with interest. He could relax a little now, he couldn't leave until it was dark anyway. Since they had blown seven tenths of the atmosphere away on his planet, it had brought a whole new meaning to the word sunburn. Fry eggs on rocks? You could cook chips out there!
Pheelix smiled inside, which illustrated nicely how alien he was. Another job well done. More proof that he wasn't over the hill just yet. Saved all these people from certain and squashy death. They'd never know though, at least not for a while yet, when they could send ships further than the moon. That was only a trip to the corner shop to buy a newspaper, in space terms. Don't even need to change out of your slippers for that.
He walked up to the intrusion pod and stepped in. A shimmer field around the pod created the optical illusion of Pheelix going behind the statue, not into it. But the technology was wasted, only a small boy called Tobias and his teddy "Teddy" even noticed, and he was only three. Later, at school he would write a story on what he saw and be complimented for his wonderful imagination. A couple of dogs were looking in that direction but they tend not to pay much attention to humans unless they have big pointy sticks or large pieces of meat.
Later that night a loud swooshing noise followed by a sonic boom was heard over the river. If you had been there you may have seen a brief orange glow. If you had been near the Pod you would have heard "Ohhh shiiiiii..."
- Copyright Steve Dean
Standing in the Grey River
"They're on their way towards your position. I say again, they're on their way towards your position. Thousands of them. Stampeding. Get out, get out now. Acknowledge!"
"Acknowledge mobile one, but we have nowhere to go and there is no shelter in the ravine. Request emergency airlift, repeat, we need emergency airlift."
"For pity's sake man, what does it take? There's no time for an airlift, no time for anything, just get out of the way!"
The nine members of the crew exchanged worried glances, then began searching frantically around for shelter. They were in a flat bottomed ravine, thirty metres wide with unscalable sides. They looked all around, and one by one, stopped as the sight below them registered. It had taken half of this planets day to hike this far up, they would never be able to get down in time.
"So, we can't run, we can't hide, what now?" Asked Kris Calen, searching each face for an answer.
"This is where we all die, crushed to pulp by a bunch of sheepoids the biologists said were harmless.
"Shut up Paul, there must be something we can do."
"Yes, I agree." Symon Goodwin stepped forwards. He was nominally the team leader, but was so ineffective he was mostly ignored. As he was now.
"Yes? Like what, dig a hole in this solid rock?"
Kris stood motionless for a while, then suddenly cried out in triumph. "We've got guns, in one of these packs. Come on help me get them out."
Several of the crew helped Kris locate and distribute the weapons. There were smiles of relief all around as the crew pointed the weapons at the ravine sides and pretended to fire them.
"Now tell them properly Calen, go on, tell them."
"What's he talking about," someone asked.
"Well..."
"I'll tell you." Paul shouted, and fired off a shot, blasting a good sized chunk out of the ravine floor. Turning quickly he pointed the pistol at Calen and pulled the trigger again.
Cries and gasps fell to silence as nothing happened, Kris remaining in one piece. The silence of the crew was lengthened as another noise crept into their hearing. A deep rumble, more vibration than sound.
urning slowly, the nine had their first glimpse of the trouble to come as a wave of grey dust billowed into sight in the continuous wind.
Someone shouted, "What's wrong with the guns?"
"Nothing, nothing is wrong with them. They are pulse charge laser pistols. They charge, and hence discharge, in pulses. Saves weight, saves money, and let's face it, there isn't anything dangerous to man on this planet is there?" Paul finished sarcastically.
"Now arguing isn't getting us anywhere is it? I read in a book once..." Symon began.
"So we can shoot one in ten of them and the other nine will mow us down, great."
"If you'll let me finish." Symon persisted.
"Alright, keep your hair on, but be quick, we have about two minutes before its revenge of the mint sauce." Paul stomped away a few paces and began sighting along his weapon at the oncoming cloud.
"Now, as you know I'm a great reader, but none of this Ebook nonsense, all sex and violence. Anyway, I was reading a book the other day, a history book it was, with real paper pages, and I think I have a plan. We can't run, nor hide, so we stand."
Symon organised the crew, getting them to pile up their kit in a rough triangle with the top pointing up the ravine. He then had them form three rows, three to a row. Even Paul joined in, because, as someone pointed out, no one else had any ideas. The mass of sheepoids was visible now, grey legs and grey heads pounding along, rolling down the ravine with the surging cloud front. Hundreds wide, shoulder to shoulder, not stopping, not slowing, showing no sign of having even seen the humans.
"Now, those at the front, kneel down, that's it, right down. Those in the middle kneel up, yes that's right. And we at the back stand."
The noise was building steadily, one continuous note, a vibration, through the ground and through the humid air.
"Now, all your pistols should be charged, the little green light on here yes?" He waited for eight nods, got seven but saw Paul's for himself.
Symon had to talk louder until he was shouting. The noise echoed from the walls, whipped along by the wind. The smell reached them first, a cloying fruity smell, sickly sweet and almost too much to bear.
"When I give the word, I want each row to fire in turn, aiming for the front line of sheepoids, but only those directly in front of us, we'll let the rest go by either side."
The eight men and women gripped their pistols, their knuckles white. Symon looked at each in turn, waiting for a nod of understanding. Each a scientist who only once or twice in their lives, to satisfy mission directives, had handled firearms.
"If we fire in order, by the time the back row have fired, the front row will have recharged. Don't fire until I say. If we can keep up a steady pattern we can clear a path wide enough to pass through. Everyone ready?" Again he waited for the nods, this time receiving all eight.
They were as ready as they ever would be. Nine humans behind a flimsy barricade of surveying gear and field rations. Palms were sweating as the pistols were gripped too tightly. The smell was growing ever stronger, and those kneeling soon began to feel the hardness of the rock.
The mass of animals was before them now, filling their vision. Closer it came, ever closer.
Time stretched.
- Copyright Steve Dean
"Acknowledge mobile one, but we have nowhere to go and there is no shelter in the ravine. Request emergency airlift, repeat, we need emergency airlift."
"For pity's sake man, what does it take? There's no time for an airlift, no time for anything, just get out of the way!"
The nine members of the crew exchanged worried glances, then began searching frantically around for shelter. They were in a flat bottomed ravine, thirty metres wide with unscalable sides. They looked all around, and one by one, stopped as the sight below them registered. It had taken half of this planets day to hike this far up, they would never be able to get down in time.
"So, we can't run, we can't hide, what now?" Asked Kris Calen, searching each face for an answer.
"This is where we all die, crushed to pulp by a bunch of sheepoids the biologists said were harmless.
"Shut up Paul, there must be something we can do."
"Yes, I agree." Symon Goodwin stepped forwards. He was nominally the team leader, but was so ineffective he was mostly ignored. As he was now.
"Yes? Like what, dig a hole in this solid rock?"
Kris stood motionless for a while, then suddenly cried out in triumph. "We've got guns, in one of these packs. Come on help me get them out."
Several of the crew helped Kris locate and distribute the weapons. There were smiles of relief all around as the crew pointed the weapons at the ravine sides and pretended to fire them.
"Now tell them properly Calen, go on, tell them."
"What's he talking about," someone asked.
"Well..."
"I'll tell you." Paul shouted, and fired off a shot, blasting a good sized chunk out of the ravine floor. Turning quickly he pointed the pistol at Calen and pulled the trigger again.
Cries and gasps fell to silence as nothing happened, Kris remaining in one piece. The silence of the crew was lengthened as another noise crept into their hearing. A deep rumble, more vibration than sound.
urning slowly, the nine had their first glimpse of the trouble to come as a wave of grey dust billowed into sight in the continuous wind.
Someone shouted, "What's wrong with the guns?"
"Nothing, nothing is wrong with them. They are pulse charge laser pistols. They charge, and hence discharge, in pulses. Saves weight, saves money, and let's face it, there isn't anything dangerous to man on this planet is there?" Paul finished sarcastically.
"Now arguing isn't getting us anywhere is it? I read in a book once..." Symon began.
"So we can shoot one in ten of them and the other nine will mow us down, great."
"If you'll let me finish." Symon persisted.
"Alright, keep your hair on, but be quick, we have about two minutes before its revenge of the mint sauce." Paul stomped away a few paces and began sighting along his weapon at the oncoming cloud.
"Now, as you know I'm a great reader, but none of this Ebook nonsense, all sex and violence. Anyway, I was reading a book the other day, a history book it was, with real paper pages, and I think I have a plan. We can't run, nor hide, so we stand."
Symon organised the crew, getting them to pile up their kit in a rough triangle with the top pointing up the ravine. He then had them form three rows, three to a row. Even Paul joined in, because, as someone pointed out, no one else had any ideas. The mass of sheepoids was visible now, grey legs and grey heads pounding along, rolling down the ravine with the surging cloud front. Hundreds wide, shoulder to shoulder, not stopping, not slowing, showing no sign of having even seen the humans.
"Now, those at the front, kneel down, that's it, right down. Those in the middle kneel up, yes that's right. And we at the back stand."
The noise was building steadily, one continuous note, a vibration, through the ground and through the humid air.
"Now, all your pistols should be charged, the little green light on here yes?" He waited for eight nods, got seven but saw Paul's for himself.
Symon had to talk louder until he was shouting. The noise echoed from the walls, whipped along by the wind. The smell reached them first, a cloying fruity smell, sickly sweet and almost too much to bear.
"When I give the word, I want each row to fire in turn, aiming for the front line of sheepoids, but only those directly in front of us, we'll let the rest go by either side."
The eight men and women gripped their pistols, their knuckles white. Symon looked at each in turn, waiting for a nod of understanding. Each a scientist who only once or twice in their lives, to satisfy mission directives, had handled firearms.
"If we fire in order, by the time the back row have fired, the front row will have recharged. Don't fire until I say. If we can keep up a steady pattern we can clear a path wide enough to pass through. Everyone ready?" Again he waited for the nods, this time receiving all eight.
They were as ready as they ever would be. Nine humans behind a flimsy barricade of surveying gear and field rations. Palms were sweating as the pistols were gripped too tightly. The smell was growing ever stronger, and those kneeling soon began to feel the hardness of the rock.
The mass of animals was before them now, filling their vision. Closer it came, ever closer.
Time stretched.
- Copyright Steve Dean
Out of the Pit
A steel door slammed shut behind him. Although he didn't hear it lock, he knew it had. Useless then to turn around and try opening it. Looking everywhere but towards the door, the man studied the chamber he had been incarcerated within. A small balcony, no larger than two or three people could stand on, was suspended over a deep pit some fifteen metres across. Over the hand rail, left or right, or indeed through the grid that floored the balcony, all he could see was a hazy grey.
A yellow, sourceless light illuminated a dome which capped the pit. There was a pressure, as though the haze pushed against the light, forcing it against the dome. He imagined that if it were punctured, the light would pour out, leaving the entire area grey. He shuddered at this thought, gripping the hand rail tighter.
Everywhere he looked there was raw metal; the dome plated over with rivetted steel, like great fish scales, or old armour he had once seen. The balcony was constructed from scaffolding, bolted into the wall behind, a scant handrail and a flimsy mesh between himself and the murk.
And there was the door.
It too was metal, it fitted snugly into the steel frame, almost seamless, with no handles or keyholes, at least not on this side. These things he knew, despite never having seen it.
The handrail was warm, not just where his hands had been, but all along its length. This had a meaning for him, but despite trying to think back, to walk his memories to the time before, he couldn't recall why. Neither, now he tried, could he remember much else. His name had gone, although he recalled having one, and it being important to him. He was a man, of that he was one hundred percent certain. He was also in trouble, a faceless, looming threat that overshadowed everything he did. That was why he was in here, he was hiding, cowering from whatever lay beyond the door.
The man relaxed slightly. He was inside a metal bunker, behind a sealed door, what could possibly hurt him in here? The balcony creaked, very slightly, as he moved his weight.
Illogically, the man tightened his grip on the handrail, as though by pressing the metal he could affect the tension in the anchoring bolts. For several minutes he stood very still, contemplating whether to make a dash for the door. But each time he made up his mind to move, the image of the door appeared in his mind, a vast slab of steel barred and shut against him, only him.
A sweat had broken out on the man's forehead, from fear or effort or just the closed in space, the man was unable to tell. Beads of salty moisture rolled down his face, to drip off his chin in a regular rhythm. He watched the stains spreading down his jacket, down his silk tie. There was no remorse, he wouldn't need either again.
The thought startled him, as though his sub-conscious had known it all along, and was just telling his waking mind. But that wasn't how he wanted it, surely? The back brain couldn't make decisions, only report what it knew, at least that's how he had always seen it.
Before he could set his thoughts to follow up a conclusion, a ripple of sound rose up from the pit. Snatches of bright music and distant laughter interwoven. A glance down revealed primary colours flashing up through the haze. The lights and music coalesced into three iridescent bubbles one metre across. Slowly, they arose, pushing back the grey with their joyous nature. As each bubble skimmed past him, he noticed each held a figure, a child looking around with theme park eyes, seeing things he couldn't see. They pointed, chattering endlessly, all talking, yet all listening, missing nothing.
In turn, the bubbles circled around under the dome, then descended back into the pit. He called out, let go with one hand, waved and shouted with all his might. Each looked at him in turn, and each smile faded, the lights dimming, the music slowing to a dirge. The bubbles burst, dropping the children, his children, screaming into the pit. Frantically he called out, though he didn't know their names, stretching out his hand in a useless attempt to grab them. They were gone. As final as that.
- Copyright Steve Dean
A yellow, sourceless light illuminated a dome which capped the pit. There was a pressure, as though the haze pushed against the light, forcing it against the dome. He imagined that if it were punctured, the light would pour out, leaving the entire area grey. He shuddered at this thought, gripping the hand rail tighter.
Everywhere he looked there was raw metal; the dome plated over with rivetted steel, like great fish scales, or old armour he had once seen. The balcony was constructed from scaffolding, bolted into the wall behind, a scant handrail and a flimsy mesh between himself and the murk.
And there was the door.
It too was metal, it fitted snugly into the steel frame, almost seamless, with no handles or keyholes, at least not on this side. These things he knew, despite never having seen it.
The handrail was warm, not just where his hands had been, but all along its length. This had a meaning for him, but despite trying to think back, to walk his memories to the time before, he couldn't recall why. Neither, now he tried, could he remember much else. His name had gone, although he recalled having one, and it being important to him. He was a man, of that he was one hundred percent certain. He was also in trouble, a faceless, looming threat that overshadowed everything he did. That was why he was in here, he was hiding, cowering from whatever lay beyond the door.
The man relaxed slightly. He was inside a metal bunker, behind a sealed door, what could possibly hurt him in here? The balcony creaked, very slightly, as he moved his weight.
Illogically, the man tightened his grip on the handrail, as though by pressing the metal he could affect the tension in the anchoring bolts. For several minutes he stood very still, contemplating whether to make a dash for the door. But each time he made up his mind to move, the image of the door appeared in his mind, a vast slab of steel barred and shut against him, only him.
A sweat had broken out on the man's forehead, from fear or effort or just the closed in space, the man was unable to tell. Beads of salty moisture rolled down his face, to drip off his chin in a regular rhythm. He watched the stains spreading down his jacket, down his silk tie. There was no remorse, he wouldn't need either again.
The thought startled him, as though his sub-conscious had known it all along, and was just telling his waking mind. But that wasn't how he wanted it, surely? The back brain couldn't make decisions, only report what it knew, at least that's how he had always seen it.
Before he could set his thoughts to follow up a conclusion, a ripple of sound rose up from the pit. Snatches of bright music and distant laughter interwoven. A glance down revealed primary colours flashing up through the haze. The lights and music coalesced into three iridescent bubbles one metre across. Slowly, they arose, pushing back the grey with their joyous nature. As each bubble skimmed past him, he noticed each held a figure, a child looking around with theme park eyes, seeing things he couldn't see. They pointed, chattering endlessly, all talking, yet all listening, missing nothing.
In turn, the bubbles circled around under the dome, then descended back into the pit. He called out, let go with one hand, waved and shouted with all his might. Each looked at him in turn, and each smile faded, the lights dimming, the music slowing to a dirge. The bubbles burst, dropping the children, his children, screaming into the pit. Frantically he called out, though he didn't know their names, stretching out his hand in a useless attempt to grab them. They were gone. As final as that.
- Copyright Steve Dean
Of Scales and Eyes
Silviera walked over to the curved tunnel that led outside. She paused for a moment, sniffed at the cool night air, then paced back into the middle of the cavern. After a few minutes, which she spent staring longingly at the large off-white object nestled on a heap of straw, she once again paced over to the entrance. Another sniff to make sure no one was near, then she wandered back to the nest. This went on for sometime, back and forth until Silviera's body grew weary. When she was younger this much movement would hardly have got her warm, but now she seemed to tire easily.
So, she decided to settle down in the centre of the cave and just watch. She spread her considerable length across the floor of the irregular natural cave in which she had lived for many centuries. A man, a very brave one, would have taken several minutes to walk the distance between the tip of her tail and the end of her cavernous snout. The small amount of light that entered the cave showed her dull scales to be a dark silvery grey, scored and scorched by the many encounters she had survived with a multitude of beasts.
Her eyes were a light orange, still sharp despite the years. But her open mouth revealed broken and missing dagger-like teeth, each telling a story of gargantuan battles. Her eyes glazed over as she studied the nest. Yesterday it had been a mess, and although she was now better satisfied with the nest as a whole she still fussed with it relentlessly.
Occasionally she would pull out a wisp or a stray stalk and re-position it on the pile. At other times she would pick up one of the gold or silver items that formed the centre of the nest. She would examine the item, turning it around with a huge talon, then place it carefully back on the nest. As Silviera lay dozing on the cool rock of the cave floor her mind wandered back to when, a few short days ago, Hamma the giant had stopped by on one of his occasional visits...
...The morning sun beat down on the grey rock of the cave entrance causing Silviera to retreat inside. She had just returned from the hunt, bringing back a small horse which she had noisily consumed in front of her lair. There was a time when she could easily have snatched a full-grown horse right off the plains below, thinking nothing of the pitiful jabbing of the tiny man wrapped in metal that had been on the horses back. She did so like to eat those little men but they were very difficult to get out of the steel shell. In her youth she had eaten them whole, but she found they gave her too much wind nowadays.
Silviera was dozing after the meal when a shadow fell across the entrance. A voice called out, "Anyone at home?" and a giant, stooping through the tunnel she herself virtually filled, entered her lair smiling. He was taller than she was high but nowhere near as wide. His hair was long, black and stuck out at all angles as if the hurricanes themselves had combed it. His face was dirty, unshaven but not yet a beard, his fur clothes were a parti-colour of patches and mends and his smile revealed a missing tooth at the front. He was well muscled without being huge, the kind of build you get from doing physical labour. Silviera wondered how hard put she would be to better this one, but the giant was an old acquaintance who often stopped by to trade, so the thought was only a brief one.
"Good to see you Hamma, I thought I recognised your smell drifting on the air last night." "Your nose is as good as ever Silviera of the Greycloud," replied Hamma not at all offended. "It is also good to see you well. I had heard rumours of the Dragondeath riding these parts, but I think it would take more than a few tin men to harm you." "Had I been but a few years younger I would show those vermin where to stick their 'mighty arrows'." Hamma laughed heartily, then grew serious, it wasn't advisable to dawdle in a dragon's cave, no matter how big you were. "Now, to business. I have something in my wagon outside that might interest you. Something that you have mentioned before.
Remember on my last visit when you said how lonely it can get around here? How you said you would have eaten me before now if not for my pleasant company?" The dragon opened one eye wider, "What have you bought me this time Hamma? Not more of your strange glowing orbs. I couldn't see a thing in the last one you sold me, and it shattered when I..." "No, no, no, Silviera, nothing like that at all. Something you can talk to, and will talk back...a child of your very own!" Silviera lifted her long neck and glared at Hamma with orange eyes, "You have plundered the nest of another dragon to bring me a child?" She inhaled meaningfully. Hamma thrust out his hands palms forward, "No!,no, not a child, I would never do that. No, this is something far better. I will explain. The
Dragondeath I just mentioned have been very active recently, over in the Sabre ridge mountains," he pointed for effect, then rushed on. "Causing a whole nest of eggs to be orphaned. Some of them have been taken to mothers with eggs of their own. But I managed to save one for you. For only a small fee, just to pay for the costs of bringing it here of course, it can be yours." He smiled nervously at Silviera, wiping sweating palms down his shirt front. Although her breath was still held in, her eyes had lost focus, she was deep in thought, a kind of smile on her scaled face. Finally she looked at Hamma. "Bring it in, I want to see it." Hamma rushed from the cave and returned trundling a large handcart.
It was filled by a round, swollen object which was wrapped with furs of different kinds stitched crudely together. Slowly, carefully, watching Silviera all the time, Hamma theatrically removed the furs. As soon as her eyes fell on the egg Hamma knew he had a sale. Silviera bounded forwards and prodded the yellowish egg with an enormous claw. The leathery shell dented slightly, then the whole egg rocked. A quiet trilling noise sounded from within the egg. "It is due to hatch any day now," whispered Hamma. Silviera was enraptured. Her eyes were as big as cart wheels, her heart thumped like a rock slide, her front claws dug gouges in the rock of the cave floor. She had never got around to having children of her own for several reasons, but had always promised herself that one day she would.
Dreamily, never taking her eyes off the egg, she whispered, "Hamma, take whatever you wish from my gold pile, then leave quietly, I wish to be alone with my baby." Hamma started to protest about the cart, then stopped himself. He could take as much gold as he could carry, which was a considerable amount, from Silviera's horde. He could buy another cart, hell, he could just retire. No need to haul that damn thing up every mountain in sight just to earn a few gold coins. Good riddance to it, although, think of how much gold it could carry...no, don't think about it. Silviera vaguely heard the scraping and chinking of coins, the hushed giggling of a giant, and the soft footsteps of Hamma leaving the cave. She didn't hear him come back for the coins he dropped on the way out, she was too busy cooing to the egg by then. Several hours later she was regretting sending him away so fast.
There were so many questions she needed to ask; What do I do with it now? Will it need help hatching out? What will it eat when it hatches? She was completely unaware that giants didn't lay eggs. She had transferred the egg from the cart onto a hastily built nest of grass sods she had ripped up from outside. The cart lay in pieces on the floor where she had broken it apart to better remove the egg. She had considered using the wood for the nest, but had decided it was too sharp. Silviera had little experience of nests or nest building, she had seen them of course, been in one herself many centuries ago, but that didn't really help. Trusting to instinct had proved more useful, as had a little common sense. But she was still unsure as to how long the nest needed to last, it certainly didn't look strong enough to withstand the attentions of an exuberant baby, and she had been promised to expect developments within days.
Over the next day and night she built another nest, of straw from an abandoned farm some distance away. She had really had to steel herself to leave the egg alone, in the end she had obstructed the entrance with loose boulders before flying quickly away, and rushing straight back, with entire haystacks clutched in her hind legs. Then a memory of another nest had reminded her to line it with gold and gems. The pile of gold she slept on didn't seem enough, so she had scoured every single corner of her den looking for every last valuable item. Picking up gold, silver and gems with a triumphant cry, throwing copper and semi-precious stones out of the cave in disgust. The thunderous noise and the whistling of jetsam attracted the attention of a few passers-by, but they were all smart enough to stay that way. Finally the egg was transferred to the new nest, all she had to do now was wait...
- Copyright Steve Dean
So, she decided to settle down in the centre of the cave and just watch. She spread her considerable length across the floor of the irregular natural cave in which she had lived for many centuries. A man, a very brave one, would have taken several minutes to walk the distance between the tip of her tail and the end of her cavernous snout. The small amount of light that entered the cave showed her dull scales to be a dark silvery grey, scored and scorched by the many encounters she had survived with a multitude of beasts.
Her eyes were a light orange, still sharp despite the years. But her open mouth revealed broken and missing dagger-like teeth, each telling a story of gargantuan battles. Her eyes glazed over as she studied the nest. Yesterday it had been a mess, and although she was now better satisfied with the nest as a whole she still fussed with it relentlessly.
Occasionally she would pull out a wisp or a stray stalk and re-position it on the pile. At other times she would pick up one of the gold or silver items that formed the centre of the nest. She would examine the item, turning it around with a huge talon, then place it carefully back on the nest. As Silviera lay dozing on the cool rock of the cave floor her mind wandered back to when, a few short days ago, Hamma the giant had stopped by on one of his occasional visits...
...The morning sun beat down on the grey rock of the cave entrance causing Silviera to retreat inside. She had just returned from the hunt, bringing back a small horse which she had noisily consumed in front of her lair. There was a time when she could easily have snatched a full-grown horse right off the plains below, thinking nothing of the pitiful jabbing of the tiny man wrapped in metal that had been on the horses back. She did so like to eat those little men but they were very difficult to get out of the steel shell. In her youth she had eaten them whole, but she found they gave her too much wind nowadays.
Silviera was dozing after the meal when a shadow fell across the entrance. A voice called out, "Anyone at home?" and a giant, stooping through the tunnel she herself virtually filled, entered her lair smiling. He was taller than she was high but nowhere near as wide. His hair was long, black and stuck out at all angles as if the hurricanes themselves had combed it. His face was dirty, unshaven but not yet a beard, his fur clothes were a parti-colour of patches and mends and his smile revealed a missing tooth at the front. He was well muscled without being huge, the kind of build you get from doing physical labour. Silviera wondered how hard put she would be to better this one, but the giant was an old acquaintance who often stopped by to trade, so the thought was only a brief one.
"Good to see you Hamma, I thought I recognised your smell drifting on the air last night." "Your nose is as good as ever Silviera of the Greycloud," replied Hamma not at all offended. "It is also good to see you well. I had heard rumours of the Dragondeath riding these parts, but I think it would take more than a few tin men to harm you." "Had I been but a few years younger I would show those vermin where to stick their 'mighty arrows'." Hamma laughed heartily, then grew serious, it wasn't advisable to dawdle in a dragon's cave, no matter how big you were. "Now, to business. I have something in my wagon outside that might interest you. Something that you have mentioned before.
Remember on my last visit when you said how lonely it can get around here? How you said you would have eaten me before now if not for my pleasant company?" The dragon opened one eye wider, "What have you bought me this time Hamma? Not more of your strange glowing orbs. I couldn't see a thing in the last one you sold me, and it shattered when I..." "No, no, no, Silviera, nothing like that at all. Something you can talk to, and will talk back...a child of your very own!" Silviera lifted her long neck and glared at Hamma with orange eyes, "You have plundered the nest of another dragon to bring me a child?" She inhaled meaningfully. Hamma thrust out his hands palms forward, "No!,no, not a child, I would never do that. No, this is something far better. I will explain. The
Dragondeath I just mentioned have been very active recently, over in the Sabre ridge mountains," he pointed for effect, then rushed on. "Causing a whole nest of eggs to be orphaned. Some of them have been taken to mothers with eggs of their own. But I managed to save one for you. For only a small fee, just to pay for the costs of bringing it here of course, it can be yours." He smiled nervously at Silviera, wiping sweating palms down his shirt front. Although her breath was still held in, her eyes had lost focus, she was deep in thought, a kind of smile on her scaled face. Finally she looked at Hamma. "Bring it in, I want to see it." Hamma rushed from the cave and returned trundling a large handcart.
It was filled by a round, swollen object which was wrapped with furs of different kinds stitched crudely together. Slowly, carefully, watching Silviera all the time, Hamma theatrically removed the furs. As soon as her eyes fell on the egg Hamma knew he had a sale. Silviera bounded forwards and prodded the yellowish egg with an enormous claw. The leathery shell dented slightly, then the whole egg rocked. A quiet trilling noise sounded from within the egg. "It is due to hatch any day now," whispered Hamma. Silviera was enraptured. Her eyes were as big as cart wheels, her heart thumped like a rock slide, her front claws dug gouges in the rock of the cave floor. She had never got around to having children of her own for several reasons, but had always promised herself that one day she would.
Dreamily, never taking her eyes off the egg, she whispered, "Hamma, take whatever you wish from my gold pile, then leave quietly, I wish to be alone with my baby." Hamma started to protest about the cart, then stopped himself. He could take as much gold as he could carry, which was a considerable amount, from Silviera's horde. He could buy another cart, hell, he could just retire. No need to haul that damn thing up every mountain in sight just to earn a few gold coins. Good riddance to it, although, think of how much gold it could carry...no, don't think about it. Silviera vaguely heard the scraping and chinking of coins, the hushed giggling of a giant, and the soft footsteps of Hamma leaving the cave. She didn't hear him come back for the coins he dropped on the way out, she was too busy cooing to the egg by then. Several hours later she was regretting sending him away so fast.
There were so many questions she needed to ask; What do I do with it now? Will it need help hatching out? What will it eat when it hatches? She was completely unaware that giants didn't lay eggs. She had transferred the egg from the cart onto a hastily built nest of grass sods she had ripped up from outside. The cart lay in pieces on the floor where she had broken it apart to better remove the egg. She had considered using the wood for the nest, but had decided it was too sharp. Silviera had little experience of nests or nest building, she had seen them of course, been in one herself many centuries ago, but that didn't really help. Trusting to instinct had proved more useful, as had a little common sense. But she was still unsure as to how long the nest needed to last, it certainly didn't look strong enough to withstand the attentions of an exuberant baby, and she had been promised to expect developments within days.
Over the next day and night she built another nest, of straw from an abandoned farm some distance away. She had really had to steel herself to leave the egg alone, in the end she had obstructed the entrance with loose boulders before flying quickly away, and rushing straight back, with entire haystacks clutched in her hind legs. Then a memory of another nest had reminded her to line it with gold and gems. The pile of gold she slept on didn't seem enough, so she had scoured every single corner of her den looking for every last valuable item. Picking up gold, silver and gems with a triumphant cry, throwing copper and semi-precious stones out of the cave in disgust. The thunderous noise and the whistling of jetsam attracted the attention of a few passers-by, but they were all smart enough to stay that way. Finally the egg was transferred to the new nest, all she had to do now was wait...
- Copyright Steve Dean
Of Orcs and Holes
Police dogs, on the whole, are not usually known for their timidity. Armed with a certain amount of intelligence, teeth like steak knives, backed up by jaw muscles a shark would be proud of, lightning reflexes and two pairs of running legs in case things go pear-shaped, they are well equipped for the average dark-night-what's-that-strange-noise scenario. Add to this the rather ambivalent knowledge that your testicles are stored "off-site", as it were, there isn't much a canine law enforcement operative has to fear.
So when Constable Cordite, a typical British police dog-handler, educated, as so many of them now are, to degree level, watched his dog Zeus disappear up the road with his tail between his legs and his ears flat to his head, he immediately suspected something was terribly wrong.
And being, as previously stated, not too slow on the uptake, he rapidly followed suit. Being hampered with just the one pair of running legs, and with his baby-makers definitely present, he took a more circuitous route, interposing large concrete objects between himself, the unlit park and the thick bush from which the noise was coming. As he ran, the PC vowed to return during daylight hours to investigate. This manoeuvre, although not yet in the police handbook, nevertheless saved Constable Cordite from a difficult meeting that would certainly have spoiled an otherwise promising career.
It was Uhlug-uhr's birthday. He was seven years old, not bad for an orc. In human terms that made him about seven. Mentally. Physically he was eighteen, the kind of eighteen that has been getting served in pubs since it was twelve, the kind that hasn't been spanked by its parents since it came home with a stunned bear under its arm.
As a special treat, and as everyone else seemed to have forgotten, Uhlug-uhr had decided to raid the shaman's cave. He was strictly not allowed in there, on pain of pain, by the only two orcs in the tribe who could say no to his face and still have teeth left afterwards; the shaman himself, who summoned demons with huge claws and napalm breath when threatened, and big Dung-Dung, the chief's bodyguard. It was said that Dung-Dung, uncle Dung-Dung to Uhlug-uhr, once mistakenly entered an ogres' lair whilst drunk. A week later he re-appeared, wearing an ogre skin tunic, ogre skin trousers, ogre skin shoes and carrying a live ogre in a sack, demanding to keep it and promising to walk it and clean it out.
Uhlug-uhr wasn't quite up to this standard, but then Dung-Dung had been nearly ten, so he had plenty of time yet. Besides, he wasn't yet considered anywhere near an adult, and was even excluded from today's tribal meetings. So, with nothing to lose and much to prove, he began to execute his cunning master plan.
Today, as every other day, his four foot seven frame (that's width and height) was dressed in a leather tabard with leather trousers, simple leather boots and a boiled leather hat. His trousers were held up with a leather belt and leather thongs had been used to sew him into the tabard. On his belt hung a leather pouch, which held a few personal belongings, and a small knife with a lizard skin bound handle. His reflection in the water bucket showed him to be mainly brown in colour, with a broad ursine face, forty one whitish teeth, and two yellow ones. After a long drink he added a confident grin to this classic ensemble and stepped from the cave.
On the other side of the lair, the rest of the tribe was busy planning an ambush on some squashy humans. Uhlug-uhr could just make out the chief, sitting on an ancient dragon skull throne. Behind him stood Dung-Dung and to his right sat the shaman. What he was sitting on, no one cared to notice, in case it got upset. The rest of the tribe were spread out in front, hanging on every word the chieftain spoke and occasionally shouting such things as "Kill them, Kill them all!" to show they were listening.
With his betters out of the way, Uhlug-uhr grabbed his chance, crept out of his cave and sidled towards the shaman's residence. Making sure no one was home, mainly by shouting into the cave, "Anyone home?" Uhlug-uhr slipped quietly in.
His eyes lit up with excitement as all kinds of objects were illuminated by the reddish glow from a globe on the wall. Before going in any further, Uhlug-uhr checked behind to be sure no one had spotted him. The rest of the tribe who weren't at the meeting, the very young and the very old, would still be sleeping, so no danger there. When all seemed to be clear, he strode further in, barely managing to control his excitement. What to look at first? Everything looked so interesting.
The cave was long and thin, more like a tunnel blocked at one end. The rock was smooth, slick like it was damp but felt dry to the touch. The floor was immaculate, completely bare and touched only by the legs of the many tables and benches. The Shaman's bed and personal belongings were within a niche carved into the wall on the orc's left hand side, or the right, depending on which hand you used.
Every other surface was covered by, supported or suspended a bewildering array of objects. Weapons, books and scrolls, ironwork, bones and teeth, chests, skins, bottles in stone and glass, statuary, cages with living and dead inhabitants, jewellery and so on, more than one young orc could comprehend.
Almost overwhelmed, Uhlug-uhr nearly gave up. But no, he thought, it's my birthday and I'm going to enjoy myself. One thing at a time, as the chieftain always said. If you are going to kill seven dwarves, you have to start with one. He walked over to the nearest bench and began to browse.
A large axe was soon singled out. After all, he was a warrior. But the weapon refused to move, being somehow stuck to the bench where it touched. The young orc soon got bored with that, and moved on. An ornate box sat near by, just sat there, almost audibly begging to be opened. Uhlug-uhr opened it. Closing it rather quickly and moving on swiftly, he tried not to think about the huge, scaly hand that had been reaching for him. He didn't at all dwell on the four glowing eyes, or the stench of freshly dug earth that had oozed up from within.
A small dagger presented itself to his exploring eyes. Normally, such a puny weapon wouldn't have been of interest, but he badly needed to take his mind off things.
He turned the weapon over and around, examining the blade, engraved with strange symbols. A red stone was set into the hilt, which seemed to move slightly as he touched it. Holding the dagger firmly, he pressed the stone. The dagger transformed itself into a fine sword, cutting the head off a nearby statue without the slightest effort. The statue's head looked up at Uhlug-uhr, said "You'll regret that." in some ancient language, then crumbled to dust.
The orc was ecstatic, a fine weapon for a young warrior, and no heavier than it had been as a dagger. After a few practice swings, Uhlug-uhr pressed the stone again and it returned to being a dagger. Satisfied, he tucked it into his belt and carried on looking.
Several other items were tested to the limit, and beyond in some cases, but the orc was unable to discern any magical effects. He then found a ring. Excitedly he put it on. He had heard all about rings, and how they made the wearer invisible, or able to fly, or speak another language. An enthusiastic launching from a small stool proved him as airworthy as an orc, despite the vigorous arm flapping, and a small mirror showed him his own face looking back. Uhlug-uhr pulled the ring from his finger and dejectedly threw it back where he found it. Talking to foreigners was something as alien to his nature as ironing to a bloke who lives with his mother.
After pushing his luck so far, Uhlug-uhr decided to leave; after he had found just one more thing. He picked up the nearest object. It was egg shaped with a kind of handgrip. It fitted perfectly in his massive paw, and had a projection at one end like a tube. When gripped, the thing gave slightly. He was just about to try it out when he heard voices just outside. It was the shaman and the big chief. And where the chief went, there was uncle Dung-Dung
In a state of panic, Uhlug-uhr dashed between the benches heading for the rear of the cave. Frantically, he scoured his surroundings, looking for somewhere to hide. He pulled open the lid of a chest, but it was already full. He ducked under a bench, then realised it was too exposed. He pulled back a large fur hung on the wall but something black and shapeless hissed at him. The voices were closer now, practically in the cave.
Spotting a ladder leading up to a trapdoor in the roof, he grabbed the rungs and began to climb. The young orc had forgotten about the egg thing in his hand. It clanged against the ironwork and emitted a cone shaped yellow beam from its tube like projection. The beam skimmed past the orc's nose and illuminated the woodwork above him for a fraction of a second. Quickly, Uhlug-uhr dropped the egg and resumed his climb, just as the voices began to echo around the cave.
But with every step he took, his body seemed to double in weight. The muscles in his arms turned to mush as he dragged himself higher. The voices grew louder, until he was convinced that any minute he would feel the shaman's hand grabbing his ankle and pulling him back. In his fright, he failed to notice that the trapdoor had been replaced by a rippling void. Doggedly, he climbed on.
The hole was very close to his head now, if he could just pull himself up one more rung, he'd be safe. His stomach flipped as the hole closed over him, and his ears popped as he was thrust into what appeared to be a thicket of stout bushes. Above him, almost obscured by a leafy canopy, a black sky twinkled with stars. Beyond the thicket in every direction was darkness.
It would be fair to say that Uhlug-uhr wasn't the brightest of creatures, but he soon realised something was amiss. For one thing it had been early morning a minute ago, and thirdly, a riot of strange smells he had never encountered before wafted on the cool breeze.
Looking down, Uhlug-uhr could make out the top of the ladder poking through a wavery blackness, like a hole without the space holes usually had. It may be weird up here, he reasoned, but down there was the Shaman and the chief, and more importantly, uncle Dung-Dung. Oh well, he thought, I'll just stay here until it goes quite, then sneak back down.
Uhlug-uhr was still relatively young, so when it appeared he had time on his hands and nothing much to do, he did what any other young creature did -besides finding something to break- he went to sleep. And presently, began to snore.
- Copyright Steve Dean
So when Constable Cordite, a typical British police dog-handler, educated, as so many of them now are, to degree level, watched his dog Zeus disappear up the road with his tail between his legs and his ears flat to his head, he immediately suspected something was terribly wrong.
And being, as previously stated, not too slow on the uptake, he rapidly followed suit. Being hampered with just the one pair of running legs, and with his baby-makers definitely present, he took a more circuitous route, interposing large concrete objects between himself, the unlit park and the thick bush from which the noise was coming. As he ran, the PC vowed to return during daylight hours to investigate. This manoeuvre, although not yet in the police handbook, nevertheless saved Constable Cordite from a difficult meeting that would certainly have spoiled an otherwise promising career.
It was Uhlug-uhr's birthday. He was seven years old, not bad for an orc. In human terms that made him about seven. Mentally. Physically he was eighteen, the kind of eighteen that has been getting served in pubs since it was twelve, the kind that hasn't been spanked by its parents since it came home with a stunned bear under its arm.
As a special treat, and as everyone else seemed to have forgotten, Uhlug-uhr had decided to raid the shaman's cave. He was strictly not allowed in there, on pain of pain, by the only two orcs in the tribe who could say no to his face and still have teeth left afterwards; the shaman himself, who summoned demons with huge claws and napalm breath when threatened, and big Dung-Dung, the chief's bodyguard. It was said that Dung-Dung, uncle Dung-Dung to Uhlug-uhr, once mistakenly entered an ogres' lair whilst drunk. A week later he re-appeared, wearing an ogre skin tunic, ogre skin trousers, ogre skin shoes and carrying a live ogre in a sack, demanding to keep it and promising to walk it and clean it out.
Uhlug-uhr wasn't quite up to this standard, but then Dung-Dung had been nearly ten, so he had plenty of time yet. Besides, he wasn't yet considered anywhere near an adult, and was even excluded from today's tribal meetings. So, with nothing to lose and much to prove, he began to execute his cunning master plan.
Today, as every other day, his four foot seven frame (that's width and height) was dressed in a leather tabard with leather trousers, simple leather boots and a boiled leather hat. His trousers were held up with a leather belt and leather thongs had been used to sew him into the tabard. On his belt hung a leather pouch, which held a few personal belongings, and a small knife with a lizard skin bound handle. His reflection in the water bucket showed him to be mainly brown in colour, with a broad ursine face, forty one whitish teeth, and two yellow ones. After a long drink he added a confident grin to this classic ensemble and stepped from the cave.
On the other side of the lair, the rest of the tribe was busy planning an ambush on some squashy humans. Uhlug-uhr could just make out the chief, sitting on an ancient dragon skull throne. Behind him stood Dung-Dung and to his right sat the shaman. What he was sitting on, no one cared to notice, in case it got upset. The rest of the tribe were spread out in front, hanging on every word the chieftain spoke and occasionally shouting such things as "Kill them, Kill them all!" to show they were listening.
With his betters out of the way, Uhlug-uhr grabbed his chance, crept out of his cave and sidled towards the shaman's residence. Making sure no one was home, mainly by shouting into the cave, "Anyone home?" Uhlug-uhr slipped quietly in.
His eyes lit up with excitement as all kinds of objects were illuminated by the reddish glow from a globe on the wall. Before going in any further, Uhlug-uhr checked behind to be sure no one had spotted him. The rest of the tribe who weren't at the meeting, the very young and the very old, would still be sleeping, so no danger there. When all seemed to be clear, he strode further in, barely managing to control his excitement. What to look at first? Everything looked so interesting.
The cave was long and thin, more like a tunnel blocked at one end. The rock was smooth, slick like it was damp but felt dry to the touch. The floor was immaculate, completely bare and touched only by the legs of the many tables and benches. The Shaman's bed and personal belongings were within a niche carved into the wall on the orc's left hand side, or the right, depending on which hand you used.
Every other surface was covered by, supported or suspended a bewildering array of objects. Weapons, books and scrolls, ironwork, bones and teeth, chests, skins, bottles in stone and glass, statuary, cages with living and dead inhabitants, jewellery and so on, more than one young orc could comprehend.
Almost overwhelmed, Uhlug-uhr nearly gave up. But no, he thought, it's my birthday and I'm going to enjoy myself. One thing at a time, as the chieftain always said. If you are going to kill seven dwarves, you have to start with one. He walked over to the nearest bench and began to browse.
A large axe was soon singled out. After all, he was a warrior. But the weapon refused to move, being somehow stuck to the bench where it touched. The young orc soon got bored with that, and moved on. An ornate box sat near by, just sat there, almost audibly begging to be opened. Uhlug-uhr opened it. Closing it rather quickly and moving on swiftly, he tried not to think about the huge, scaly hand that had been reaching for him. He didn't at all dwell on the four glowing eyes, or the stench of freshly dug earth that had oozed up from within.
A small dagger presented itself to his exploring eyes. Normally, such a puny weapon wouldn't have been of interest, but he badly needed to take his mind off things.
He turned the weapon over and around, examining the blade, engraved with strange symbols. A red stone was set into the hilt, which seemed to move slightly as he touched it. Holding the dagger firmly, he pressed the stone. The dagger transformed itself into a fine sword, cutting the head off a nearby statue without the slightest effort. The statue's head looked up at Uhlug-uhr, said "You'll regret that." in some ancient language, then crumbled to dust.
The orc was ecstatic, a fine weapon for a young warrior, and no heavier than it had been as a dagger. After a few practice swings, Uhlug-uhr pressed the stone again and it returned to being a dagger. Satisfied, he tucked it into his belt and carried on looking.
Several other items were tested to the limit, and beyond in some cases, but the orc was unable to discern any magical effects. He then found a ring. Excitedly he put it on. He had heard all about rings, and how they made the wearer invisible, or able to fly, or speak another language. An enthusiastic launching from a small stool proved him as airworthy as an orc, despite the vigorous arm flapping, and a small mirror showed him his own face looking back. Uhlug-uhr pulled the ring from his finger and dejectedly threw it back where he found it. Talking to foreigners was something as alien to his nature as ironing to a bloke who lives with his mother.
After pushing his luck so far, Uhlug-uhr decided to leave; after he had found just one more thing. He picked up the nearest object. It was egg shaped with a kind of handgrip. It fitted perfectly in his massive paw, and had a projection at one end like a tube. When gripped, the thing gave slightly. He was just about to try it out when he heard voices just outside. It was the shaman and the big chief. And where the chief went, there was uncle Dung-Dung
In a state of panic, Uhlug-uhr dashed between the benches heading for the rear of the cave. Frantically, he scoured his surroundings, looking for somewhere to hide. He pulled open the lid of a chest, but it was already full. He ducked under a bench, then realised it was too exposed. He pulled back a large fur hung on the wall but something black and shapeless hissed at him. The voices were closer now, practically in the cave.
Spotting a ladder leading up to a trapdoor in the roof, he grabbed the rungs and began to climb. The young orc had forgotten about the egg thing in his hand. It clanged against the ironwork and emitted a cone shaped yellow beam from its tube like projection. The beam skimmed past the orc's nose and illuminated the woodwork above him for a fraction of a second. Quickly, Uhlug-uhr dropped the egg and resumed his climb, just as the voices began to echo around the cave.
But with every step he took, his body seemed to double in weight. The muscles in his arms turned to mush as he dragged himself higher. The voices grew louder, until he was convinced that any minute he would feel the shaman's hand grabbing his ankle and pulling him back. In his fright, he failed to notice that the trapdoor had been replaced by a rippling void. Doggedly, he climbed on.
The hole was very close to his head now, if he could just pull himself up one more rung, he'd be safe. His stomach flipped as the hole closed over him, and his ears popped as he was thrust into what appeared to be a thicket of stout bushes. Above him, almost obscured by a leafy canopy, a black sky twinkled with stars. Beyond the thicket in every direction was darkness.
It would be fair to say that Uhlug-uhr wasn't the brightest of creatures, but he soon realised something was amiss. For one thing it had been early morning a minute ago, and thirdly, a riot of strange smells he had never encountered before wafted on the cool breeze.
Looking down, Uhlug-uhr could make out the top of the ladder poking through a wavery blackness, like a hole without the space holes usually had. It may be weird up here, he reasoned, but down there was the Shaman and the chief, and more importantly, uncle Dung-Dung. Oh well, he thought, I'll just stay here until it goes quite, then sneak back down.
Uhlug-uhr was still relatively young, so when it appeared he had time on his hands and nothing much to do, he did what any other young creature did -besides finding something to break- he went to sleep. And presently, began to snore.
- Copyright Steve Dean
From Freak to Unique
When I glanced across the room I saw he was staring at me again. There was something familiar about his face. The dark skin and the pale eyes. The way his mouth had an almost permanent sneer. I had looked into those eyes before, and felt terror. Slowly he rose, then began to thread his way through the closely packed tables towards the dark alcove in which I always sat. His eyes stared into mine, glancing around only once, making sure his gang were close by. There was no fear now, after all I'd been through, this was just an inconvenience. The stale smoky atmosphere swirled around him as he stopped right against my table. His bulky frame blocking out some of the heavy beat of the live band. He looked me in the eye for a moment, then looked me over, the sneer never moving from his mouth. He spoke through crooked lips "Dun I know you!" It wasn't a question, more the sort of thing a cat would say when teasing a mouse. "Yeah, I'm famous." I replied, mimicking his accent. "You been in the paper, you're one of them freaks!" He leaned towards me and spat the last word in to my face. "That's original, I haven't heard that one before."
The sarcasm was wasted. He looked over his shoulder and shouted across the room, "Oi! come and have a look at this freak!" Again he put the stress on freak. His gang started to push their way across the crowded bar. He didn't take his eyes off me until his boys had assembled. "See this fing ere, this is what's known as a freak, he's had doctors inside him, doing all sorts of dirty things to him. I bet he enjoyed 'em all." "You're pretty tough with your playmates around, I bet your a little pussy when you're alone". I taunted. He spread his hands on the small table and leant forwards until his nose was almost touching mine, I winced at the smell of cheap beer and even cheaper cigars blowing from his mouth. "Ooo! aren't we the smart boy, wasn't so smart before though was ya! Laying in that bed all 'elpless! I'd know your face anywhere, little boy wiv a nasty disease in a' hospital bed. Name wasn't John Dericson then though."
The memories finally connected in my sub-conscious, I was whisked back to the orphanage in which I had spent my formative years. An image of the hospital wing formed in my brain. I remembered the bed, large, white metal frame. The machines, beeping, pinging, endless rolls of green paper covered in black waves. The kindly nurse smelling of nicotine. The old doctor, rough, short tempered. And Jaton Wilsa. Ten years old. Dark skin, pale eyes. That sneer starting to become permanent. He stared into my eyes, then, one by one, switched off each machine in turn. Finding the switches then looking back to watch the fear as his grubby fingers clicked them off.
A burst of clapping brought me back to the present, the live band had finished its set. Had I not been a little pre-occupied I would have clapped too, they were quite good. Jaton stood back, arms folded in triumph. "Jaton Wilsa! I thought you'd be dead for sure. How many people want to smash your face in with something heavy? Every one you've ever met I would think. And it's Ericson, Jorn Ericson. Get somebody to read the paper for you?" Jaton lunged forward and grabbed the edge of the table, his knuckles whitening, the veins pumping in his tattooed arms. "Freaks like you should be put down! Stand up and let me put you out of your misery, I don' even 'it wimin sitting down!" I sighed loudly and stood up slowly. I was easily 18 inches taller than Wilsa. His gaze followed me up, his wrath deflating slightly with every inch, which was just the effect I had been hoping for. The sneer subsided and his chin dropped, leaving him gawping like a dead fish. "You were saying something, boy!" This time I leaned into his face. "Shit! They screwed you up real bad, freak!" Wilsa looked round, checking his gang were still there. "Guess I'll just 'ave to use old equaliser."
The pulsing lights glinted off something as he jabbed forward with his right hand. This was all old hat to me, almost a daily occurrence at one time. I slapped his advancing fist down on to the table with my left hand and extended my right into his guts. He groaned and doubled up in pain. The genetic "enhancements" had left me very tall, with a lot of strength in my upper torso. Two of Wilsa's goons stepped forwards, both had produced similar knives from equally mysterious, and no doubt sweaty, orifices. I was about to do the same to these two when two massive hands appeared simultaneously on each of their shoulders. The knives disappeared, I still didn't see where. A surprisingly smooth and cultured voice spoke from behind the gang. "Perhaps the gentleman would like to be left in peace for the remainder of the evening."
As one the gang members turned and walked silently away, dragging Wilsa with them. The two dark suited bouncers escorting them to the door. Halfway across the room Wilsa turned and mouthed something, I didn't see what through the thick air. But I could guess.
These events had happened regularly since I had been "released" from the Foundation hospital nine months before. From a safe cocoon-like environment to a roman arena in one week. Me and several others, although we were keep apart I knew there was more than just me. It was as if I could feel their presence, a kind of warm glow at the back of my head. I don't know what happened to the rest, the warm glow disappeared when the van I was taken away in left the hospital.I haven't felt it again since. I was placed in a community tower block in the middle of the city to "integrate and adapt". Get to meet normal people, see how they live. But the Genetic manipulation I had been subjected to had left me too different. I was seven feet four inches tall, most of which was rib cage. But I weighed only eight stone thanks to my honeycomb bones and lightweight organs. If they had seen my back they would truly have freaked out. At first I ignored the comments. People pointing, whispers behind hands. Then some of them got braver, started to say things out loud. Always the same set of words; freak, mutant, animal, hunch back, devil-spawn.
The bitter irony of it was that scum like Wilsa had rights, they were protected by modern liberal attitudes towards criminals. But because the genetic surgeon saved me from a terrible wasting disease, he could do what he wanted with me, and did.
As closing time approached I finished the one drink I could afford and left. I didn't like crowds, people tried to leave a gap around me, it was embarrassing. Outside, the cool wind blew a few spots of rain left over from a shower across my face. It was welcome after the close environment of the bar. Although it wasn't any cleaner, but where is these days?
I looked up and down the street for the tell tale sign of exhaust smoke, Wilsa would be here somewhere, waiting. If not tonight, then tomorrow. Walking up the street I scanned the road ahead from side to side, checking every shadow and dark alley. I suppose I could have ran, or waited for the crowds to turn out, but what was the point? If it wasn't Wilsa it would be somebody else. Besides I'd had enough practice at this, I could handle myself. Sure enough, a few hundred yards ahead a battered Vauxhall screeched out of a side road. At this point I wasn't too worried, at least he hadn't brought a van load of his cronies. The car came straight towards me, head lights on full, bumping up the kerb and stopping just in time. Wilsa and several others leapt from the car, I don't know how they all got in, never mind out so quick. Wilsa approached, the others, following instructions, hung back. But not too far. They were all armed with various neanderthal weapons, clubs, wooden poles etc. Wilsa had his hands behind his back. He was managing to sneer and grin at the same time. No doubt he would produce some monstrous club laden with spikes, watching me for a suitably impressed reaction. He wasn't disappointed. I had been over confident this time, It looked like I would pay a heavy price.
- Copyright Steve Dean
The sarcasm was wasted. He looked over his shoulder and shouted across the room, "Oi! come and have a look at this freak!" Again he put the stress on freak. His gang started to push their way across the crowded bar. He didn't take his eyes off me until his boys had assembled. "See this fing ere, this is what's known as a freak, he's had doctors inside him, doing all sorts of dirty things to him. I bet he enjoyed 'em all." "You're pretty tough with your playmates around, I bet your a little pussy when you're alone". I taunted. He spread his hands on the small table and leant forwards until his nose was almost touching mine, I winced at the smell of cheap beer and even cheaper cigars blowing from his mouth. "Ooo! aren't we the smart boy, wasn't so smart before though was ya! Laying in that bed all 'elpless! I'd know your face anywhere, little boy wiv a nasty disease in a' hospital bed. Name wasn't John Dericson then though."
The memories finally connected in my sub-conscious, I was whisked back to the orphanage in which I had spent my formative years. An image of the hospital wing formed in my brain. I remembered the bed, large, white metal frame. The machines, beeping, pinging, endless rolls of green paper covered in black waves. The kindly nurse smelling of nicotine. The old doctor, rough, short tempered. And Jaton Wilsa. Ten years old. Dark skin, pale eyes. That sneer starting to become permanent. He stared into my eyes, then, one by one, switched off each machine in turn. Finding the switches then looking back to watch the fear as his grubby fingers clicked them off.
A burst of clapping brought me back to the present, the live band had finished its set. Had I not been a little pre-occupied I would have clapped too, they were quite good. Jaton stood back, arms folded in triumph. "Jaton Wilsa! I thought you'd be dead for sure. How many people want to smash your face in with something heavy? Every one you've ever met I would think. And it's Ericson, Jorn Ericson. Get somebody to read the paper for you?" Jaton lunged forward and grabbed the edge of the table, his knuckles whitening, the veins pumping in his tattooed arms. "Freaks like you should be put down! Stand up and let me put you out of your misery, I don' even 'it wimin sitting down!" I sighed loudly and stood up slowly. I was easily 18 inches taller than Wilsa. His gaze followed me up, his wrath deflating slightly with every inch, which was just the effect I had been hoping for. The sneer subsided and his chin dropped, leaving him gawping like a dead fish. "You were saying something, boy!" This time I leaned into his face. "Shit! They screwed you up real bad, freak!" Wilsa looked round, checking his gang were still there. "Guess I'll just 'ave to use old equaliser."
The pulsing lights glinted off something as he jabbed forward with his right hand. This was all old hat to me, almost a daily occurrence at one time. I slapped his advancing fist down on to the table with my left hand and extended my right into his guts. He groaned and doubled up in pain. The genetic "enhancements" had left me very tall, with a lot of strength in my upper torso. Two of Wilsa's goons stepped forwards, both had produced similar knives from equally mysterious, and no doubt sweaty, orifices. I was about to do the same to these two when two massive hands appeared simultaneously on each of their shoulders. The knives disappeared, I still didn't see where. A surprisingly smooth and cultured voice spoke from behind the gang. "Perhaps the gentleman would like to be left in peace for the remainder of the evening."
As one the gang members turned and walked silently away, dragging Wilsa with them. The two dark suited bouncers escorting them to the door. Halfway across the room Wilsa turned and mouthed something, I didn't see what through the thick air. But I could guess.
These events had happened regularly since I had been "released" from the Foundation hospital nine months before. From a safe cocoon-like environment to a roman arena in one week. Me and several others, although we were keep apart I knew there was more than just me. It was as if I could feel their presence, a kind of warm glow at the back of my head. I don't know what happened to the rest, the warm glow disappeared when the van I was taken away in left the hospital.I haven't felt it again since. I was placed in a community tower block in the middle of the city to "integrate and adapt". Get to meet normal people, see how they live. But the Genetic manipulation I had been subjected to had left me too different. I was seven feet four inches tall, most of which was rib cage. But I weighed only eight stone thanks to my honeycomb bones and lightweight organs. If they had seen my back they would truly have freaked out. At first I ignored the comments. People pointing, whispers behind hands. Then some of them got braver, started to say things out loud. Always the same set of words; freak, mutant, animal, hunch back, devil-spawn.
The bitter irony of it was that scum like Wilsa had rights, they were protected by modern liberal attitudes towards criminals. But because the genetic surgeon saved me from a terrible wasting disease, he could do what he wanted with me, and did.
As closing time approached I finished the one drink I could afford and left. I didn't like crowds, people tried to leave a gap around me, it was embarrassing. Outside, the cool wind blew a few spots of rain left over from a shower across my face. It was welcome after the close environment of the bar. Although it wasn't any cleaner, but where is these days?
I looked up and down the street for the tell tale sign of exhaust smoke, Wilsa would be here somewhere, waiting. If not tonight, then tomorrow. Walking up the street I scanned the road ahead from side to side, checking every shadow and dark alley. I suppose I could have ran, or waited for the crowds to turn out, but what was the point? If it wasn't Wilsa it would be somebody else. Besides I'd had enough practice at this, I could handle myself. Sure enough, a few hundred yards ahead a battered Vauxhall screeched out of a side road. At this point I wasn't too worried, at least he hadn't brought a van load of his cronies. The car came straight towards me, head lights on full, bumping up the kerb and stopping just in time. Wilsa and several others leapt from the car, I don't know how they all got in, never mind out so quick. Wilsa approached, the others, following instructions, hung back. But not too far. They were all armed with various neanderthal weapons, clubs, wooden poles etc. Wilsa had his hands behind his back. He was managing to sneer and grin at the same time. No doubt he would produce some monstrous club laden with spikes, watching me for a suitably impressed reaction. He wasn't disappointed. I had been over confident this time, It looked like I would pay a heavy price.
- Copyright Steve Dean
Fairytale
A dark shape moved through the trees by the light of a crescent moon. The two legged being was searching along the edge of the forest, had been for many nights. Tonight, he was sure, his search would yield results. The human houses just beyond the woods were mostly dark, with one or two dull orange or yellow exceptions. These he passed by, he was looking for a particular kind of light. The residents of the houses, human and animal, were unaware of his passing. Those kind of people stopped believing generations ago. Only minutes later the figure stopped, his breath stilled, his eyes aglow. There, in the small window of a large house, the room beyond lit by a faint blue light, sat the silhouette of a young girl, her dark hair haloed in navy by the glow.
Perfect, thought the figure. It was already past midnight, but Rebecca couldn't sleep. She switched on her bedside lamp, the one with the blue bulb, and doused the main light. Her mother had insisted that blue bulbs, or indeed bulbs of any colour, had no place in the bedroom of a young lady. When Rebecca had lied that all the girls at school had them, her mother had relented, not wanting her offspring to be unfashionable. The rest of the room was fairly typical of what mothers like hers thought teenagers should have; flowered prints, daisy wallpaper, a little clock in the shape of a teapot. Rebecca hated it all, when she had children their rooms would be fun, not deadly dull like this. After undressing and slipping on her white, knee length, lace trimmed nightie, she quietly pulled back the curtains and looked out into the dark night. The edge of the shadowy forest sat like a ruled line across the middle distance. Orange light spilled between the houses from the street lights, casting dusky shadows over gardens and fences.
Her hazel eyes adapted to the light, allowing her to see a little better. A moments hesitation, then she gripped the window handle and swung the wood effect uPVC frame outwards. Cool, but not cold, air wafted against her face and neck, sending a shiver down her back. The sensation wasn't unpleasant, indeed it seemed to invigorate her after the crushing stuffiness of her day. She began to daydream, leaning her elbows on the window sill and leaning out. Wouldn't it be nice, she thought, to just leap from the window and into the sky. Rebecca listened carefully to the sounds inside the house, making sure her father, who often worked late, had gone to bed. When she was satisfied she climbed onto her blanket box then onto the window sill. At one metre sixty two centimetres, she was too tall to stand upright, but hanging on to the window frame and leaning out gave her an immense thrill. When she had scared herself enough, she sat down on the sill, legs hanging in the breeze.
Just below her sat the flat roof of the kitchen extension. Rebecca wondered if she could climb down without too much fuss, but rejected the idea. If her mother, for some reason, came into her room and found her outside she would have a fit. She would be grounded for months and be forced to attend Madame Sophia's deportment classes. Clouds of dark grey floated across the sky, their edges lit by the moon. She studied them, wondering were they had been, and where they were going. How fabulous it would be if she could just strip off her nightie and rush naked into the heavens. Rebecca giggled suddenly, she had been having thoughts like that for quite a while. She had told her best friend
Kristie, who had been quite shocked. Movement down in the garden caught her eye. She pulled her legs up and was about to rush back inside when she heard the sound of a cat purring. Eagerly, almost too loudly, she called out, "Here puss, come here," clicking her fingers to gain its attention. Pets were not allowed in this household; dirty, smelly things, covered with fleas and making a mess. No matter how much she pleaded, Rebecca was unable to move her mother on the subject, despite Mrs Dorington-allen, the lady with the biggest house in the village, having a Clumber Spaniel that won prizes. After a slight rustling, and a grunt that sounded very un-cat like, a feline face appeared above the kitchen roof.
The face was quite large for a cat, but otherwise had all the right features. Yellow eyes set in a brown face regarded her for some time, then it purred again, like a small outboard motor. Rebecca shushed it, "Quiet puss, come here, see what I have for you." She held out her empty hand, not knowing how smart cats were. The cat spoke, or at least that's what it sounded like to a startled Rebecca. She giggled nervously, finger tips to her mouth. Was she hearing things? Or just trying to make sense of random noises? The cat looked back at her, in a very human way, then it spoke again, "Help ussss." it purred.
Rebecca's mouth dropped open in a very unladylike fashion. Her unblinking eyes were wide with shock, her breathing stopped. The stillness of her body contrasted deeply against the whirling of her mind. All the fantasy stories she had read, the films she had watched, the characters she had imagined being, surfaced at once, threatening to drown out her control. The creature watched the girl with increasing excitement, she could really be what he was looking for. True she had frozen up, but she hadn't yet ran away. If he could only say the right thing, she was his to command. Shifting his position on the drainpipe, he climbed a little higher, exposing his shoulders. The cat face was very uncomfortable to hold, but he felt to relax now would be a mistake, the girl was obviously a cat lover.
"Please, we need help, we are threatened. Our race is dying, you humans are destroying us. The homes of the Elfs' are being felled to make the paths on which your glass eyed chariots race." He smiled sadly. Rebecca listened in horror as the thing spoke, she could see now that it wasn't a cat at all. If it hadn't have been for the voice she would have sworn it was her younger brother in a mask making fun at her. On second thoughts, that wasn't possible, Harold was far too much like his father to be so frivolous. A single word cut through the storm of thoughts inside her head, elf, it said elf. Her thoughts turned to the much read book on the shelf above her bed. Lord of the rings, in which the noble elfs helped the humans and dwarfs fight the evil creatures spreading across the land. "What...what do you want me to do?" She whispered hesitantly.
The cat that wasn't immediately leaped up onto the roof. Rebecca was stunned to see how big it was, easily as big as her brother, but more muscular. The elf wasn't as tall as she imagined, at less than a metre and a half, and he was dressed funny, in a kind of tight kilt and an old leather tunic. His feet were bare, with thick fur on top and up his legs. His face, now he had dropped the cat features, was almost human, his mouth a little too wide, his eyes too big, and his teeth definitely wrong, more like a cat's, actually. His hair was thick, almost matted, not the long, flowing blond locks of the elfs she had read about. The elf approached. Hastily she snatched in her feet and withdrew into her room, bare feet on thick carpet and her right hand on the window handle. The elf stopped, holding out its empty hands, "I mean you no harm, please, let me talk, we need your aid." he purred, smiling benignly.
Rebecca leaned out and hissed, "What can I do? I'm only a school girl, I can't stop them cutting down the trees." "No, but you can talk to my people, tell them that not all humans have forgotten them, that some still believe." The figure took a step back and bowed deeply, "My name is Chichit, I am a member of a race long forgotten by the higher folk.
This night I was drawn to your window, not by the light, but by the spirit I felt coming from you. You are an open human, not closed and mean like the rest. Please, for me, I promise you an adventure you will never forget." His eyes shone liquid in the blue light. Rebecca was unsure. She was convinced he was real, even though she had seen people in films made up to look like almost anything. But it was too dark for cameras, and anyway why would anyone want to trick her? The word adventure though, that stuck in her mind, burned her brain.
Chichit was tense with anticipation, he almost had her, just another push and she would be out of that window like a squirrel. But what? She seemed deep in thought, what had he said that had set her thinking? He tried to remember the exact words, then tried a few. "Our spirits called out to each other." Nothing. "It's sad how people have forgotten us."
Again, no reaction. "The adventures I have had." The girls eyes flicked up and locked on his. "Oh yes, you wouldn't believe what I've seen." He continued triumphantly. "I'll get dressed," She whispered. "No, no, its alright. If you surround yourself with too many human things we won't be able to travel the spirit paths." Chichit said quickly. The girl hesitated again. "Quickly, before the nights gone, you want to be back by dawn don't you?" Rebecca paused for a moment, she didn't like going out dressed only in a thin night-shirt, but she couldn't go fully dressed, and the night was creeping away. Not giving herself chance to change her mind, she jumped up onto the window sill and carefully lowered herself onto the extension roof. Chichit helped her down, his warm hands grasping her hips.
"Hello, my name is Rebecca, my friends call me Bec, you can too if you like." She held out her hand to shake his. Instead he took it to his mouth and kissed the back of it. "It's a pleasure to meet you Bec, now quickly, follow me." Chichit was ecstatic as he lead the girl over the roof, down the drainpipe, and out through the back gate. His heart had nearly leaped from his body as he helped her down, the sight of her bare backside taking his breath. Now he could see her properly he was impressed. She was quite tall, had long black hair and good sized bumps under her shirt thing. Yes, this was going to be a night to remember for both of them.
- Copyright Steve Dean
Perfect, thought the figure. It was already past midnight, but Rebecca couldn't sleep. She switched on her bedside lamp, the one with the blue bulb, and doused the main light. Her mother had insisted that blue bulbs, or indeed bulbs of any colour, had no place in the bedroom of a young lady. When Rebecca had lied that all the girls at school had them, her mother had relented, not wanting her offspring to be unfashionable. The rest of the room was fairly typical of what mothers like hers thought teenagers should have; flowered prints, daisy wallpaper, a little clock in the shape of a teapot. Rebecca hated it all, when she had children their rooms would be fun, not deadly dull like this. After undressing and slipping on her white, knee length, lace trimmed nightie, she quietly pulled back the curtains and looked out into the dark night. The edge of the shadowy forest sat like a ruled line across the middle distance. Orange light spilled between the houses from the street lights, casting dusky shadows over gardens and fences.
Her hazel eyes adapted to the light, allowing her to see a little better. A moments hesitation, then she gripped the window handle and swung the wood effect uPVC frame outwards. Cool, but not cold, air wafted against her face and neck, sending a shiver down her back. The sensation wasn't unpleasant, indeed it seemed to invigorate her after the crushing stuffiness of her day. She began to daydream, leaning her elbows on the window sill and leaning out. Wouldn't it be nice, she thought, to just leap from the window and into the sky. Rebecca listened carefully to the sounds inside the house, making sure her father, who often worked late, had gone to bed. When she was satisfied she climbed onto her blanket box then onto the window sill. At one metre sixty two centimetres, she was too tall to stand upright, but hanging on to the window frame and leaning out gave her an immense thrill. When she had scared herself enough, she sat down on the sill, legs hanging in the breeze.
Just below her sat the flat roof of the kitchen extension. Rebecca wondered if she could climb down without too much fuss, but rejected the idea. If her mother, for some reason, came into her room and found her outside she would have a fit. She would be grounded for months and be forced to attend Madame Sophia's deportment classes. Clouds of dark grey floated across the sky, their edges lit by the moon. She studied them, wondering were they had been, and where they were going. How fabulous it would be if she could just strip off her nightie and rush naked into the heavens. Rebecca giggled suddenly, she had been having thoughts like that for quite a while. She had told her best friend
Kristie, who had been quite shocked. Movement down in the garden caught her eye. She pulled her legs up and was about to rush back inside when she heard the sound of a cat purring. Eagerly, almost too loudly, she called out, "Here puss, come here," clicking her fingers to gain its attention. Pets were not allowed in this household; dirty, smelly things, covered with fleas and making a mess. No matter how much she pleaded, Rebecca was unable to move her mother on the subject, despite Mrs Dorington-allen, the lady with the biggest house in the village, having a Clumber Spaniel that won prizes. After a slight rustling, and a grunt that sounded very un-cat like, a feline face appeared above the kitchen roof.
The face was quite large for a cat, but otherwise had all the right features. Yellow eyes set in a brown face regarded her for some time, then it purred again, like a small outboard motor. Rebecca shushed it, "Quiet puss, come here, see what I have for you." She held out her empty hand, not knowing how smart cats were. The cat spoke, or at least that's what it sounded like to a startled Rebecca. She giggled nervously, finger tips to her mouth. Was she hearing things? Or just trying to make sense of random noises? The cat looked back at her, in a very human way, then it spoke again, "Help ussss." it purred.
Rebecca's mouth dropped open in a very unladylike fashion. Her unblinking eyes were wide with shock, her breathing stopped. The stillness of her body contrasted deeply against the whirling of her mind. All the fantasy stories she had read, the films she had watched, the characters she had imagined being, surfaced at once, threatening to drown out her control. The creature watched the girl with increasing excitement, she could really be what he was looking for. True she had frozen up, but she hadn't yet ran away. If he could only say the right thing, she was his to command. Shifting his position on the drainpipe, he climbed a little higher, exposing his shoulders. The cat face was very uncomfortable to hold, but he felt to relax now would be a mistake, the girl was obviously a cat lover.
"Please, we need help, we are threatened. Our race is dying, you humans are destroying us. The homes of the Elfs' are being felled to make the paths on which your glass eyed chariots race." He smiled sadly. Rebecca listened in horror as the thing spoke, she could see now that it wasn't a cat at all. If it hadn't have been for the voice she would have sworn it was her younger brother in a mask making fun at her. On second thoughts, that wasn't possible, Harold was far too much like his father to be so frivolous. A single word cut through the storm of thoughts inside her head, elf, it said elf. Her thoughts turned to the much read book on the shelf above her bed. Lord of the rings, in which the noble elfs helped the humans and dwarfs fight the evil creatures spreading across the land. "What...what do you want me to do?" She whispered hesitantly.
The cat that wasn't immediately leaped up onto the roof. Rebecca was stunned to see how big it was, easily as big as her brother, but more muscular. The elf wasn't as tall as she imagined, at less than a metre and a half, and he was dressed funny, in a kind of tight kilt and an old leather tunic. His feet were bare, with thick fur on top and up his legs. His face, now he had dropped the cat features, was almost human, his mouth a little too wide, his eyes too big, and his teeth definitely wrong, more like a cat's, actually. His hair was thick, almost matted, not the long, flowing blond locks of the elfs she had read about. The elf approached. Hastily she snatched in her feet and withdrew into her room, bare feet on thick carpet and her right hand on the window handle. The elf stopped, holding out its empty hands, "I mean you no harm, please, let me talk, we need your aid." he purred, smiling benignly.
Rebecca leaned out and hissed, "What can I do? I'm only a school girl, I can't stop them cutting down the trees." "No, but you can talk to my people, tell them that not all humans have forgotten them, that some still believe." The figure took a step back and bowed deeply, "My name is Chichit, I am a member of a race long forgotten by the higher folk.
This night I was drawn to your window, not by the light, but by the spirit I felt coming from you. You are an open human, not closed and mean like the rest. Please, for me, I promise you an adventure you will never forget." His eyes shone liquid in the blue light. Rebecca was unsure. She was convinced he was real, even though she had seen people in films made up to look like almost anything. But it was too dark for cameras, and anyway why would anyone want to trick her? The word adventure though, that stuck in her mind, burned her brain.
Chichit was tense with anticipation, he almost had her, just another push and she would be out of that window like a squirrel. But what? She seemed deep in thought, what had he said that had set her thinking? He tried to remember the exact words, then tried a few. "Our spirits called out to each other." Nothing. "It's sad how people have forgotten us."
Again, no reaction. "The adventures I have had." The girls eyes flicked up and locked on his. "Oh yes, you wouldn't believe what I've seen." He continued triumphantly. "I'll get dressed," She whispered. "No, no, its alright. If you surround yourself with too many human things we won't be able to travel the spirit paths." Chichit said quickly. The girl hesitated again. "Quickly, before the nights gone, you want to be back by dawn don't you?" Rebecca paused for a moment, she didn't like going out dressed only in a thin night-shirt, but she couldn't go fully dressed, and the night was creeping away. Not giving herself chance to change her mind, she jumped up onto the window sill and carefully lowered herself onto the extension roof. Chichit helped her down, his warm hands grasping her hips.
"Hello, my name is Rebecca, my friends call me Bec, you can too if you like." She held out her hand to shake his. Instead he took it to his mouth and kissed the back of it. "It's a pleasure to meet you Bec, now quickly, follow me." Chichit was ecstatic as he lead the girl over the roof, down the drainpipe, and out through the back gate. His heart had nearly leaped from his body as he helped her down, the sight of her bare backside taking his breath. Now he could see her properly he was impressed. She was quite tall, had long black hair and good sized bumps under her shirt thing. Yes, this was going to be a night to remember for both of them.
- Copyright Steve Dean
Deep Inside
I am looking up into a sky split into two halves. The left hand side is a dimmed blue, filtered, corrected. The right side is glaring, lit by a huge white sun. Dividing the two, a zig-zag line of sharp edged glass has leaked a greasy liquid. One side of my face is burning, the other cold. Somewhere in the middle, just a thin strip, it's about right.
As an experiment, I close my right eye. It isn't helping much, as all I can see is the sky. As I lie thinking, it occurs to me that I am lying on my back, and can, if I want to, move. Slowly, I rotate my head. A Soft whirring sound accompanies my head movement, but the view has changed and the glaring light lessened. To the side I know as left, a wide plain stretches as far as I can see. It is mostly -no, it is all- flat, brown rock. Nothing else moves. No threats present. The last sentence isn't me speaking, but something else, more a signal than a voice. I don't know where it is, but it is close, and for the moment it's a comfort.
I try again, this time moving right. All is well until my head is about two thirds round, then a grating noise judders my vision and my head stops. Looking as best I can, though the light has returned, I see the same plain, but this time strewn with shapes. Some are long and thin, some round, some like stars. The ground is disturbed in places, cratered and churned up, particularly around the shapes.
The left side of my vision has filled with coloured lines. A scan of some kind. The signal has commanded it, it may be important. The lines pick out each shape in turn, fill it with colour, then a series of letters appears underneath. I read some of them, they sort of make sense.
Wreckage, type 37 Bio-enh-suit:- spent.
Wreckage, type unknown:- spent.
The light is glaring too much now, so I am going to move. Relaxing my thoughts, the signal comes in. It recommends a full system check. I brace myself for whatever that is and the signal continues. There are several beeps, then the screen fills with text. It appears to list all the systems I have, but most of it is meaningless to me. Besides, the results of the check seem to be on the right side of the display, which of course is nowhere to be seen. I decide to stand up, and if I make it I'll take it from there.
With a lot of effort and much grinding and complaining on the display, I am now upright. It appears I have the use of two legs, although the right one isn't perfect, and my left arm, which is "functional." I can't turn my head all the way right, or do anything with my right arm. There is also a pain, like fire, in my middle region from my right shoulder to my waist. The signal says I am damaged but mobile. The display says I am vulnerable, and should... but the advise is on the right half, again.
The first thing I do is turn my back on the white light. My face is still hot but the relief is instant. I can see properly for the first time, if the display will stop drawing lines around everything.
I walk over to the nearest wreckage. It consists of a large central mass, with two long attachments at one end. The top half, above chest height, is missing. Two different liquids have ran out onto the bare rock. The dark one has dried, the lighter, oily one has gathered in a pool in a shallow depression. It refracts the sunlight in iridescent patterns of orange and purple. It is quite pretty.
I reach out to examine the melted edge of the mass. Its construction and materials are like my arm. A certain heaviness settles on me as I realise we are, were, the same.
The voice says there is no threat here, nor useful repair items or weaponry. The visor says "move on to avoid..."
I move on. The signal is silent on the direction I am to take. So, with my back to the sun, I walk off. My gait is light and flowing, I cover a lot of ground. Occasionally, my right leg starts to drag, but a boost of something brings it back to speed.
The right half of my vision begins to dim, although the left side is fine, if a little green. I realise the sun is setting, it will soon be dark. A green matrix fills the left side of my vision, with the odd fuzzy green dot, some bright some dark. There isn't much to see anyway. The signal recommends I keep moving under cover of darkness. So I do.
Later still, the sun appears in front of me, glowing orange, not at all like the white of before. Again my visor says I am vulnerable and should seek shelter. A full 360 degree scan produces nothing but flat plains. I am deciding what to do when a small movement captures my attention. Before I know it the visor has locked on and zoomed in on a small dust cloud. My body turns in that direction and we set off. I don't mind, it's somewhere to go.
Finally I reach the spot I estimate the movement came from. The land is empty as far as I can see, enhanced or otherwise.
Perhaps my sight is working imperfectly, or the heat is blurring everything. Perhaps there had been no movement. Perhaps I only imagined it.
I walk a little further, in case I have under estimated, and am rewarded by the sight of thin tracks in the dust, faint, but unmistakeable. Two parallel trails, possibly of some tracked vehicle, smaller than me, and moving in either one of two directions. Not having any more data, I set off in the direction I am facing, which saves energy, and is therefore more logical, according to the signal.
The sun has moved quite a distance, and is now to my right. In that time my bounding strides have carried me a long way. Just how far, none of my systems can tell me. Before me, only a few metres away, a small tracked robot is scanning the area with a dish it produced from its back. The dish has pointed in my direction several times, but it has shown no reaction.
Scanner nulling circuits, the signal explains. The words almost fall out of my mind, but there is no further explanation. As the little robot moves on I follow. It stops again, this time I move closer before it can get away.
The vehicle opens a small door on its front and a thin tube appears. Automatically, my left arm comes up and the signal calmly advises me it is neutralising the threat. Frantically I think 'No, I don't want to', and my arm slowly drops. Although the signal is advising the former action. With a struggle I am able to control the thought, and the arm. I have no need to kill the little robot. But just as I have myself under control, the vehicle fires on me, causing a warm sensation in my chest and an alarm in my visor.
Moving forward, against the shots of what the signal tells me is a pulsed, low emission laser, I try to open communications and talk to it. There is no response to normal frequencies, (except from the visor which is reporting radio emissions from this unit which are revealing our position. I ignore it), so I switch to voice. But all that comes out is an incomprehensible croak. My voice circuits are too badly damaged after all.
Another alarm sounds and this time I am unable to stop the signal. My arm raises fluidly and a single blast of blue light burns through the small vehicle. It stops moving, its weapon sagging on its mount.
- Copyright Steve Dean
As an experiment, I close my right eye. It isn't helping much, as all I can see is the sky. As I lie thinking, it occurs to me that I am lying on my back, and can, if I want to, move. Slowly, I rotate my head. A Soft whirring sound accompanies my head movement, but the view has changed and the glaring light lessened. To the side I know as left, a wide plain stretches as far as I can see. It is mostly -no, it is all- flat, brown rock. Nothing else moves. No threats present. The last sentence isn't me speaking, but something else, more a signal than a voice. I don't know where it is, but it is close, and for the moment it's a comfort.
I try again, this time moving right. All is well until my head is about two thirds round, then a grating noise judders my vision and my head stops. Looking as best I can, though the light has returned, I see the same plain, but this time strewn with shapes. Some are long and thin, some round, some like stars. The ground is disturbed in places, cratered and churned up, particularly around the shapes.
The left side of my vision has filled with coloured lines. A scan of some kind. The signal has commanded it, it may be important. The lines pick out each shape in turn, fill it with colour, then a series of letters appears underneath. I read some of them, they sort of make sense.
Wreckage, type 37 Bio-enh-suit:- spent.
Wreckage, type unknown:- spent.
The light is glaring too much now, so I am going to move. Relaxing my thoughts, the signal comes in. It recommends a full system check. I brace myself for whatever that is and the signal continues. There are several beeps, then the screen fills with text. It appears to list all the systems I have, but most of it is meaningless to me. Besides, the results of the check seem to be on the right side of the display, which of course is nowhere to be seen. I decide to stand up, and if I make it I'll take it from there.
With a lot of effort and much grinding and complaining on the display, I am now upright. It appears I have the use of two legs, although the right one isn't perfect, and my left arm, which is "functional." I can't turn my head all the way right, or do anything with my right arm. There is also a pain, like fire, in my middle region from my right shoulder to my waist. The signal says I am damaged but mobile. The display says I am vulnerable, and should... but the advise is on the right half, again.
The first thing I do is turn my back on the white light. My face is still hot but the relief is instant. I can see properly for the first time, if the display will stop drawing lines around everything.
I walk over to the nearest wreckage. It consists of a large central mass, with two long attachments at one end. The top half, above chest height, is missing. Two different liquids have ran out onto the bare rock. The dark one has dried, the lighter, oily one has gathered in a pool in a shallow depression. It refracts the sunlight in iridescent patterns of orange and purple. It is quite pretty.
I reach out to examine the melted edge of the mass. Its construction and materials are like my arm. A certain heaviness settles on me as I realise we are, were, the same.
The voice says there is no threat here, nor useful repair items or weaponry. The visor says "move on to avoid..."
I move on. The signal is silent on the direction I am to take. So, with my back to the sun, I walk off. My gait is light and flowing, I cover a lot of ground. Occasionally, my right leg starts to drag, but a boost of something brings it back to speed.
The right half of my vision begins to dim, although the left side is fine, if a little green. I realise the sun is setting, it will soon be dark. A green matrix fills the left side of my vision, with the odd fuzzy green dot, some bright some dark. There isn't much to see anyway. The signal recommends I keep moving under cover of darkness. So I do.
Later still, the sun appears in front of me, glowing orange, not at all like the white of before. Again my visor says I am vulnerable and should seek shelter. A full 360 degree scan produces nothing but flat plains. I am deciding what to do when a small movement captures my attention. Before I know it the visor has locked on and zoomed in on a small dust cloud. My body turns in that direction and we set off. I don't mind, it's somewhere to go.
Finally I reach the spot I estimate the movement came from. The land is empty as far as I can see, enhanced or otherwise.
Perhaps my sight is working imperfectly, or the heat is blurring everything. Perhaps there had been no movement. Perhaps I only imagined it.
I walk a little further, in case I have under estimated, and am rewarded by the sight of thin tracks in the dust, faint, but unmistakeable. Two parallel trails, possibly of some tracked vehicle, smaller than me, and moving in either one of two directions. Not having any more data, I set off in the direction I am facing, which saves energy, and is therefore more logical, according to the signal.
The sun has moved quite a distance, and is now to my right. In that time my bounding strides have carried me a long way. Just how far, none of my systems can tell me. Before me, only a few metres away, a small tracked robot is scanning the area with a dish it produced from its back. The dish has pointed in my direction several times, but it has shown no reaction.
Scanner nulling circuits, the signal explains. The words almost fall out of my mind, but there is no further explanation. As the little robot moves on I follow. It stops again, this time I move closer before it can get away.
The vehicle opens a small door on its front and a thin tube appears. Automatically, my left arm comes up and the signal calmly advises me it is neutralising the threat. Frantically I think 'No, I don't want to', and my arm slowly drops. Although the signal is advising the former action. With a struggle I am able to control the thought, and the arm. I have no need to kill the little robot. But just as I have myself under control, the vehicle fires on me, causing a warm sensation in my chest and an alarm in my visor.
Moving forward, against the shots of what the signal tells me is a pulsed, low emission laser, I try to open communications and talk to it. There is no response to normal frequencies, (except from the visor which is reporting radio emissions from this unit which are revealing our position. I ignore it), so I switch to voice. But all that comes out is an incomprehensible croak. My voice circuits are too badly damaged after all.
Another alarm sounds and this time I am unable to stop the signal. My arm raises fluidly and a single blast of blue light burns through the small vehicle. It stops moving, its weapon sagging on its mount.
- Copyright Steve Dean