Five Elements Anthology

by Ted Blasche

  Beginning with power and steering, Chester dropped out of FTL to demonstrate the thrusters. Next, he walked her through plotting courses and destinations. As in the engine room, she devoured the manuals, turning the pages faster than a casino dealer can shuffle a deck. Soon Giva was stumping him with questions exceeding his expertise. She grilled him on docking procedures, grilled him on financial transactions, and grilled him on FLT plotting until he conceded, with some misgivings, "I don't know how you do it, but you're a sponge. Keep this up and you won't need me at all."

  A strangely enigmatic smile painted Giva's face. "You've served me well and will continue to do so as long as we both shall live."

  Her words reassuring him, Chester reached into the captain's personal food locker, pulling out three packets. "You must be famished, so I think it's time to try out your new sense of taste. I've got freeze-dried Salisbury, bacon and eggs, or spaghetti. What would you like to eat?"

  He barely saw the glint of Giva's blade as she answered, "You!"

  Sheathing her weapon, Giva dragged Chester's body to the hold, dumping him on her sacrificial altar. There she grilled him one last time.

  >>><<<

  About the Author of Sacrifice

  Ted Blasche holds a BS in Psychology, MS in Communication Arts, and MS in Human Relations. He is a retired army officer who has contributed several articles and chapters to military publications. Since retiring, Ted has concentrated on Sci-Fi, including, To Dance With the Girls of Ios 5, Frog went a Courtin', and The Last Admiral." The latter is currently available in the Martinus Press Anthology, Veterans of Future Wars. Several of his stories are available without charge on his Facebook page. (Ted's Stories -Ted Blasche). Look for his Sci-Fi novel, The Rust Bucket Chronicles to be released by Kellan Publishing later this year.

  The Legacy of Eris

  By C.J. Jessop

  By the time he tasted the salty air of Balport, Farrell had not eaten for five days. He huddled against a wall in the market square, watching fishmongers hawk their wares, threadbare cloak wrapped tight against a chill that raked his bones.

  Pale sunlight painted the surrounding granite buildings a dull grey, its drab misery reflected in the eyes of people hurrying across grimy cobbles. Farrell raised the ale-skin to his mouth, coughing as bitter dregs hit the back of his throat. He tossed the empty skin to one side cursing. With neither coin nor ale, nor the means to earn either, his mood grew bleaker still. Come nightfall, without the haze of inebriation to obscure them, their dead eyes would follow him into his dreams.

  One of the fishmongers, a pinch-faced woman with frizzy yellow hair, tossed a fish-head to a scrawny ginger tomcat with a torn ear. Farrell’s belly twisted. He contemplated fighting for the scrap, but the poor animal was in a worse state than he. Hissing feline obscenities, it glared at him with its one good eye and slunk under a barrow to devour its prize.

  As he watched the cat go, a mote caught Farrell’s eye. Incongruous amongst the stark greys of the square, the speck shimmered blue. Farrell blinked, thinking it some trick of the light, but the mote remained, swirling closer in lazy spirals. He squinted, cross-eyed, trying to get a better view. The mote seemed to hover on the tip of his nose, nothing visible but the glow itself. Then it was gone.

  Dizzy and weak from too many days walking with an empty belly, he drifted into a daydream, in which foods of all different kinds appeared—so vivid he could almost reach out and touch them. One in particular tormented him. A roasted chicken leg dripped succulent juices, the crinkles in the skin so real his mouth watered. In his daydream, he reached out and the tips of his fingers tingled with warmth. Farrell opened his eyes, gasping at the halo of blue light flaring around his hands. Before he could fathom that, the chicken leg appeared within his grasp.

  Farrell swore. An illusion. Delirium from his hunger. Yet, heat caressed his cold hands and the weight of the chicken leg rested within them. The smell twisted his belly. He groaned. If the meat was all in his imagination, then why did it smell so good? Unable to resist any longer, he brought the chicken leg to his mouth and tore into it. Instead of his teeth catching only air, as he half-expected, they sank through crispy skin into moist, cooked flesh.

  Not needing any further proof, Farrell devoured the chicken leg before it could disappear. If it was delirium, he would enjoy it while it lasted. But it did not disappear, and before long he was wiping his grease-slicked mouth with his sleeve and stowing the bones in his pocket to make broth later.

  The dizziness remained. He had not eaten nearly enough to satisfy his hunger. It was then that he began to wonder just how he had managed to pluck a chicken leg from his imagination and make it real. And, more importantly, whether he could do it again.

  Staring across the grey-walled square, he tried to picture the biggest meat pie he had ever seen. Nothing happened. He chewed the inside of his lip, furrowing his brow in concentration. What was different? He went back to the moment the magic happened. Screwing his eyes shut, he let his mind drift.

  First he pictured the iron pot the pie was baked in, all blackened with age and heavy use. Rich, meaty gravy dribbled down the sides, and on top, steam escaped through the holes in golden-brown pastry. Beneath that, big chunks of prime mutton, stewed to tender perfection. Farrell swallowed and inhaled. He could practically taste it.

  **

  Imperator Mankus sank into his cushioned, ergonomic chair with a groan and pressed a button on the console above his desk. A synthesized voice erupted from speakers on all eight walls of his cabin. His favourite tenor singing his favourite aria in perfect pitch.

  Mankus closed his eyes and leaned back, letting the music envelop him. The day had proved long and tedious. Meeting after meeting, trying to remain polite in the face of abject stupidity. If not for the fact that he needed the trade opportunity with Wenerath, he would have that pompous idiot of an ambassador beheaded in a heartbeat. If the treaty did not happen soon, he might anyway. Jumped up little know-it-all.

  Mankus kicked off his shoes, which were far too tight, and unzipped his jacket, breathing out on a heavy sigh. He glared sideways at the gleaming chrome exercise machine the medic had insisted on installing in his chambers. All shiny knobs and digital read-outs, it taunted him. He made a rude gesture in its direction. As if he would ever use the ridiculous contraption. Dangerously overweight, indeed. Perhaps he would not be so dangerously overweight if his every waking moment was not taken up with insufferable meetings. If he had known how banal being the most important man on the planet would be, he might not have been as eager to claw his way up through the ranks.

  Door chimes sounded and Mankus brightened. About time. “Come in.” He pressed a button on the console above his desk and the door slid open. Rising, he gave the man who entered a genuine smile. “Thank you, Jorgal, put it on the table. How long before we hit Newarth’s orbit?”

  Jorgal did as instructed and stepped to the side, hands behind his back. “We’re just approaching. Preparations for landing will commence within the next half hour. Will there be anything else, my lord?”

  “No, old friend.” Mankus leaned back in his chair, noting how thin Jorgal’s hair was on top these days, how grey. His own hair was no less grey, but mostly thick and lustrous. Apart from that one thin spot he kept trying to cover up. “I’ve told you, when it’s just us there’s no need for all that my lord malarkey.”

  Jorgal’s stance grew less rigid. “I know.” He returned Mankus’ gaze with a half-smile. “But it’s always best to be sure, especially when there are visitors from that pathetic little planet to annoy you. I don’t want to lose my head.”

  “Ha!” Mankus rolled his eyes. “As if that would ever happen to you. They, on the other hand, are a bunch of idiots. Now, what delights have you managed to smuggle from the galley for me today?” He rose and crossed the room to the table.

  Jorgal whipped the lid off the serving platter with a flourish. “I had to lie and say it was for me. Apparently, the ship’s cook is under
instructions that you are on a diet of greens and fish. Your servant will probably be here shortly with a platter of the same.”

  “Hmph! I’d been hoping that this trip would get me away from all that nonsense. I bet my wife had something to do with it. I’ve told her not to listen to those blasted medics. It’s a good thing my head of security is willing to bring me proper food, or I’d starve.” Mankus leaned over the platter and inhaled, beaming. Mutton pie. The best. The crust was cooked to perfection, all buttery and flaky and golden-brown; gravy bubbled out from underneath and dribbled down the sides of the cast-iron dish onto the silver platter. He tucked a napkin into his collar and pulled out his chair, almost drooling in anticipation. “Thank you, my friend.” Sitting, he lifted his knife and fork. “I owe you a—”

  Poof. The pie disappeared.

  Mankus rose with a howl. His pie! His lovely mutton pie. He turned to Jorgal, mouth working, but the words would not come.

  Jorgal sighed and raised his hand, pressing the index finger against his temple. His eyes became unfocused. “It’s active again. Get me Central Command. I need a trace before the signature fades.”

  **

  At night, Mankus Plaza reminded Naria of a graveyard, albeit without the graves. The atmosphere had that same oppressive hush, especially in such thick fog. Cold, damp air stung the back of her throat, as she crossed the dimly lit square. She found herself wanting to tiptoe, to not disturb whatever lurked in the shadows.

  Statues loomed out of the darkness, depicting moments from the overthrow of a long dead, half-forgotten regime. Many of the current regime’s opponents died on the soil that lay beneath the grey stone paving. That knowledge made the oppression worse, somehow. Naria shook her head. Maybe they could see what they had given their lives to achieve. Knowing they had swapped one dictator for a series of new ones must be enough to make even the dead miserable. No wonder the place was so morose.

  She increased her pace, wanting to be home. Kodi would be done with his homework already, waiting on dinner. He could make it himself; the pantry was stocked with easy-to-fix food for when she worked late, but Kodi liked to wait and eat with her. Dinner was their time, sometimes the only part of the day they shared.

  With a smile tugging her lips, she brought her son’s face to mind. Grinning, as always, brown eyes full of boyish mischief, unruly black hair sticking up in tufts no matter how he tried to plaster it down. Twelve years old already, he was growing fast. Too fast. Soon, he would be too busy being a teenager to bother about dinner with his mother.

  Small hairs on the back of Naria’s neck prickled, and she tensed. The air around her crackled with static.

  Not again. Even now, after more than a decade of trying to track and capture the last free Eris particle, she always knew—felt—when it became active. Moments later, the electronics wired into her brain fired up with an insistent chime.

  She pressed her index finger to her left temple, cutting off the noise. “Thirty-six.”

  A large, heavy-jowled face blinked to life in front of her, its expression murderous. Him? Wonderful. The image was semi-transparent, projected directly onto her retinas through a wireless link.

  “My lord Imperator.” She forced a smile. “You honour me.”

  The Imperator’s thick grey brows furrowed. “Yes, well, never mind that, Thirty-six. It is active again.”

  “I know, my lord, I felt it.” Naria stopped walking. No point rushing home now. She knew what was coming. “Do we have a trace?”

  The image split in two, and another man’s face appeared next to the Imperator. Grey-haired, with narrow cheeks and a hawkish nose, it belonged to Security Chief Jorgal, the Imperator’s second-in-command. Her boss. “Yes, we have a trace, Thirty-six. Central Command has already sent a drone through. We should have visual any moment now.” Jorgal tapped his own temple, momentarily closing his eyes. “There, you should have it.”

  The two images of Jorgal and the Imperator slid apart, and another took up the space between them. The picture was a live feed of a city square, cobbled and grimy, people going about their business. The drone, the size of a small insect, darted amongst them. Some of the women wore long, unflattering robes in drab colours; others wore brighter hues, but their gowns were still as shapeless. A few of the men dressed in colourful garments, while most hurried about their business in well-worn dull garb. Some kind of pre-industrial civilization, judging by the number of people with handcarts.

  “I’m going to need a visual on the afflicted,” she said, already resigned to what she must do.

  “The drone is trying to find him now. Central Command is plugging in the co-ordinates as we speak. It’s a small planet in the Genera quadrant.”

  “Wait.” Naria held out her hands, palms forward. “My son. I need to tell—”

  “No time.” Jorgal shook his head. “I’ll send someone round to watch over him until you return. Look. There’s the afflicted.”

  The drone focused on a man. His clothes were filthy and ragged and his skin bore the kind of grime that came with a lifetime of poverty. Being clean was the least of that man’s worries, if the way he was devouring a rather large meat pie was any indication.

  “My pie!” The Imperator’s face turned petulant, his thick, red neck straining against the gaudy jewelled chain of office he always wore.

  Naria fought the urge to sneer. Broken down, the chain could probably feed the world’s starving for years to come. The afflicted looked to be in his mid-forties, perhaps a little younger, given the harsh life he obviously led.

  “With all due respect, my lord, judging by the look of him I’d say that’s why he took it. It’s likely the most he’s eaten in a month.” She tried to hide her smile. The man’s unruly red beard was full of bits of crust, wet with gravy, his eyes half closed in obvious ecstasy as he chewed a mouthful so big it made his cheeks bulge.

  “We have a lock. Prepare to transfer.” Jorgal’s voice cut into her thoughts.

  “Wait a minute, I have to—” Naria began. But it was too late. At the same moment she sent a connection request to her son’s interface, a beam of light came down from the sky and enveloped her.

  “Mother?” Kodi’s worried face blinked briefly to life before her, then winked out as the portal opened and pulled her in.

  **

  Farrell was so full, he had to loosen the string holding up his britches. With the greatest reluctance, he placed the pie dish on the ground and leaned back against the wall with a happy groan. The ginger cat came slinking out from under the barrow, from where it had watched him devour three quarters of the pie.

  “You’re welcome to it,” he said. “I’m stuffed.” The cat gave the dish a cautious sniff, and then licked at the side before grabbing a hunk of mutton and scuttling back to its hiding place.

  Farrell wondered if his magic only worked on food, or if he could conjure anything he wanted. The first thing he wanted was a bath, and clean clothes. Nothing too fancy. He did not wish to attract undue notice; there was no way he could pass himself off as a noble, and only nobles had the coin for fancy clothes. All he needed was something warm and clean. Boots without holes. Warm feet. Farrell sighed. He could not remember the last time his feet were warm.

  His face fell. Perhaps his luck with the chicken leg and the pie was a mere fluke. For all he knew, he might never be able to conjure anything again. The only way to find out was to try to produce something else, a skin of ale, perhaps, to help keep their faces out of his dreams.

  But before he did any of that, he needed to find somewhere a little less crowded than the market square. The magic made his hands glow. He suspected that only the greatest of luck had allowed him to conjure up a chicken leg and a mutton pie without attracting notice from the stall owners or the crowds. Anything more might just be pushing his good fortune a little too far, unless he was the only one who could see the glow, and he could not afford to take that risk. Farrell was no fool. If anyone saw him, they would either want to exploit
his newfound gift for their own ends, or burn him as a witch. He did not fancy either.

  He rose and stretched, then as an afterthought, bent to pick up the pie dish, which he carried over to the barrow where the cat hid. “Here you are, little friend,” He shoved the dish underneath its hiding place. “Never let it be said that Farrell Dunwood doesn’t share his good fortune.” As he rose, the woman who owned the barrow stared in his direction, lip curled. Instead of being appropriately chastened, he grinned and strolled away with what he hoped was a jaunty wave. The next time he came back here that fishmonger would sing a different tune. He would buy the best fish she had and feed it to the cat right there in front of her. See how the old trout liked that.

  He moved through the crowd with a more spirited step than when he had entered the city that morning. His breath fogged the air, but Farrell was too busy planning how to take best advantage of his good fortune to let the chill bother him. Passing through the gates, he waved absently at the guards and carried on down the road.

  When he had gone far enough to be unseen from the city gates, he paused and looked about. A half-ruined barn, a relic from the freedom wars, occupied a corner of the field next to the road. He hurried in, tapping his finger against his nose to ward off spirits. Stacked bales of straw filled one end, under what was left of the roof. The other side was empty, save for a few scattered bales. Farrell pulled one over to the wall and sat upon it.

  Closing his eyes, he began imagining a purse of soft, dark leather, half-filled with silver and copper coins. Not gold. It would not do to be too flashy. Just the smaller ones.

  A scream rang out and his eyes snapped open. A woman appeared in the air above him. She bounced off the stacked hay bales and sprawled with a thump at his feet. Farrell made the sign of the sun and scrambled away from where she lay. A ghost. Probably from the Freedom Wars. These fields were said to have run crimson with the blood of thousands.