‘In real life, the hardest aspect of the battle between good
and evil is determining which is which’. This line seemed unnecessarily blurred
as I looked down into the valley at the apparently peaceful Loris settlement.
The only thing the Loris had apparently done wrong was entertain the other side
of this conflict – The Auto-Fae—in some trade concerns, but it wasn’t my job to
think and yes, life wasn’t fair, else I wouldn’t be here.
The reason for my continued existence stomped up (Come on, resist that urge to prostrate
yourself at his feet) I allowed myself an insubordinate smirk.
There was a squelch as the Saurian Commander Syf Taylon
stopped at my side and I lazily glanced down at the mess he had landed his hoof
in.
“It’s a fine day for a battle, Earth-meat, is it not?”
“It would be if the place didn’t stink worse than a Largon’s
asshole. By the way You are standing in a shite, you fecalescent twat.” The
commander was as well versed in modern Earth basic as he was in battle tactics,
meaning he was largely ignorant of …everything, especially insults. I often passed
my indentured time having fun at his expense.
He looked at me in that lopsided way of his, one green eye rolling
independent of the other towards me. His leathery grey cheek twitched, and the
spines jutting from his head quivered in puzzlement. “Your words make tiny
sense slave, speak plain or speak never!”
I pointed and my master, this porcupine, rhinoceros from
hell, looked down. He quivered, this time in rage, his grey hide taking on that
telling green tinge that always accompanied inevitable and idiotically rash
action.
He bent his leg up, strings of green mucus stretched between
ground and hoof. “I will not stand this! This crime must be paid.”
“You mean punished?”
“That’s what I said, are your ears gone? Analyse those
leavings, now!”
“I’m pretty sure it’s of Loris origin.” I said, looking
nonchalantly at the bovinesque looking pat, not bothering to take out the
scanner.
“What are these Loris? Heathen peoples?”
“Would you rather attack only civilized races who use
plumbing, sir? If that’s the case we can always pack up and go home.”
“What! And leave unsatisfied, fool! We attack, now!”
“But what about strategy? Loris may have more stomachs than
brains, but after trading with Auto-Fae, it is possible they may have some nice
hardware behind those quaint castle walls. Perhaps some Blaster Cannons tied to
their primitive hooved mits?” smirking as I glance at my commander’s own
physiology. "Or worse still, Plasma mortars."
“Even the best Strategy cannot hold back the trickle that is
our Saurian battalion,” He announced proudly.
I cringed as he pulled his two ballistic sabres from their
ceremonial sheaves, the blades hummed as he raised them over his head. (They
were pretty, glowing like twin meteors, giving off a sweet but deadly heat).
I drew my standard (boring) pistol and looked down at it,
giving it a resigned and apologetic shrug.
Syf Taylon bellowed, the rest of the Saurian’s lined up
until they created a mortar-enticing grey wall. The Loris would have to have
their heads up their pat-planting derrieres not to see us coming. If this went
badly (which was highly likely at this point) I would have to somehow keep this
slug-for-brains commander alive, it was my job after all-- on pain of death -- and
I was uncomfortable with both pain and death.
A memory rose up ‘Jeffrey shade, for your crimes or
promoting independence, you shall be indentured to the Saurian battalion as
bodyguard to Commander Syf Taylon for a time of no less than 15 cycles.’ I
pushed it back down. I wasn’t a fan of our great and mighty Galactic Dominion,
but even less fond of the enemy Auto-Fae. Both sides desired the galaxy to
consist of automatons, the only difference was being whether they were still technically
organic or not. At least the Galactic Dominion would allow me to keep my squishy
important parts.
The Saurian charge began, I joined the Saurian stampede
toward the stone walls and wondered what would happen once we got there. Saurian’s
may be hard-headed, but that rock looked harder and slightly denser- which was
really saying something.
Hell rained down, as I expected. Auto-Fae Plasma Mortars
melted through our Saurian lines
My bodyguard reflexes kicked in. My life was important to
me, which unfortunately meant Syf's was too. I reached for him, He shouldered me
back, advancing until (thank god) he sprained his fetlock in a varmint burrow.
I half-carried him back struggling through the
sea of fleeing and wounded Saurian’s, humming an old Whitney Houston tune, grateful for one thing- that I couldn’t
possibly get blamed for this particular shit storm. Could I?
