This was a decided advantage for Orthanq, because I regenerated, recovered, and healed at an alarming rate. This meant I could drink copious amounts of mind-altering beverages and return to normal quickly enough to order more when other patrons would have fallen under the table. With healthy drinks, I seldom ordered more than one.
So, while Ilnyea’s recommendation was not really necessary for my health, I was still trying to take her advice.
Because, why not?
Maybe it would be good for me as well.
Maybe eating and drinking well would give me a bit more pep in my step and a brighter outlook on life.
Maybe this improved view would fill some of the emptiness I felt inside, having achieved most of my life’s paltry goals.
Even if I had to put up with people like Eel Face to reap the benefits.
“No hurry, Orthanq. I can see you’re busy.”
Mouth Head threw back another plate of smoldering food, probably the spiced souls of innocents or some such, and growled at me. “You should find another place to order your drinks, elf, while you still can.”
Normally, I let insults go. After all, they are really just a reflection of the monster talking. However, in this case, Monster Mouth’s attitude really was the problem.
Alyon is an open city. Monsters like Gullet Face and me are tolerated. Past atrocities are forgiven. But we have to contribute positively to the community as best we can if we want to stay.
We have to be better than what we are to be what we want to be.
Or something like that.
So, this really wasn’t about me.
It was about him, or it.
And whether it truly belonged.
Or could belong.
I turned on my stool.
I love Orthanq’s chairs and stools. They are among the few I can reliably trust in the city to support my weight. As it happens, I am very dense, which translates to quite a few splintered chairs as I get settled in at social gatherings.
Which may explain why I am invited to so few.
Orthanq’s chairs let me do all kinds of fancy maneuvers without embarrassment.
Like turn.
My barstool held as I pivoted, until I was sitting facing Motor Maw directly. “Listen, pal.” I find the word ‘pal’ can be as effective as a curse if used with proper intonation and intent, but I was trying to play nice. “I’m sure you’re a nice demon. I’m sure someone wants to hear you flap your face. But it’s not me.
“If you want to stay in Alyon, you’ll need to learn some manners.
“Remember where you are and what you’re trying to be.
“Hold your tongue and keep your place.”
I thought I was being civil.
I thought I was being polite.
I even thought I was looking out for the guy, or whatever it was.
But it disagreed.
“I will eat your soul for this, mortal!”
Barrel Head stood up to its full height, which was considerable, while it threw its chair aside.
Not having much of a soul, I was not exactly concerned.
I waited for my drink.
And for it to make a move.
“I recommend that you reconsider while you have the chance, Kzzcklndus.” Orthanq’s gurgle was firm and commanding.
“Or what?” hissed Pit Head. It bowed up to its full size, and its shirt tore to shreds as numerous deadly, chitinous arms began writhing violently along its scaled abdomen.
This thing was almost as ugly as its attitude.
“Or I’ll ask Grak to help you reconsider the shortsightedness of your opinion.”
Watching Orthanq, a tentacled monstrosity from the bowels of some nether hell, lecture this insectoid demon on proper etiquette and societal views would have been comical anywhere else.
Here, it was still comical.
But it was funny only because it was true.
If Slug Face wanted to live here, to stay in this bar, it had to change. Otherwise, it was out.
Just like the rest of its kind.
Which was all of us.
There was a moment of tension on the demon’s visage, an instant of consideration, a moment during which his life waited impatiently in the balance, and then it was gone.
Opening its terrifying maw, an otherworldly flower unfurling into a gaping nightmare—I could see rows of jagged teeth lining its undulating throat as it prepared to eat me—the demon charged.
I braced my feet firmly on the floor and uppercut.
I had hoped to drink up but that would come later.
My fist connected with the demon’s gullet with a sickening squelch and tore upward through its head.
As I withdrew my hand, the contents of its stomach spilled to the floor in a turbulent gout. The demon collapsed dead into its own innards.
“Cleanup on aisle three,” I said, turning back to the bar to await my drink.
Orthanq would be around the bar shortly to clean the floor.
And eat his dinner.
Although some patrons were poor dinner guests, I had not once known Orthanq to complain.
10
“Sorry, Orthanq.” I had not intended to kill one of Orthanq’s paying customers. He had been hit really hard by the lack of business for so long that I felt terrible making him miss out.
I did not feel terrible about Snake Head’s demise.
There might be a family of screaming horrors in some abysmal pit that would miss it, but I was not one of them.
Behavior like its would only make things harder for the law-abiding monsters of the Undercity.
“No problem, Grak,” burbled Orthanq. “It was only a matter of time before Kzzcklndus lost it. At least this way, the only thing it hurt was itself.”
“I’ll pay for its tab.” Although it might delay my retirement for a year, given how much the thing had been eating, paying up for the demon was the least I could do.
“I wouldn’t hear of it! Besides, I have all of Kzzcklndus’s credits, so there’s no need.
“And you could retire now if you wanted, you stubborn old coot.
“You just take these foolish cases for something to do.”
Orthanq had a point, or two, although not all of my cases were silly. But most of them did have silly elements.
Like gnomes.
To be clear, I am a detective.
I am far from the best detective, but it’s what I do to pass the time.
I find being a detective gives me an excuse to live life a bit on the edge, mingle with interesting people, travel to exciting places, and see things I might otherwise miss.
All this without the risks of being a full-time adventurer.
Just some of them.
For instance, my life is generally in jeopardy only when I am on a case, unless I have really managed to piss someone or something off.
As an adventurer, my life is putting myself in jeopardy.
I suppose old habits die hard, because putting myself in jeopardy is still my principal means of solving a case. Make enough noise and trouble until the trouble finds you. Then make the trouble go away.
Like Craw Head.
“Could I get another berry blast infusion?”
With all these fruit drinks, I might need to call a cab to get home.
“Sir, you have a message coming in. May I route it to you?”
I looked around, confused, unused to having someone invisible call me ‘sir’ in my ear.
I shrugged. Things had been so much simpler before I had my Abstract.
I missed drinking my berry infusions in peace already.
“Sure. Can you make it a private channel? I’m at the King’s Crown.”
“Certainly, sir! You will be surrounded by a cone of solitude. Speak freely!”
That was about the only way I knew how to speak, so I required little coaching.
“Who’s calling?”
“Fluxcoil Hammersprocket is on the holo, sir. By all accounts,
he is a prominent Paratechnologist within the community, having written several influential papers, creating numerous notable inventions, and holding several appointments, leadership roles, and advisory positions. He says he knows you.”
“Put him through.”
What could Fluxcoil be after so soon?
The image of a distinguished gnome appeared in the air before me, for my eyes only.
His wide-ranging eyebrows were arranged in a wave that rolled across his forehead, sweeping into the hair above his ears with all the dynamism of crashing surf. His suit shimmered in an understated combination of cloth of gold and machine part scraps tactfully arranged to fill any open space on the garment. A swarm of sentry drones hovered about him, moons about his eminent orbit, their many appendages most likely held at the ready to apply additional recycled garbage.
“We are so glad to see you are well and fully recovered, Grak!”
“You’re not the only one.” My deadpan reply was cool and measured.
I seldom got calls unless it was for business. I waited to see what Fluxcoil was about.
“The city owes you a tremendous debt, Grak, and we would love to repay it.”
I shook my head slightly. “I don’t need repayment, Flux.”
Then inspiration hit me like a bolt of lightning striking a gnome’s outstretched transaquametric umbrella.
I needed a holiday, a break from the day-to-day grind of not doing much and accomplishing little.
I needed peace and quiet and the opportunity to drink alone.
I needed time away to recharge and restore myself after my recent exertions.
I needed to get away.
“All I need is a vacation.”
Fluxcoil’s eyes lit up like the flux capacitors oscillating on the bejeweled necklace perched atop the spare parts shop that doubled as his shirt.
“A vacation?”
“Yeah. I need a change of scenery, a chance to relax and restore myself.”
“Well, there is the transmacrocosmic Wizarding tournament coming up…”
It was almost like Fluxcoil had this planned.
What orc in his right mind, or in his wrong mind, for that matter, could turn down a chance to go to the multiverse’s preeminent Wizarding tournament?
If such an opportunity was being offered.
I cut to the chase. “Are you offering?”
I made sure not to visibly salivate with excitement.
Negotiations took a certain cool.
Drool was not cool.
Especially at the negotiating table.
In momma’s kitchen, on the other hand, drool was always cool.
“We would gladly send you to the tournament as a reward for saving the city from the machinations of gnomish terrorists.”
Sweet!
Now, that was a reward I could get behind.
Or in front of.
Or wherever I needed to be to take full advantage of what was on offer.
“I accept!”
I smacked the counter with the flat of my hand in excitement, causing nearby drinks to jump.
“Sorry,” I mumbled with a scowl that I hoped resembled contrition.
With so many monsters present, sometimes you have to hope you get lucky.
“Why don’t you come up to Alyon and we can discuss details?” Fluxcoil beamed at me, knowing he had offered a trinket I could not refuse.
Visions of terror flashed through my mind, recollections of flights of Cretus past.
I did not want to leave the Undercity so soon after getting out of the hospital.
Risking another trip with Cretus could put me right back there.
“I think it’s better that we discuss our options here,” I countered. I did not want to divulge my ongoing feud with the earth that Cretus had me locked into, falling every time I took a flight.
“What do you want to discuss?”
“It’s an awfully long way to Halus 7,” said Fluxcoil as he stroked his eyebrows thoughtfully.
I watched carefully. It was entirely possible Fluxcoil’s fingers could get stuck in the roiling surf of hair.
If so, I did not want to miss it.
Halus 7 was the barren, blasted hulk of a world that was hosting the Wizarding championships this year.
Whoever had been bribed to put the tournament there must have made a killing. Halus 7 was the kind of wasteland even orcs spurned.
Which did not sound good for me, either.
I sensed a catch.
“What do you need me to do?” I asked, dreading the answer.
Why couldn’t anything be easy?
This would have to be some job for him to offer me a trip to the Wizarding tournament. Tickets cost as much as some kingdoms.
Not small ones.
I knew it was too good to be true.
“The crews of ships along the Jesser Run in the Lucaesian Quadrant are being decimated. The fueling station there has been wiped out as well. We would like to stop this from happening, both for ourselves and our allies. Once the area is secure, the station can be restored, and those vessels dependent upon it will have a safe harbor, a place to trade, and will be able to continue on to other trading partners like us.
“After you’ve cleared things up, your ship will be routed directly to Halus 7 for the championships.”
“Haven’t others tried to clear this up?”
Fluxcoil replied simply, with no sugar-coating. “Unsuccessfully.”
“And why do you think I’ll be able to do it? I’m just one orc.”
If Alyon and allied ships were being overrun, and others had tried to fix the issue, what was I supposed to do? I was not an army. Neither was I a fleet of elven corvettes.
“We want you to be you, Grak.”
“What do you mean?” I cocked my head sideways in confusion. Being me was not a problem. Being me the way the Paratechnologists wanted me to be me was.
Fluxcoil looked slowly left and right, conspiratorially.
He was the only person visible in the room.
But, whatever.
I let him have his moment.
“We know what’s causing the disappearances.”
I waited for the dramatic mood music to kick in to emphasize his point, but there was nothing. Just silence.
He really could do better.
I gave him my best stone-cold face.
He wanted me to ask for more, to take his bait, but I was not about to respond.
He would tell me soon enough, because he was only too eager to share.
“There’s a demon plying the void, swimming the waters between dimensions, warping into our space-time to devour our crews.”
I shook my head. “And what makes you think I can stop this thing, when you and your friends have failed?”
Fluxcoil smiled. His grin was brighter than the cloth of gold barely visible in the fabric of his shirt beneath the leftover scraps of all his inventions.
“We don’t want you to stop it, Grak.
“We want it to get you.
“You’re bait.”
11
Now, if that wasn’t a resounding endorsement for a job, I had never heard one.
The city’s ruling Paratechnologists wanted to offer me up like bait on a hook to some interdimensional ghost shark, to be gobbled up like a tasty morsel.
When did I start?
Did the job come with benefits?
“And how, in all that is insane in this universe, do you think serving me up on a platter will help rid you of this demon?” I tried to make sure my voice did not start squeaking with my mounting excitement.
That would be un-orclike.
Now that I understood what was going on, I bet there had been quite a few efforts to rid the area of the demon, beginning when it had first wiped out the space station and then afterward when it began to prey on the crews of ships.
“Based on our simulations, we believe the demon will choke on you.” Fluxcoil managed this in a complete
deadpan.
He was serious.
“Your simulations? Choke?” I fairly spluttered.
What kind of ultra-insanity was this?
The calm, measured, irrational part of my brain replied simply, “The kind that will get you to the Macroversal Wizarding Championships.”
It really did have a point.
Even if it was a crazy one.
But I really did not want to listen.
I told myself to shut up.
“Yes. We have it on good authority that your resilient, regenerative, magic-dampening hide will prove too much for the demon to swallow.
“If not, you can always fight your way out.
“Or teleport home.”
Fight my way out from inside the thing’s gullet?
The fun never stopped.
Before I could voice my objections, Fluxcoil held up his bedazzled hands placatingly. I could see complex lines of microcircuits of some kind embedded in his fingernails, displayed in dizzying geographies.
“We would offer you certain protections, Grak.”
“How certain?” I sputtered. I did not think he meant certain like I meant certain. Of that, I was certain.
“We would offer you a device to teleport you—or, rather, the region you exist in, since the magic could only work on you indirectly—home. This would be a last resort failsafe.
“Further, we would accouter you with the finest defensive clothing, tactfully disguised as resort wear suitable for an orc on vacation, to help protect you from the worst of the dangers you may face.”
“What about the least of the dangers?” I interrupted belligerently. “Will my leisure suit protect against those, too?”
“Most certainly,” Fluxcoil replied mollifyingly. “You will be safe from dangers ranging from least to greatest.”
This was sounding better.
“Will I be able to take backup?”
Fluxcoil scratched his eyebrows as he considered the question. “If we are able to secure another ticket or two to the Wizarding tournament, yes, but this may be no small feat.
“We will also place a wide array of weaponry at your disposal.”
“If I survive, will I be able to keep the ship, the clothes, and the weapons?”
Grak_Orc on Vacation Page 4
